You Have Seven Messages (23 page)

There is a city where all the butterflies live. They all do human things like work, eat, laugh, dance, and sleep, except they are butterflies
.

In all of the city there is one butterfly that is special because she is silver, and her wings are iridescent. Butterflies come from near and far to take her picture. She lives with her husband, Shoot, and their two children, Flutter and Strike
.

The butterflies never go out when it rains because it’s dangerous and everything in the city shuts down. One day, during a terrible thunderstorm, the silver butterfly decides to try and fly, because she thinks the rain is beautiful and not scary. She gets swept away
.

Nothing is really the same without the silver butterfly. Flutter and Strike are very sad, and Shoot stops working for a long time
.

Every time it rains, they look to the sky for the silver butterfly to come back, but she never does. Eventually, Shoot, Flutter, and Strike realize that slowly, their own bodies are starting to become silver. Even though the person they most loved is gone, she is right there, living in their wings
.

I cannot control the tears that collect and fall from my eyes. I realize Richard is standing behind me, also welled up. I always thought that it hasn’t really hit Tile yet, that he’s too young, but in some ways he has surpassed me. He’s right, she is a part of us, and always will be. But “in spirit” doesn’t always cut it.

Richard takes the page and fastens it to the fridge with a magnet. I pull out the rest of the stuff my father sent me and notice a sealed envelope at the bottom with the word
FIFTEEN
on it in big block letters.

Oliver.

I need privacy for this one, so I sneak outside behind the shed and sit in the shade. If I’m so over him, then why are my hands shaking? I open the envelope slowly, my
heart doing its own tap dance. Inside is a handwritten letter.

I hold the letter against my chest and try to remember a time when I was as happy as I was with Oliver: Santa Fe, or when Orlando lived at our house. I can count them on one hand. I sit there for a while and breathe, then seal the letter up and head inside.

As I throw away the box, one more thing falls out.

A small flyer for a concert in Paris, with Oliver’s name on it.

My eyes scan for the date. It’s two days away.

I try to fall asleep but a hundred questions buzz around my head like a swarm of bees: who put the flyer in the FedEx package? Tile? What can Oliver possibly say that will make me want to be with him again? What did he tell Tile about my dad? Should I go to Paris?

I decide that Julian is the person I need to ask first about Paris, because if I can go, he’s the one to convince Richard to let me.

Beetle gives me a ride to the village and we stop at this huge grove of olive trees and I take some pictures of her. She is so at ease in front of the camera. When we get back in the car, I ask her what she wants to be.

“You mean when I grow up? Ha!”

“Well, yeah. When you grow further up.”

She looks at me and squints a little. “I like you, Luna. You are very real. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

“No.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I just want to love and be loved, you know? Find something that interests me. Like right now I’ve been designing these cool belts. Anyway, I just want to find something that I enjoy doing and do it well. And I really want a copilot, someone I can walk through life with. I don’t care if it’s a girl, boy, or barn animal. Just someone that gets me.”

“Barn animal?”

“Okay, maybe not that. But you know what I mean.”

We pull into the square and I say, “Yes, I think I do. Thanks for the ride.”

“It’s cool, just give me copies of those pictures.”

“Of course!”

I think Beetle is right. Finding someone to love and something you love to do is pretty much what it’s about. It’s all the other complications that get in the way that kind of scare me. Can I see myself being a photo grapher and having Oliver as my copilot? Yes, definitely. I just wish I could have a conversation with my mother, just one more. So I could ask her why. She had that—she had a copilot and a job she loved. Why did she jeopardize it? I guess I will never know, but I do know one thing. I have got to get my butt to Paris.

Beetle drops me off and I meet Julian and Richard at the café. Before we even get our pizza, I plant the seed.

“I think I want to see Oliver in Paris and give him one last chance. Is that lame?”

“No, it’s romantic,” Julian says. “But I’m not sure you can take the train by yourself.”

“Yes I can. It’s not like in the States, where an adult has to sign you in. Basically, a fifteen-year-old here is treated like an eighteen-year-old in America. Beetle’s done it twice.”

Julian gives Richard a look that says
She’s on to something
.

“And besides, Daria emailed me and she’s going to be there. She’s my friend who set up my show. She spends a lot of time in Paris shooting for
Elle
, and her agent is there. She said I could stay with her.”

I haven’t even asked Daria, but I do know she’ll be in Paris, and I’m sure she won’t care. The more I think about it, the more I realize I have to see Oliver play.

“And I can pay for it. I made four thousand dollars at my show.”

Our waiter delivers our pizzas and the conversation turns to Julian’s obnoxious clients and Richard’s unruly students, and for a while I’m just happy that it’s not about me. It seems to have sunk in. I’m going to Paris.

