He sets down a bowl brimming with fragrant tomato broth, vegetables, and seafood. Two toasted slices of baguette sit crisscrossed artfully on top.
“Bouillabaisse for you,” he explains. “A house specialty.”
“Wow. Merci,” I say, debating whether I should take a photo or dig in. My hunger wins out, and I gulp down a spoonful of the stew. It’s hot, and burns my tongue, but it’s also wonderful, tasting of the sea and of fresh herbs, like rosemary and thyme.
I can feel Jacques watching me, which would be more embarrassing if I weren’t so busy devouring the bouillabaisse. I dunk a baguette slice into the broth and take a bite.
“I am glad you are enjoying,” he says, sounding pleased with himself. I expect him to turn then, and walk away. But he doesn’t yet. “Your name is really Summer?” he asks me instead. Flustered, I nod, wondering why he cares. Jacques raises a dark eyebrow. “We do not have this name in France. Here, ‘summer’ is ‘été.’ ”
“Été,” I echo, the word as new on my tongue as the bouillabaisse. Despite my skittishness, I smile. “That would be a strange name, I guess.”
“But maybe a cool one, non?” Jacques says, smiling in return. And then, to my surprise, he sits down in the wicker chair across from me.
I almost choke. “Why are—don’t you have to work?” I stammer. I glance around at the other tables.
Jacques chuckles, loosening his tie. My heart flips over again. “It is almost the end of my shift,” he tells me, leaning forward conspiratorially. “My parents, they will go easy on me if I take a little break.”
“Are you from Les Deux Chemins?” I wonder out loud. This idyllic place seems like a vacation town, but, I remind myself, of course people live here, too.
Jacques nods. “I was born and raised. I have been helping my parents at their café for three years. Since I was, how you say, quatorze ans? Fourteen.” His dark-blue eyes sparkle as he regards me from across the table. “And where are you from?” he asks.
I avert my gaze and swallow another spoonful of the bouillabaisse. “Hudsonville,” I reply, remembering my earlier exchange with Eloise. Jacques, though, doesn’t seem judgmental or snobbish. “It’s a town a couple hours north of New York City. Not a town like this,” I clarify, motioning toward Boulevard du Temps. “Different. More, like, a suburb?” I bite my lip, not certain that Jacques understands me.
“Oui, a suburb,” he says, smiling. “I know this word.”
My hand trembles a little as I lift my water glass. “Your English is very good,” I tell him truthfully. “I wish I spoke French.”
The wind rustles the leaves on a lemon tree above us. I feel detached from the table, separate, watching myself having a conversation with this handsome French boy. That can’t be me, I think hazily. It’s another Summer. One who isn’t scared. Over Jacques’s shoulder, I notice the tableful of girls blatantly staring at us, their mouths half open. I totally understand their shock. I share it.
Jacques ducks his head, almost shyly. “I would like to be better at my English,” he says. “We study it in school here, but I need more practice.” He pauses, tracing a pattern on the tabletop with one finger. “Perhaps … ”
“Jacques!” I hear someone snap.
I blink and look up to see a plump, beautiful woman standing by our table, hands on her hips. She’s about my mom’s age, and wears an apron over a green dress. She barks something at Jacques in French, and he shrugs, saying, “Pardon, Maman,” and I realize this is his mother. So much for his parents letting him take a little break. I get the sense, from her tone, that maybe this has happened before.
“I have to go,” Jacques tells me unnecessarily, standing while his mother storms off. He shoots me a dimpled grin. “Would you like anything else? Something sweet?”
The blush that faded earlier now returns with a vengeance. My face must be scarlet as I shake my head and ask for the check. Lingering here, having dessert, would be pushing my luck, like trying to go back to a dream after you’ve already woken up.
The check, when it arrives, is delivered by an elderly, stooped waiter. I assume Jacques must have been banished to dishwashing or something as punishment. I feel my spirits sag—though, silly me, what was I expecting, anyway?—and I turn over the tissue-thin slip of paper, reaching into my tote bag for my wallet.
I freeze.
On the check, beneath the typed price of the bouillabaisse, is a string of numbers scrawled in boyish handwriting, along with the words:
For Summer: If you would ever like to practice your French, or help me practice my English. —J.
