Two Summers

by Aimee Friedman

Friday, July 14, 10:56 a.m.

  I am running late. Literally, running.

  I dash out of the bakery, ducking under the blue, white, and red French flag that hangs in the doorway; it’s Bastille Day. Bernice greeted me with a hearty “Bonjour!” before handing me my pain au chocolat, which I now clutch as I race across the street. I narrowly miss being hit by a car that’s bumping over the cobblestones of Rue du Pain. My stomach is a ball of nerves, and sweat trickles down my neck.

  Jacques is supposed to pick me up in four minutes.

  Please don’t let him be punctual, I pray as I burst into Dad’s house. I pause in the empty kitchen, planning to scarf down my breakfast. But I’m too anxious to ingest anything. I was silly to go to the bakery—I’d thought I had time to carry out my regular morning routine. Then I’d seen the clock on the wall behind Bernice, and panicked.

  I toss the uneaten pain au chocolat onto the kitchen table and thunder up the stairs. I’m relieved that I showered already; I hear the water running in the bathroom. It must be Eloise in there, because I saw Vivienne heading to the barn studio from my bedroom window when I woke up.

  I’d slept much later than I’d intended. I’d been up all night, tossing and turning, seesawing between glee and fear, until I finally drifted off around dawn.

  On the one hand, I felt ridiculous for even thinking the words boyfriend and love back at the farmers’ market on Wednesday. I had emailed Ruby later that day, but I’d downplayed the news. It might not even be a real date, I’d written, wrapping myself in the familiar blanket of doubt.

  On the other hand, the anticipation building in me has been undeniable. Now I feel it surge as I barrel into my medieval chamber and shake my brand-new sundress out of its plastic bag.

  Yesterday, I went back to the chic boutique on Boulevard du Temps, where I bought this dress—it’s a brilliant sky-blue color, with a scalloped hem and straps that crisscross in the back—as well as a pair of cream-colored sandals that lace up my ankles.

  I quickly change out of my shorts and T-shirt and into my new clothes. Then I face the broken mirror. Even through the fragmented glass, I can tell that the dress is lovely, the nicest thing I have ever owned. I do notice, however, that the orange-and-green colors of my woven bracelets clash with the blue of the dress.

  Ever since Ruby made those bracelets for me freshman year, I’ve worn them steadfastly, no matter the outfit or occasion. But I’ve never had an occasion like this. I wonder if Ruby would even be bothered by their absence.

  Things still feel distant between me and my best friend. Although she did respond enthusiastically to my email about Jacques. OF COURSE it’s a real date!!! she’d written. Didn’t I call this?? Am I EVER wrong? No I am not!!! Hugh who??

  I’d smiled at the screen. I couldn’t deny that my thoughts of Hugh were starting to fade and curl, like an old photograph. But I’d wondered why it was so important to Ruby, always being right. Maybe because it gave her all the power.

  I sigh and wriggle the bracelets off my wrist. I place them gently on the top of the dresser. Then I reach for my brush, hoping to untangle my long, shower-damp hair.

  Knock, knock. Knock, knock.

  Someone is downstairs.

  He is punctual, I think, frustrated, as I hastily run the brush through my hair and dig up some lip gloss from my toiletries bag. I swipe the gloss across my mouth and grab my tote bag. I start to leave the room when I remember my camera. It’s sitting on the windowsill; I’d been taking pictures of the garden last night. I grab the camera, stuff it into my bag, and, at last, dart out.

  I sprint down the stairs and into the kitchen before I come to an abrupt stop.

  The front door is open and Jacques leans against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest. And facing him, one hand on the doorknob, wearing her white bathrobe and a towel turban, and—maybe worst of all—holding my pain au chocolat, is Eloise.

  I feel a rush of irritation. She must have gotten out of the shower, heard the knock, and flown downstairs on her ghost feet to answer the door (and snag my breakfast).

  “Ah. Summer!” Jacques says when he sees me. He smiles, but his face is etched with confusion. Eloise turns to me, wearing a similar expression. Only she is not smiling.

  “How do you know Jacques?” she asks without preamble, her voice sharp.

  Right. In all the excitement of the morning, I’d momentarily forgotten about the potential Eloise-Jacques connection. From the way Eloise is standing, her body angled as if to shield him from me, it’s clear she not only knows Jacques, but possibly likes him.

