The Paris Project

by Donna Gephart

  My dad.

  Walking into the room on the screen. He wore an embarrassing orange jumpsuit, but it was him inside of it.

  Mom made a little noise when Dad walked through the door.

  I might have made a little gasp too.

  Dad’s hair was darker than I remembered and kind of greasy. His face looked thinner than the last time I visited two weeks ago. Mom had told me the food probably wasn’t very good, and we’d fatten Dad up as soon as he got home. The boulder in my stomach grew. I wished Mom hadn’t made me come today.

  But I liked the idea of fattening Dad up when he got home. Spaghetti. I’d cook that thick spaghetti Dad liked and ask Declan to make a batch of his delicious red sauce with roasted tomatoes, fresh basil, olive oil, and garlic. Georgia could make her yummy toasted garlic rolls, and we’d create a big salad, too. Dad used to like salad a lot. Maybe we’d even pick up a peach pie from Pamela’s Pancake House. And Georgia could get whipped cream from Weezie’s Market to squirt on top of the pie.

  It would be the perfect welcome-home dinner.

  When Dad sat in the chair and looked up at Mom and me, his whole face lit up. His smile was so wide and his eyes looked so happy they almost looked sad.

  “Glory.” Dad said Mom’s name like a prayer. His voice sounded gravelly, like he hadn’t used it in a while. “You look so… beautiful, baby.”

  Mom ducked her head.

  “And is that Miss Cleveland Rosebud Potts behind you? Come up closer to the screen, sweetie, so I can see you better.”

  I’d been determined to stay in the background, thinking maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much if I was farther away. But Dad’s voice melted through my resolve. I scooted next to Mom, and somehow we managed to squeeze onto the one chair, our arms pressed against each other’s, which wasn’t uncomfortable now because there was plenty of air-conditioning.

  Mom reached her fingers out to touch the screen. “How are you, John?”

  Dad put his hand up too, so it was like they were touching, even though they weren’t really. I was about to put my fingers up when—

  “Don’t touch the screen,” mustache sheriff said.

  Mom’s hand dropped, and my heart sank down to where that boulder sat in my stomach.

  “I don’t need to be cleaning up these screens when you’re all done here.”

  We were quiet until he walked away.

  Dad made an annoyed face but then smiled. “Tell me what’s going on. What was your week like?” He sounded hungry for information about us.

  Mom tilted her head toward me. “Cleveland?”

  I watched the timer on the wall ticking down. I wanted to make it stop. I needed to focus my attention on Dad, not the stupid timer.

  “Um, seventh grade is good so far.” Lie. “Nothing much happened, though.” Lie. I was not about to waste part of our hour together telling Dad about the disaster in Miss Delilah’s dance class. If he were home with us, I would have told him. If he were home, it wouldn’t have happened. At least the part where everyone gave me a pity face. And laughed at me. I know, I know if he were home, Dad would have hugged me and told me everything would be okay. But of course none of this would ever have happened if Dad hadn’t gone to jail in the first place. I sniffed a little and was glad when Mom took over the conversation.

  “John, I got an extra house to clean. And it’s a weekly one.”

  Dad squinted, like something hurt. “I’m sorry you have to work so much, Glory.”

  She waved at the screen. “Oh, I don’t mind.”

  Lie.

  “Really,” she said. “We just can’t wait for you to get out of there.”

  We got quiet. I could hear other people talking to their screens. Mom had forgotten the rule we had made for ourselves—don’t remind Dad how much time he still had in jail.

  “We’re going for ice cream after this,” I blurted to fill the silence. It was the exact wrong thing to say.

  We got quiet again.

  It was impossible to know what to say and what not to say during our measly hour together.

  “Tell me what’s going on with Georgia,” Dad said.

  Mom told Dad how Georgia was looking for scholarships and doing well at school. “She can’t wait to go to Vermont, John.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m so glad I’ll have some time with her before she goes.”

  That was when a few tears leaked out, and Dad quickly wiped them away.

  “It’ll be okay,” Mom said softly. “Soon.”

  I wasn’t sure if Mom was trying to make Dad feel better or herself. I hated to see her so sad. Dad, too.

  “I’m proud of her, is all.” Dad sniffed.

  I looked around the room. Some people were smiling and others were crying. This was tougher for some people than others, but it was challenging for everyone.

  The hour went both slow and fast.

  Slow because of the uncomfortable pauses, not knowing what to say and what not to say.

  Fast because an hour a week through a video screen would never be enough time to spend with one of the most important people in your life.

  When the screen went dark, Mom looked deflated.

  I pressed my shoulder into hers. She leaned her head on me.

  “File out, please,” the ponytail sheriff said. “We have another group waiting. It’s a busy day, folks.”

  When I stood, half my butt had fallen asleep from sharing the chair with Mom. I never imagined I’d think this, but our car would actually feel comfortable compared to sharing a single chair with Mom for an hour.

  It hurt my heart to leave, because it felt like we were leaving Dad behind.

  Or had Dad left us behind when he stole that money?

  Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.

  There’s No Escaping It

  I FELT GUILTY ORDERING THE THREE-SCOOP sundae at Snazzy’s Snack Shack, because it cost way more than the single dip with sprinkles I usually ordered, but Mom said, “Today calls for an extra-big treat, Cleveland. Don’t you think?”

  I did, plus I was hungry. My mouth watered just thinking about it, but then Mom ordered a plain single scoop of vanilla, so I felt bad all over again. She deserved a big treat too, but we couldn’t afford two big treats. Maybe we should have shared the three-scoop sundae.

  I noticed the cashier very carefully counting the money Mom handed him. Did he think we were trying to cheat him? A small town was not the place to be when someone in your family did something bad.

  When we slid onto opposite sides of the table to eat, I tried to enjoy my sundae because I knew how much it cost. It was cold and delicious—exactly what I needed. But a nagging part of my mind reminded me that Dad wouldn’t be able to have an ice-cream sundae at Snazzy’s until he was released on February 2. That felt so far away. It was still only August.

  Mom closed her eyes when she took her first bite. “Mmm.”

  I was glad to see her enjoy her ice cream. “Hey,” I said quietly. “When Dad gets out, let’s bring him here and get the Super Jumbo Sundae Surprise for him.” (The “Surprise” was that they added ten cherries to the top. Ten! I knew Dad would share some of them with me.)

  “Great idea, Cleve. Bet Dad will love that.”

  I wasn’t even done with the first scoop of my sundae when the door to Snazzy’s opened, and two people walked in, causing me to lose my appetite. The boulder in my stomach was back. Mom couldn’t see them because they were behind her, but I dreaded the moment she did.

  “What?” Mom asked.

  “Nothing.” I plunged my spoon into my sundae, hoping Mom wouldn’t turn.

  She turned.

  Dad’s old boss, Mr. Ronnie Baker, and his son, Todd, who was one grade ahead of me at school, were at the counter, looking at the large menu hanging on the wall. I wanted to throw something at them. My dad couldn’t be here with us because of what Ronnie Baker did to him. He could have at least given my dad a second chance. He could have…

  “Oh,”
Mom said, whisper-quiet.

  Her cheeks flamed pink, and she swallowed so hard I heard it.

  Mom probably felt like I did when the neighbors stared at us, like I felt when the girls at the dance school gave me their pity faces and my customers wouldn’t let me walk their dogs anymore. I leaned forward and whispered, “Do you want to leave?”

  Mom nodded.

  We grabbed our ice cream cups and stood.

  Mom tossed hers into the trash on the way out, even though she’d hardly eaten any of it.

  I held on to my sundae and scowled at Mr. Baker and Todd.

  Stop ruining things for us!

  Mr. Baker was scanning the menu, but Todd turned around and looked at me. His face wasn’t mean and I didn’t see anger in his eyes, but I saw something else. It had better not be pity!

  Mr. Baker nudged Todd. “What do ya want, bud?”

  Must be nice, I thought, to have your dad here buying you anything you want.

  Todd turned back to the menu. “Um, not sure yet.”

  Before Mr. Baker caught sight of me, I followed Mom out the door and across the parking lot to Miss Lola Lemon.

  As we drove home, Mom stared straight ahead and kept sighing. I wished I were old enough to drive, so Mom could relax in the passenger seat and get herself together. It was hard for Mom to live in Sassafras now too. It wasn’t like she could pretend we were a nice normal family, because there were always reminders, like Ronnie Baker and his son going out for ice cream at the same place we went after visiting my dad.

  Très gênant!

  I wished Mom and I could move to Paris tomorrow. Then we’d both be rid of stupid Sassafras and live our best lives. But I knew Mom would never do that.

  She’d never leave Dad behind.

  Why? Why? Why?

  I COULDN’T IGNORE MISS GENEVIEVE’S WHINING as soon as I got home, so I gave him a quick walk. It’s a good thing I did, because he needed to poop. I picked it up right away, unlike some inconsiderate people who lived in our neighborhood and thought it was okay to let their dogs poop wherever they wanted and never clean it up. I’m looking at you, Mr. Rich!

  When Miss Genevieve and I got back to our trailer, Georgia was still at work and Mom was sipping an iced tea, staring off at absolutely nothing. “Want to play Scrabble?” I asked, even though I really wanted to go to Declan’s and talk about something important. I didn’t want Mom to be by herself after what happened at Snazzy’s. I knew the visitation was a lot for Mom, too. She always looked so happy before we visited Dad and so sad afterward.

  “I’ll let you go first so you get the double word score to start.”

  “Huh?” Mom turned to me. “No, I’m good, honey.”

  “Sure you don’t want me to stay here? We could—”

  “Cleve.” Mom patted the bench seat beside her.

  When I sat, she wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me to her. “Miss Potts, it’s not your job to take care of me.” She pressed her head against mine. “It’s my job to take care of you.”

  “But Dad used to help with that.” At least he did before he got so caught up with gambling.

  Mom choked on her iced tea. I’d said something wrong.

  She gave me another squeeze. “Doesn’t matter. I’m still the parent. You’re still the kid, and I’ve got this till your dad comes home. You hear me?”

  I shrugged.

  “Do you hear me, Cleveland Rosebud Potts?” Mom had turned toward me and was peering into my eyes.

  “I hear you.” I tugged my beret on tighter. “You’ve got this. You’re going to take care of me.” But who’s going to take care of you?

  “Besides…” Mom took a quick sip of iced tea. “Aunt Allison is coming over soon, so I won’t be by myself.”

  “That’s great, Mom.”

  “Yes, it’s nice of her to drive that far. It will be wonderful to see her.”

  Aunt Allison lived all the way in Carilynntown, nearly two hours away. “And you’ve got Miss Genevieve to keep you company until Aunt Allison gets here.”

  Mom held her iced-tea glass up in a toast. “I’ve got Roscoe.”

  Miss Genevieve let out a startling snore, and we both laughed. It felt good to laugh together. I’d never thought laughing with Mom would feel like a gift. I used to take those kinds of things for granted.

  “Really, Cleveland. I’m good.”

  “If you’re sure you’re okay, I’m going to Declan’s.”

  Mom patted my hand. “You have a good time with your friend, Cleve. Tell Dec and his dad I say hey.”

  “Will do.” I kissed Mom on the cheek. She didn’t smell like bleach today. She had the faint scent of makeup and something fruity. It was nice.

  Miss Genevieve got a good scratch behind the ears and a few bits of kibble before I headed out.

  I couldn’t wait to ask Declan a question about the second item on my Paris Project list.

  * * *

  I practically skipped around the long horseshoe driveway to the Maguires’ trailer. The heat actually felt good today.

  Before I climbed the two steps to their door, delicious smells of garlic and onions wafted out and made my mouth water. That boy was a cooking machine!

  After I knocked, the door flung open. “Scout!”

  Declan’s smile and the happiness in his voice made my heart thump. For a moment, I felt like the luckiest person in Sassafras. “Whatcha cooking in there, Dec?”

  He held open the door for me. “Why don’t you come in and find out?”

  Declan went to stir something in a big pot on the stove.

  As soon as I sat on the bench seat at their kitchen table, he held up a wooden spoon and waved the steam toward his nose. He raised his eyebrows, which made his ears poke out even more than usual.

  After tasting the dish and adding some spices, Declan looked at himself in the window of the microwave and fussed with his hair.

  That was weird. “What are you doing?” I pushed my pinkie toes up toward the holes in my sneakers, but it made me think of Jenna and her broken pinkie toe, so I stopped.

  Declan turned to me like I’d caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to. “Nothing,” he said a little too quickly.

  “O-kay.” Dec never seemed to care how he looked, especially in front of me.

  He grabbed the wooden spoon, dipped it into the pot again, and rushed over to me, with his other hand underneath to catch drips. “Taste this, Scout. I think I got it right this time.”

  The thick liquid burned the tip of my tongue but was crazy delicious, with all sorts of flavors like onions, garlic, and cilantro bursting through. “What is that?”

  Declan’s face changed for a moment. Something sad passed over it. “My mom’s vegetarian stew recipe.” He pointed to the falling-apart, handmade cookbook on the edge of the counter.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.” Declan shrugged.

  I remembered the day Dec first showed me that cookbook.

  It was the summer after third grade, fourth for him, and almost two years after he’d moved in. That day, we’d been swimming at the community pool and came back to his trailer to eat strawberry ice pops outside on the lawn chairs. I sat in his dad’s chair, which even back then sank down in the middle. Declan finished his ice pop in about three bites. But I was savoring mine, a few nibbles at a time.

  “My dad gave me something special for my birthday, Cleve.” (He hadn’t started calling me Scout back then.)

  “A video game system?” I asked hopefully, because I knew if Declan got that, we’d spend the entire summer playing games together, and it would be the best summer ever. Jenna might play with us too. There weren’t too many kids our age in the neighborhood besides Jenna Finch. She hadn’t moved to her fancy-pants house yet. It was mostly filled with really little kids and a bunch of nosy old people. The three of us hung out together whenever Jenna’s mom didn’t have her scheduled for some activity. Even back then, Jenna was in dance, gymnastics, and Brownies, an
d had summer math tutoring twice a week, not to mention her church activities every Wednesday evening and Sunday morning.

  “I’d love a game system,” Dec had said. Then his face got serious. “This is better, though.”

  Now I was curious. My ice pop dripped on the ground as I leaned over. “What is it?” I couldn’t imagine anything better than getting a video game system for your tenth birthday.

  Declan bit his lip. “You know how my mom…”

  “Yeah,” I said real quick, because I didn’t want Declan to have to say it again. It made me uncomfortable. A few months before, Dec had shared the full story of how his mom had left him and his dad and moved in with another cook at the restaurant where she worked. That was why Dec and his dad ended up moving to our trailer park. Anyway, it wasn’t long after that when Dec’s mom left him and his dad again, but this time permanently.

  Declan puffed out his skinny chest. “My dad said I’m old enough to have the special cookbook she made. It would be mine to take care of.”

  I didn’t think that was better than a video game system, but there was no way I’d say that. “Dec, that’s really cool!”

  He had run inside and brought out this beat-up, homemade book with all these handwritten recipes and photos that were falling out.

  “Here, I’ll show you a couple pages, but you’d better not touch it. Your ice pop might drip on it or something.”

  I held my ice pop far away from it and sat on my other hand so I didn’t accidentally touch the book and mess it up. I could tell how important it was to Declan.

  He ran his fingers over the cover, like it was made of gold, and showed me some of the pages, with recipes in loopy script and little drawings of different kinds of food along the margins. Then Declan closed the thick book and held it to his chest. “Cleveland, I made a promise to myself.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m going to make every single recipe in my mom’s book.”

  I gulped. “That’s a really big book, Declan. It might take a long time to do that.”

  “I know.” Declan held the book tighter, but gently. “And I’m only going to count the dish if it comes out exactly right. That’ll mean a lot of cooking and a lot of mistakes.”