My heart begins beating double time. No. I don’t get it. Are those numbers a phone number? Did a boy—not just any boy, but Cute Waiter Jacques—give me his phone number? This isn’t real. I’m still sleeping, up in the guest room. Right?
But the evidence is in front of me. I stare down at the check in amazement before grabbing it with quivering fingers and stuffing it inside my tote bag. Then, my head floating somewhere above my body, I leave what is probably the wrong amount of euros on the table, get up, and go.
The sky is pitch-dark now, and the moon bathes Boulevard du Temps in a fuzzy glow. I missed the moment that night fell.
I drift along, my mind replaying my interaction with Jacques. His knowing smile. His words on the check, flirtatious and bold. There’s no way he likes me, I tell myself. Boys don’t like me. I probably misunderstood everything.
But what if? I wonder, my belly tingling. What if I didn’t misunderstand at all?
What if Ruby was right?
I can’t wait to tell her.
I laugh out loud, wondering if I look like a weirdo. I’m faintly aware that fewer people are out and about at this hour, and some shops and cafés are shuttering. I approach Café des Jumelles, which is still open, and crowded. As I pass by the outdoor tables, I catch sight of something in my peripheral vision that makes me stop and look twice.
A girl with golden curls, clad in a gauzy white sundress, sits at a table. My heart, previously buoyant, sinks. It’s Eloise.
She is sipping from a coffee cup, talking animatedly with a guy and a girl. I do another double take—they’re the couple I saw kissing in front of the cupid fountain earlier today. Strange. The boy is pale and sandy-haired, wearing a Daft Punk T-shirt. He has his arm around the girl, who is strikingly pretty, with dark-brown skin, brown hair in a short, fashionable pouf, and bright red lipstick. She is listening intently to Eloise. The vibe the three of them give off is less popular clique and more artsy smart kids. Also strange.
I’m hovering on the sidewalk, estimating how quickly I can flee, when it happens: Eloise turns her head. My blood runs cold. I see her see me. Her blue eyes widen and the color drains from her face. I think of that saying: Like seeing a ghost. I wonder if I should wave, or walk over, or pretend I haven’t noticed her. But I can only stand still.
Eloise’s face hardens, her eyes narrowing, the set of her mouth turning tight and cruel. She swivels her head and whispers something to the guy and girl. Then they turn their gazes toward me. The girl—Colette, maybe?—surveys me with curiosity in her dark eyes, but also a hint of hostility; obviously, she knows that I am an undesirable. The guy, though, looks sheepish, like he’s been caught doing something wrong.
And then, I get it. I get what happened. Eloise and her friends purposefully avoided Café des Roses tonight, because Eloise knew I might go there. So here they are, at Café des Jumelles, dealing with the mild discomfort of seeing me anyway.
I fight down the lump in my throat. Why does she hate me? I think, meeting Eloise’s frosty stare. What did I ever do to her? Then again, I did nothing to earn the disdain of Skye Oliveira and her crew back home, except maybe be bad at gym, or miss the memo with instructions on how to be a popular girl. Now, shifting from one foot to the other on the sidewalk, I feel suddenly self-conscious. Awkward. The opposite of how I felt seconds ago, all flushed and half hopeful.
In fact, Eloise’s glare
seems to undo whatever happened back in Café des Roses. I am stupid, I think. A babbling American girl with unkempt hair who wolfed down her bouillabaisse and blushed. Jacques just wanted some harmless fun. Or a good tip.
The lump in my throat isn’t going anywhere, and worse, tears are starting to prick at my eyes. Swiftly, I look away from Eloise and her friends, lower my head, and keep walking, faster and faster, my flip-flops slapping the cobblestones. No doubt Eloise is laughing about me now, about how bizarre it was that I stared at them in silence.
The rest of the boulevard whips past me—the closed boutique, the tabac with its bright red sign, and finally, the cupid fountain. The stone cherubs seem to mock me with their bows and arrows. But I find myself walking right up to them and sitting down on the lip of the fountain.
I should be dashing into Dad’s house to email Ruby, to ask her what to do about Eloise, and Jacques, and everything. Except Ruby is likely at the Fourth of July party, and not so available to advise me. Which makes me feel even more like crying.