  And does he like her? My stomach constricts as I peer at Jacques. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to be swooning over Eloise. Instead, he’s glancing from her to me, his brow furrowed, looking for all the world like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

  “I—um—” I clear my throat. Out of nervous habit, I reach for my wrist but it’s bare; there are no bracelets to twist. “We—we met at Café des Roses,” I finally reply. I straighten my shoulders, refusing to buckle under Eloise’s stony gaze.

  The thing is, since our face-off in the barn, Eloise has been … different toward me. It’s incredibly subtle. We still don’t speak when we pass each other in the house. But she no longer looks at me with her lip curled, she no longer huffs, and she no longer slams doors. It’s as if she’s grudgingly accepted that I’m, at the very least, human.

  Now, though, she’s regarding me with pure venom. Just like the old days.

  “Je ne comprends pas,” Jacques speaks up, frowning. “I do not understand.” His dark-blue eyes ping-pong between Eloise and me. “Summer, you know Eloise? You are both living here? Are you—”

  “Eloise is just staying here,” I cut in. I want to establish that she is the interloper, while this house, for all intents and purposes, is mine. “With her mom, who’s one of my dad’s artist friends.”

  Jacques nods, still looking a bit bewildered. Eloise gives a sharp bark of a laugh.

  “Staying here,” she echoes bitterly, her mouth twisting. It occurs to me then that maybe Eloise resents spending the summer in this house. Maybe that’s what her “stress” is all about. If that’s the case, I guess Eloise and I do have something in common: We both want Eloise gone. “By the way,” she adds, turning to me and holding up my pain au chocolat. “It’s cool if I eat this, right, Summer?” A taunting smile spreads across her face. “I found it on the table, so … ” Without waiting for my reply, she takes a huge bite.

  My blood boils. I fight down the urge to wrest the pastry from her, to shout “That’s mine!” like we’re two little kids squabbling over a piece of candy. But I won’t lose it in front of Jacques. I ball my hands into fists while Eloise chews smugly.

  Jacques bites his lip to keep from smiling, as if he finds our hostility entertaining. “This is a funny coincidence, non?” he asks us.

  “Hilarious,” I mutter. Eloise, her mouth full, doesn’t answer.

  “So,” Jacques says into the tense silence. He uncrosses his arms and puts his hands in his jeans pockets. It’s the first time I’ve seen him out of his waiter’s uniform, and I take a moment to absorb how cute he looks in his faded red T-shirt and black Adidas. My heart skitters. He raises his eyebrows at me. “You are ready, Summer?”

  “Oui,” I say instantly, stepping forward and brushing past Eloise to join Jacques on the threshold. As nervous as I am about our—outing (a less scary word than date), I am more nervous about the prospect of remaining in this awkwardness with Eloise.

  “Well, have fun, you guys,” she snaps, taking another bite of my pain au chocolat. I stiffen, and hope she won’t ask us where we’re going. Visiting the gallery feels personal, almost private. Then I notice that her cheeks are splotchy, and I can tell she’s actually struggling not to ask, to act as if she doesn’t care.

  I feel a twinge of satisfaction: Is Eloise … jealous of me? There is reluctant approval in her eyes as she takes in my new dress, my sandals, my lip gloss. Bundled up in her
robe, her princess hair hidden under a towel, she’s suddenly the less glamorous one. We’ve switched roles.

  “Thanks,” I reply, trying for nonchalance, and Jacques adds a friendly “Au revoir!” before leaning over to kiss Eloise on both cheeks. Now it’s my turn to be swept by a wave of intense jealousy.

  Eloise smiles at Jacques—I feel myself glaring—and speaks to him in rapid French; I catch mentions of “Colette et Tomas” and “le café.” There’s nothing flirtatious about their exchange, but I can’t help feeling a pang of paranoia. I wonder if there was ever something between the two of them.

  I’m still wondering when Eloise gives me a smirk and, popping the last of my pain au chocolat into her mouth, slams the door. Her specialty.

  Slowly, I turn to face Jacques as we stand together on the doorstep. I’m not sure if I should apologize, or explain—although what would I even say? I don’t understand Eloise myself.