The next day Richard has a lengthy conversation with Daria. I email my father and Janine, but my stories are different. In my father’s I don’t mention Paris. If he can “omit” information from me, then why can’t I do the same with him?

On the way to the train station in Rome, Richard hands me a phone. “Now, listen. You must keep in contact with me twice a day. You’ll be staying with Daria at her hotel.
When you arrive, get right into a taxi, a real one. There are gypsy cabs, guys who will offer you a ride in a regular car—absolutely, under any circumstances, forbidden.”

“Got it.”

“And here’s the map Julian printed out for you, with the essential spots highlighted. The hotel, the concert hall, the—”

“What’s this?” I point to a red mark over a bridge.

“That was your mother’s favorite bridge. The Pont Neuf. I thought you might want to visit it.”

We pull into the train station and I feel a drop in my stomach. This is it. I’m going to Paris by myself.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this without speaking with your father. Please, just don’t talk to anyone on the train, lock your cabin door, and hold on to your phone. If anything happens, call.”

“Richard, I’m not seven. I’m fifteen. Everything will be fine. Just wish me luck with Oliver.”

He moves the hair out of my face and says, “That’s the last thing I’m worried about. But I will tell you this. In our nine years together, Julian and I have had to forgive each other a lot.”

“Yeah, well, he didn’t dump you for your supposed best friend.”

Richard helps me out and waits with me until the train comes. Then he comes on board with me and settles me into the cabin. He checks the lock.

I point to the old lady getting into the cabin next to mine. “What if she tries to kidnap me?”

He smiles. “Stick with Granny and you’ll be fine.”

During the train ride I take out the letters Mom wrote to Richard. One is a card for his birthday, and one is an invitation to a runway show in Milan. Another is handwritten on gray stationery from a hotel in Spain.

As the train rumbles through the night, I read a few more. Some make me laugh, and some are hard to understand. I fall asleep with the letters open around me and am strangely comforted.

When we arrive at the station, the old lady asks me something in French and I just smile. Where’s Oliver when I need him? He could translate.

I go to the taxi line and announce to the driver the name of the concert hall, probably butchering it. He’s wearing a suit and keeps looking back at me from the rearview.
Please don’t let this be some weirdo
.

There’s a lot of traffic, but I can see why Paris is so legendary. The architecture is so ornate … even the public bathrooms. The women are all sporting scarves and sunglasses, and even the meter maid is in heels. I probably tip the driver too much, but my dad always tips the New York cabbies a lot, so I follow suit. Plus, he got me here safely, despite the glances.

When I get to the box office, there’s a pale, severe-looking man with too much gel in his hair and a fixed frown on his face. I ask him how much for the matinee recital. He just looks at me with no expression.

“For today?”

He shakes his head and says, “Sole out.”

No. I did not come all this way to get shut out
.

“Are you sure? I came all the way from New York … via Tuscany.”

He’s not impressed. In fact, he couldn’t care less. I realize I’m not going to get anywhere with him. And I don’t have any way of getting in touch with Oliver.

“Crap.”

“Merde,”
this kid behind me says. “The word is
merde
.”

“
Merde
. Can you help me a minute?”

The kid picks up his skateboard and stands at attention. People used to say my mom could get a man to do anything. I hope I have that gene too. I pull out Daria’s French cell phone number. I show it to him.

“There seems to be way too many numbers. Can you call for me?”

He is more than willing. I hand him the phone Richard gave me, but he puts up his hand and with a gallant face, pulls out his own, which has a giant red skull on it and is held together by duct tape. Still, it miraculously reaches Daria.

“I’m at the Opéra Bastille,” I say, butchering the name. “I got here and this mean guy says there’s no tickets but …”

“Can you hold? Sorry.”

I tell the kid I’m on hold. He rolls his eyes like it happens to him all the time. He starts to say something in French but then Daria comes back on.

“I am so sorry. Crazy day. There are like five people surrounding me right now. I left the key for you and …”

I realize there’s nothing Daria can do about it.

“It’s cool, I’ll see you later.” I hang up and we both say, in unison,
“Merde.”

Skater Boy takes his phone and then drags me back to the box office. He starts talking really fast in French to the mean guy, who looks inside a gray box and pulls out an envelope with a ticket inside it.

Skater Boy says, “Standing room. It’s okay?”

“Yes!” I practically yell.

“Thirty-five euros.”

I smile at the mean guy and he still gives me no expression. I pay him forty euros and then hand the change to Skater Boy, who declines.

“I hope your guy is worth it,” he says, and skates off.

Me too
.

Daria’s hotel is all shiny and gold, with elaborately framed mirrors in the lobby. If you ask me it’s a little overdone, but I’m not complaining. I get the key from the front desk, and when I get inside the suite, I text Richard from the phone he gave me: