The Ruby Notebook (34 page)

In my dream, someone is banging on a door, shouting for a pen, for fire. Gradually, I realize it’s not banging and shouting, but buzzing from the doorbell intercom. Even after my eyes open, it takes me a moment to remember where I am. In my room, in my apartment, in France. The clock on my bedside table reads 3:00 a.m.

The buzzing continues, an urgent sound that shows no signs of stopping.

“Zeeta?” Layla calls from her room in a sleep-crackly voice. “You expecting someone?”

“No,” I groan.

“Probably some drunks playing with the buzzers,” she calls back.

But the buzzing grows more and more insistent until it’s basically one long buzz. Groggy, I walk to the intercom by the door. “
Oui?
”

“Zeeta,
c’est moi
. Jean-Claude.”

I blink and rub sleep from my eyes. What’s going on? Is he drunk? But he doesn’t sound drunk. He sounds worried, desperate even.

I buzz him up, splash my face with cold water, and throw on a robe. When I open the door, Jean-Claude’s standing there, breathing hard, his usually perfect curls a frizzy, knotted mess, his eyes bloodshot, his face contorted in fear.

“Jean-Claude!
Qu’est-ce qui se passe?
Did something happen?”

From her bedroom, Layla shouts, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I call back. “It’s just Jean-Claude. You can go back to sleep.”

Meanwhile, Jean-Claude’s eyes are darting around the apartment. “Amandine? She’s not here?”

“Why would she be here?”

“You two are friends,
non
?”

Not exactly
, I think.

He rubs his hands over his face. “The past few weeks she’s been staying out late. Usually I wait up for her, but last night I fell asleep. I just woke up and she still wasn’t home and—” His voice is rising in panic. He sinks down on the sofa, trying to pull himself together. “I had a nightmare and usually
she—she sits with me and helps me fall back asleep.” He looks at me, tapping his foot in a frantic rhythm. “Where could she be?”

I sit down next to him. “Jean-Claude, we both know who Amandine’s with. We both saw them together.”

Jean-Claude leans back and runs his fingers through his hair, revealing his scar. It’s pronounced in the lamplight, almost luminescent, a sliver of moon. His matted curls stay off his face, making his scar look exposed. “What’s Wendell’s number?”

“We don’t have a phone.”

“I brought Julien’s cell,” he says, pulling a phone from his pocket.

I sigh. “Hold on.” I shuffle through the papers on the kitchen table. “
Voilà.
” I hand him a sticky note with blue ink. “It’s his host family’s number.”

Jean-Claude snatches the paper and dials.

After a moment, he says, “
Bonsoir, madame
. Yes, I know. I’m sorry.
Je suis désolé, madame
.” He must be talking with Wendell’s host mom. I hold my breath, wondering if Amandine is there. “I’m looking for Amandine,” he tells her. “A friend of Wendell’s.”

“
Non?
” He clutches his head, then he sucks in a breath. “Oh, I see.” A pause. “
Ouais.
” The desperation on his face has turned into something else. Resigned misery, maybe. “It must be her,” he says into the phone. “I’m sorry to bother you.
Au revoir, madame.
”

While he collects himself, I heat up water for tea. I take
my time getting out the mint tea bags, the lavender honey, the cups and saucers. By the time the water’s boiling, he still hasn’t said anything. I pour the water into the cups and let the tea bags brew. “What’d she say?” I ask finally.

“That Wendell and Amandine decided to take photos of some vineyard,” he says flatly. “Pictures in the moonlight. For his art class. Since the buses don’t run late, they’re spending the night there. They left with blankets and coffee and food.”

I can’t find words. A vineyard in moonlight? With blankets? Spending the night together?

“I feel sick,” Jean-Claude says, putting his head between his knees.

“Me too.” I stir some honey into my tea, breathing in the minty steam, trying to make sense of what’s happening. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

Silence.

“Why aren’t you with her?”

“She knows too much about me.”

“Shouldn’t that be a good thing?”

“Not in my case.” He tugs hard on his hair, as if he wants to pull it out. “I’ve ruined everything in my life, Zeeta.” Slouched on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, he says, “I’d just turned fifteen. I took our father’s car without asking and drove with Thomas down to Cassis. I didn’t really know how to drive, but I took the car anyway. On the way home, another car was switching lanes. I swerved out of the way,
but right into a truck in the oncoming lane. It smashed the passenger side. My brother died instantly. But I survived with only a broken arm and a gash in my head.” He rubs the raised white line on his forehead. “I killed him. And it nearly killed my parents, too.” He buries his face in his hands, making his words come out muffled and soft. “I couldn’t forgive the person who did that. So I re-created myself, became a wanderer without roots. A dandelion seed.”

We’re quiet for a while. Finally, I say, “That person is still inside of you.” I look at him, sunk into the sofa, so vulnerable, his glimmery façade stripped away. If I’ll ever reach him, now’s the moment. I choose my words carefully. “Your parents forgave that person. Now
you
have to.”

He makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a moan. “That’s what Amandine tells me.” He pauses, thinking. “When I saw her and Wendell together, I wanted to scream. To punch something. To cry. To run to her and pick her up and just carry her away with me. To kiss her. An explosion of feelings I hadn’t felt for years.” He rubs his eyes. “Zeeta, she’s everything to me. I don’t want her to be with someone else. I don’t want her to be my little sister. But she sees me as a messed-up, annoying older brother.” He closes his eyes. “And she’s with Wendell now. It’s too late.”