  “That was … weird,” I mumble at last, tucking an errant curl behind my ear. The day is growing hot and sultry, and I can feel my hair drying against my neck. I’m grateful for the light material of my new dress.

  Jacques shrugs. “Un peu bizarre,” he admits, letting out a chuckle. He ducks his head. “So, how do you—I mean, I thought—” He pauses and I wait, terrified that he’s going to confess that he and Eloise dated. After a second, though, he looks back up and flashes me his charming grin. “Forget it,” he says.

  And, like magic, I do. My spirits lift, and I return his smile. In that instant, it seems, we’ve reached a mutual agreement: There’s no need to discuss Eloise any further.

  I follow Jacques away from the house and over to the moped—shiny white and sleek, with two white helmets perched on the seat—that’s parked in the street. When Jacques hands me one of the helmets, I hesitate. I ride my bike around Hudsonville all the time, but a moped seems very different—faster, wilder, scarier.

  “Come on, you will love it,” Jacques assures me, his eyes glinting with mischief.

  I’m doubtful, but since I’ve been brave enough to make it this far—out of my room, out of my shell, on an “outing” with a boy—I take a breath and slip the helmet on my head. It fits snugly, muffling the birdsong of Rue du Pain.

  Jacques dons his helmet as well, managing to look handsome even as he adjusts his chin strap. Then he jumps gracefully onto the moped. I climb on behind him, clumsy and careful, moving my tote bag into my lap and trying to sit without my dress bunching up. I’m glad he’s not facing me.

  “But there is one thing you should know before we go,” Jacques says, revving the engine and glancing back at me.

  “Yes?” I ask over the motor, my stomach clenching.

  His dimple appears when he grins. “You look very beautiful today.”

  Wait. What?

  My heart swoops up and into my mouth, rendering me speechless. I can’t have heard him right. The helmet, the motor, the heat of the day—I’m hallucinating. Ear-hallucinating. Is that a thing? It has to be, because I’m me. Summer Everett. She of the Picasso-like face, she who is invisible to boys. Not beautiful.

  Although … what if? What if I did hear him right? My pulse pounds. Before I can ask Jacques to repeat himself, he’s faced forward again, and we’re zooming off.

  The speed of the moped matches my heartbeat. And the dizzying, tilting feeling I get when we careen down Rue du Pain mimics what’s happening in my head.

  I struggle to keep my feet planted on the footrests and then, without thinking, I reach forward and wrap my arms around Jacques’s waist.

  Oh my God.

  I’m shocked by my own boldness. At the same time, anything seems possible now. I can feel the warmth of Jacques’s back through his T-shirt, and I smile to myself as we zip along Boulevard du Temps.

  All the storefronts and cafés are draped in French flags and blue, white, and red bunting for the holiday. The streets are nearly empty, the way they are back home on the Fourth of July. I remember what I read about Bastille Day, how it kick-started the French Revolution. What is it about July, about the heat of summer, that inspires people to rebel?

  Leaving Boulevard du Temps in our wake, we shoot out onto the open road. The wind whistles inside my helmet and whips against my bare arms and knees. The sensation is frightening, and freeing.

  We’re surrounded by nothing but azure sky, dark-green cypress trees, and the occasional passing car or fellow moped. In the distance, there are the mountains. The same, sloping, green-brown mountains I saw on my taxi ride from the airport. I was a different Summer then, one who would have never imagined I’d be on the back of a boy’s moped, holding him. If only that Summer could see me now.

  Jacques expertly steers the moped to the right and we begin climbing, threading up the side of a reddish cliff. I forget to be terrified, because the view is so gorgeous—other rust-colored cliffs all around and down below, a ribbon of turquoise water and fields of lavender. Their sweet scent is everywhere.

  We reach a plateau and round a corner onto a tree-shaded path. Up ahead, there it is—a small white building with columns. A banner hanging from the façade reads GALERIE DE PROVENCE.

  I feel a prickle of regret. I should have come here with Dad. It would feel so meaningful, going inside with him to look at my painting—his painting—together.

  But I’m also impatient; I don’t want to wait around for Dad to return from Berlin, whenever that will be. In his latest email, he promised he would “try” to be back by my birthday, which is this Tuesday. I figure if he doesn’t return by then, I’ll have to tell Mom the truth. I swallow at the thought as Jacques parks in front of the gallery.