The fountain burbles behind me. I sigh. I don’t want to leave France, but I also want nothing more than the comforts of home. If only I could be in two places at once. If only I could split myself, like a croissant, into halves.
I tilt my head back to look at the starry sky, thinking of my front porch and Mom’s theories about the universe. This sky, here in France, is the same sky we see in Hudsonville. The exact same sky! That seems as impossible as Mom’s theories.
The night is getting cool, and I don’t know what time it is. But I sit on the fountain’s edge a while longer, staring up, as if searching the stars for answers.
Monday, July 3, 9:43 p.m.
I answer the call.
I bring the phone to my ear and step to one side.
“Hello?” I venture. I can feel the boarding agent watching me.
There’s no reply, only static.
My heart is still racing. “Hello?” I repeat, sort of regretting that I picked up.
“Summer?”
A man’s voice cuts through the static. A familiar voice, but not one I expected to hear here, in the New York airport, seconds before my flight.
“Dad?” I cry, smiling. I move to stand next to one of the terminal’s brown chairs, and adjust my tote bag so that it sits more securely on my shoulder. Is Dad calling to confirm when my plane lands? That seems too organized for him. “What is it?” I ask.
“Listen, my sweetheart”—Dad pauses, and there’s more static—“I’m—not sure—good idea—come—right now.” His voice goes in and out.
I press a finger to my other ear, feeling a beat of nervousness. “Dad, I can’t hear you!” I practically yell. The boarding agent clears her throat. “What did you say?”
There’s rustling on the line, and then the static lessens somewhat. “Is that better?” Dad asks. “I’m at my hotel in Berlin, and the reception here is terrible—”
“Berlin?” I repeat, confused.
“Miss? Excuse me? Miss?”
I turn around to see the boarding agent scowling at me.
“The plane has to push back now,” she explains, her tone struggling between polite and annoyed. Annoyed is winning. “Are you still boarding?”
“Oh. Um,” I reply, starting toward her. I suddenly notice that there are no other passengers at the gate. “Dad? Can you hang on a sec? I need to get on the plane.”
Dad gives an anxious laugh. “Well, that’s just it, honey. I don’t think you should.”
I stop walking. Ice settles in my stomach. “Don’t think I should what?”
“Right now, miss,” the boarding agent snaps.
I hear Dad sigh. “I don’t think you should come, Summer.” He’s silent, and so am I, and then he begins speaking very rapidly. “I know it’s quite literally at the last minute, and I truly apologize, sweetheart, but I’ve thought about this a lot and it’s not really the best time for a visit, I mean, with me being in Berlin for work and all, and there are some other things that might come up, so, maybe next summer … ”
Next summer? Not the best time? Dad’s words don’t make sense. My head feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise, tighter and tighter, pain blooming behind my eyelids.
“I shouldn’t come?” I whisper, my throat thick. “I shouldn’t get on the plane?”
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Dad says softly. “It’s simply not the right ti—”
He’s interrupted by a mournful spiraling noise, and then silence. I pull my phone back from my ear and stare, dumbfounded, at the blank screen. Right. The battery died. I kind of feel like making that same noise and going blank myself.
“If you’re not boarding, miss,” I hear the agent say to me, “I have to close the door. Sorry.” Her tone has moved beyond annoyed and into furious.
I look up at her, tears blurring my vision. “My dad just told me not to come,” I tell her, as if she’ll understand, as if she cares.
But I guess she takes that as a go-ahead. I watch disbelieving as she walks on her high heels over to the door that leads to the plane. Click. She shuts the door with a finality that makes me shudder.
My head is really hurting, and my legs are shaky, so I let myself fall into the brown chair behind me. I hug my tote bag to my chest, holding back a sob. I don’t think you should come, Dad had said. His voice reverberates in my ears. Why would he do this, reverse everything, ruin everything? Couldn’t he have told me sooner? All my planning and packing and excitement—gone in one phone call. Done. Poof. Magic.
And then Mom’s voice starts ringing in my ears, like my parents have joined forces to form a discordant chorus. I’m worried you’ll be let down. You know how he is. I shake my heavy head. I do know, now. I have been let down—well, more like dropped. Quickly, and from a great height.