I shake my head. “I think you’ve been too wrapped up in yourself to see things clearly. To see how Amandine feels about you. Talk to her, Jean-Claude.”

I’m not sure if he’s heard me, or taken in a thing I’ve said,
but soon he stands up. “
Merci
, Zeeta. I’m going now. I’m sorry for waking you.” And he’s gone, leaving his cup of tea untouched and steaming in the lamplight.

I stare at the two cups of mint tea sitting in front of me. I’m too awake to go back to bed now but not quite sure what else to do. Layla emerges from the bedroom in her pink robe and sits down beside me without a word. She sips Jean-Claude’s tea, then adds a spoonful of lavender honey—smelling it first, of course. She tucks her legs under her and curls into the sofa cushions, looking cozy in the steamy golden lamplight. Together, in silence, we drink tea.

I think of my advice to Jean-Claude. And my advice to Madame Chevalier about Vincent. And her advice to me about Wendell. And even Tortue’s advice. So much of the same advice floating around, and no one acting on it. It seems easier to do nothing, to just stay in the rut.

Halfway through my cup of tea, I whisper, “I’m not sure how to fix things with Wendell.” I look at Layla. “I’m not sure it’s even possible.”

Her eyelids lower, her brows rise, and she says, “Remember what Rumi says.”

“Walk out the prison door,” I say in a glum monotone. “Well, I tried and it was locked.”

“No, love. I’m thinking of this one:
Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.
”

I forgot about that one. It’s nice enough, but doesn’t
exactly give me direction. At least it’s a short one and doesn’t induce reflexive eye-rolling. “So who’s the lucky lover hidden inside you all these years?” I ask.

She laughs softly. “I wish I knew.”

“Well. We know he’s probably a penniless clown.” I sit up straight, inspired. “Hey, how about the mime?”

“You don’t think he’s creepy anymore?”

“Tortue’s actually pretty nice. He’s even changed my mind about clowns. See, I think you need a Pierrot clown instead of all the Harlequins you’ve been with.”

She gives me a sideways look. “Are you trying to set me up with a clown, Z?”

“Maybe you have to go through all the clowns in the world before you find the right one, Layla. The one who’s meant to be.”

Late the next morning, my feet are dragging as I walk through the market stalls, past rows of truffle oil, vaguely wondering exactly what truffles are. Don’t they have something to do with pigs? I’m moving on to the bins of olives, a dozen shiny shades of brownish green, when I glimpse a flash of sparkling red.

It’s Amandine. Just on the other side of the olives. When she sees that I see her, she skips over and says, “
Salut!
” Her voice reminds me of wind chimes, and she shows no signs of sleep deprivation even though she was out all night with Wendell. She looks vibrant in a silky orange skirt and red
top, with her hair in a braid that reaches down to the small of her back.

I let my knotted hair fall in my face, hopefully hiding the puffy circles under my own eyes. This morning there was nothing for breakfast, so I threw on some clothes, not bothering to brush my hair or my teeth, deliberately avoiding a mirror, and grabbed a market bag.

Amandine is holding a carton of strawberries. Of course, she doesn’t eat them like a normal person. She plucks off the green part then throws the berry high in the air, several feet, and positions her mouth underneath, so that it lands on her perfect tongue. I can see why Wendell and Jean-Claude are smitten.

“
Salut
, Amandine,” I say, keeping a distance.

“Have a strawberry, Zeeta.”

I take one, accepting what might be a peace offering.

She smiles. “After I got home from my art thing with Wendell, Jean-Claude and I had a long talk.”

“You did?”

“
Merci
, Zeeta!”

“For what?”

“For whatever magic you worked on him last night.” She blushes. “When I came home at dawn, he was waiting for me. He told me he wanted to spend the day together. And he asked me to go to Marseille with him tomorrow!”

“Wow.”

“We’re going to visit his mother, then have a picnic on an
island he used to go to with his family when he was little. I’m buying the ingredients for it now!”

Jean-Claude did it. He actually did it.

She steps toward me. “And Zeeta, I have to tell you something. About kissing Wendell yesterday. I’m sorry.”

I shrug. “It’s not like he’s my boyfriend anymore. He’s free—”

“
Ecoute
, Zeeta. Here’s what happened. Wendell and I—we were sketching together, and then I saw Jean-Claude and you coming down the street. I felt jealous. I wanted Jean-Claude to feel jealous too. So I picked that moment to kiss Wendell. He was surprised, but went along with it. Afterward, I felt bad, apologized to him.”

This is a twist. “And what did he say?”

“That he just likes me as a friend. That his heart feels too raw right now.” She looks at me, hard. “You know what we talk about most of the time, Zeeta?”

I shake my head.

“How we’re really in love with other people.”

I let this fact sink in.

She offers me another strawberry, then says, “I should get going. I just wanted to thank you. And apologize.”

“
Merci
, Amandine,” I say, taking a strawberry.

The berry’s tart sweetness is startling. I watch Amandine skip away. She always seems to defy gravity, but today, she’s positively flying.

With a sudden urgency, I half run toward Nirvana.