  Reluctantly, I drop my arms from around his waist. With equal reluctance, I remove my helmet, knowing that my hair must be a staticky mess. But when Jacques takes off his helmet—his hair, of course, looking as appealingly disheveled as always—he turns around and grins at me, and I remember his words from before: very beautiful. I can’t help but grin back, a blush stealing across my face.

  As I turn to dismount from the moped, Jacques gives me his hand to help me hop off. And then he doesn’t let go.

  My head spins. I imagine texting Ruby: Am holding hands! With a real live boy! But now that I’ve put my arms around Jacques, the act of holding his hand doesn’t feel quite so foreign and impossible.

  As Jacques and I head toward the gallery, our hands still linked, I feel a thrill race through me that has nothing to do with our hand holding.

  I’m about to see my painting.

  We walk up the steps and enter the cool marble lobby. There’s an information desk, and a sign on the wall reads Photographies interdites, beside a drawing of a camera with a red slash through it. I guess I won’t be able to take pictures. Off the lobby, I can see spacious rooms with framed paintings on the white walls. Other than me and Jacques, the woman behind the information desk, and a sleepy-looking security guard, the gallery seems empty. Probably because of the holiday.

  “Have you been here before?” I ask Jacques, hoping he can’t feel that my palms are getting clammy with nerves.

  “Not for a long time,” Jacques replies as we approach the information desk. “I came on a trip with my class my first year of l’école—high school. Some of my classmates, they would like to become painters, so they have returned more often, after.” He releases my hand—I’m both disappointed and relieved—and steps forward to speak to the woman behind the desk. She waves us onward; entry to the gallery is free.

  “You don’t want to be a painter?” I ask Jacques as we enter the first room, our footsteps echoing on the marble floor. I start scanning the walls, my heart pounding.

  “Non,” Jacques laughs. “Me, I want to become a chef. A cook. Like my father. And you?” he asks me. “Do you want to be a painter, like your father?”

  I shake my head. I’m about to tell Jacques that I have zero artistic talent when I spot a painting that looks familiar: a wristwatch floating on the surface of the ocean. It’s very s
pare and modern, and reminds me of something by René Magritte or Salvador Dalí. I read the artist’s name on the placard: VIVIENNE LACOUR.

  “Oh!” I say, pointing. “I know her. That’s—that’s Eloise’s mom.” I hate that Eloise has to come up, here and now. Must her awfulness pervade everything?

  But Vivienne isn’t awful, I remind myself. I also realize that Vivienne must have painted the floating grandfather clock that hangs in my room; its style is nearly identical to the watch painting here. I bet there’s artwork by Monsieur Pascal in this gallery, too. It’s cool to really see how Dad belongs to this community of artists in Provence.

  “Ah, I did not realize that Eloise’s mother was a painter,” Jacques says as we turn away from Vivienne’s painting. I feel a beat of gladness that Jacques and Eloise are, at the very least, not close enough to have exchanged family details.

  Then Jacques and I step into the second room, and I stop.

  I gasp.

  Because I see it.

  Straight ahead, hanging on the center wall, inside a gold frame, is …

  Well, me.

  My heart vaults and I bolt forward, not caring if I look silly. I run up to the painting, standing as close as I can without actually touching it.

  There I am: a solemn-faced little girl with long blond ringlets that won’t turn frizzy and unmanageable for a couple more years. I wear a white dress with a round collar and I stand, skinny arms at my sides, in a field full of bright red poppies.

  A shiver goes down my back. It’s both strange and wonderful to see yourself—a past version of yourself—captured in paint and framed on a wall.

  Faintly, I’m aware that Jacques has walked up beside me and is looking at the painting, too.

  “Wow,” he says softly. “Is that—”

  “It’s me,” I whisper, half prideful, half embarrassed. Young Summer stares back at me, her eyes as wide as mine must be right now.

  Jacques is silent. I take a second to glance away from my portrait and over at him. He’s studying the painting, his forehead creased.

  “Me when I was little, of course,” I clarify with a nervous laugh. “This—this is the painting of my father’s that I wanted to come here to see,” I explain, my cheeks hot.