Out the long windows, I see it: the sleek white plane, backing up slowly, moving away from the gate.
No! I want to scream. I want to jump up and knock over the boarding agent and tear open the door like I’m in an action movie. But I won’t, of course. I can’t. There’d be no point, even, in trying. The sob I’d been biting back escapes my lips.
The boarding agent speaks up, her tone kinder now. “There is another flight to Provence at the same time tomorrow,” she tells me.
I glance over at her, blinking my watery eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” I say flatly. “I’m not going at all.”
I feel a weariness wash over me. How depressing, how embarrassing, to now have to retrace my steps. To call Mom, who—my stomach tightens—will no doubt gloat on some level. To text Ruby that guess what, I’m back, I never left, and all the talk of gorgeous French boyfriends seems really stupid now. I sigh.
I should ask my new best friend, this boarding agent, if I can borrow her phone. I should figure out the logistics of leaving the airport, and getting home to Hudsonville.
But, for now, I do nothing. I remain frozen in the chair, as if staying here in the airport will keep me in limbo, away from reality. I stare blankly at the runway. The storm has stopped. The night is serene: no thunder, no lightning, the sky a crystal-clear black.
I watch as the plane starts zooming, picking up speed, and I hold my breath as it lifts off the ground, its nose pointing skyward.
There it goes. There I go, or should have gone. I bite my lip. The plane climbs higher, taking with it my suitcase, and my hopes, and my dreams. And I am left behind, to face what will likely be my worst summer ever.
Tuesday, July 4, 2:22 p.m.
“The best!” I hear my mom exclaim from the kitchen. “You’re the best, Lydia. I mean it. You saved us from a blueberry shortage!”
Huh? I think, opening my eyes. I am lying in my bed, canyoned between all my soft pillows. The shades in my room are drawn tight. My head aches and my cheeks have that taut, stiff quality they get after I’ve been crying for a while. Why is my mom shouting to my aunt about blueberries? Why am I here at home, and not in France?
As I sit up, the memor
ies come rushing back to me. Answering Dad’s call at the gate. Borrowing the boarding agent’s cell phone to call Mom, who arrived almost immediately at the airport, all in a huff about Dad, but also looking kind of relieved. Mom driving me home while I sat beside her, tense, trying hard not to cry. Then running straight into my room, where I stayed up all night, alternately fuming and sobbing.
Yawning, I stand and stretch. When I glance at the mirror on the wall, I’m not surprised to see my hair puffing out in all directions, or my rumpled pajamas. What does surprise me is the large crack running the length of the mirror.
Oh, right. Another memory surfaces. Last night, I’d unpacked my tote bag ferociously, flinging items everywhere. I’d been about to fling my new camera from Aunt Lydia, but thankfully I’d caught myself. Instead, I’d yanked out my South of France guidebook and chucked it hard across my room. The book’s spine had hit the mirror, fracturing the glass.
I’d winced, superstitious as ever. Seven years of bad luck! Then I’d reminded myself that I already had bad luck anyway. Bring on the broken mirrors.
Now I pad over to my window shades and snap them up, squinting against the bright afternoon sun. The light washes over my walls, landing on my favorite Renoir poster: two sisters, one in a white dress, the other in pink, singing at a piano. Today, something about the painting seems trite. Babyish.
My phone, on my messy desk, lets out a buzz. I grab my cell, thinking it might be Dad. But no, it’s a text from Ruby, one of many that have come in since this morning.
Sheepishly, I remember the frantic volley of texts I’d sent my best friend last night, once my phone had charged. Texts like Emergency!!! and Stuck in Hudsonville! and My dad=the enemy. Ruby had clearly been sleeping, like a sane person, but her silence had only stoked my rage. My final text to her, sent around dawn, was something along the lines of YOU SUCK, and then I’d finally stumbled into bed and fallen into a dreamless sleep.
I’m relieved, as I scroll through Ruby’s responses, that she’s not mad at me for texting like a lunatic. Instead, she seems as despondent and concerned as I am regarding the state of my summer. Have you called your dad back yet??? the most recent message reads. Do it now!!! Convince him that you HAVE to go to France, no matter what!