By the time I’ve reached the fourth floor, I don’t even bother running anymore. I know I’ve won, so there’s no point in hurrying. Dad will be even more annoyed when he sees me waiting calmly in front of the door to the apartment, bored and tapping my Flik Flak watch. But a surprise is waiting for me on the welcome mat where I always carefully wipe my shoes so Dad doesn’t get cranky—he’s kind of a neat freak, even though he won’t admit it. Mom is already there to pick me up, and from the look on her face, we must be late.
Thanks to her, my stunning victory goes unnoticed, because when the elevator bell dings and my father dashes out (he must really still think he can win), he stops short at the sight of my mother tapping her foot. I can tell there’s going to be a shouting match, so I quickly grab the keys from his hand and go inside to stuff my things into my backpack. The faster I’m ready, the less shrieky Mom’s voice will get. I’ve become an expert over the years.
The front door is half open, so I can hear my parents’ discussion. They’re talking about me, as usual—I’m the only thing they have to talk about since the divorce.
“I’ll pick him up from school next Friday. I’m taking him to a concert in Paris that night, and to the science museum on Saturday.”
“A concert?”
Here we go, Mom’s just getting started. He should have seen it coming.
“Yes, a rock concert! It’ll be his first, and he’ll remember it for the rest of his life!”
“Don’t you think he’s a bit too young for that? He’s only ten, and you already want to expose him to deafening music? Plus, he could get smothered by the crowd in a place like that . . .”
I have no trouble imagining Mom shaking her head, hands on her hips. And Dad still doesn’t realize what he’s gotten himself into. He still thinks he can sweet-talk her, calm her down with a snap of his fingers.
“How exactly are you planning to get to Paris?”
Dad’s clearly thought it all out. I can hear the pride in his voice.
“We’ll take the train, of course! It’s only two hours from Lyon. And Théo’s been begging me to take him to Paris for months. Doesn’t seem like too much to ask.”
“Well, it’s not supposed to be your weekend . . .”
Mom’s grumbling more quietly now, and I think it’s in the bag. If Dad can just keep from saying something stupid at the last minute, she’ll let us go. I cross my fingers as hard as I can behind my back and underneath my striped sweater, to help my dad get through it. I hear him persuading my mother, promising her that he’ll be careful, reminding her that I’m growing up (and he’s right, I’m not a baby anymore).
“Okay,” she finally whispers, and I jump for joy.
They turn toward me, surprised that I’ve been eavesdropping. They still have a lot to learn about children.
Mom asks me if I really want to go to the concert and I tell her yes, that it’s going to be awesome and that I’m looking forward to bragging about it at school the following Monday. She doesn’t seem totally convinced, but she admits defeat.
Dad looks triumphant as he says, “See you Friday, buddy!” and hands me my backpack, which I dropped on the floor in all the excitement.
Once we’re out on the street, Mom stops pouting and offers to take me shopping for a new pair of sneakers.
“Thanks, Mom, but mine are still in good shape. And it’s cooler for them to look used anyway.”
She won’t give up easily, though, so she asks if the weekend after the concert I’d like to go to the movies.
“I dunno, I don’t think there’s anything good showing right now . . .”
“We could go bowling, then?”
I shake my head. Bowling isn’t really my thing.
“Or you could invite some friends over? That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”
She looks desperate and I feel sorry for her.
“You know, Mom, just because Dad’s taking me to Paris doesn’t mean you have to try and one-up him.”
She blushes and mumbles that that’s not what she’s trying to do, that she doesn’t understand why she can’t simply do something nice for her son anymore.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I love both of you the same. There’s no need for competition!”
I can tell she’s surprised that at the age of ten I already understand what they’re up to, but I don’t want her to be sad or think that Dad has better ideas. Even if it is kinda true. I mean, a rock concert, that’s so cool! I can’t imagine what she could suggest that would be better—which says a lot . . .
Mom suddenly perks up. I can tell because she stands up tall again and walks straight ahead.
“In that case, when we get home we’ll go over your homework for next week. Don’t you have a presentation on the human body to do?”
I sigh heavily. Mom is a real pro, she managed to fool me again. For all I know, she was never even really planning to take me shopping for new shoes!
When we get home, Olivier is working in the garage. It looks like he’s trying to fix up Mom’s old desk. She’s been asking him to sand and varnish it for months.
“So, Théo, did you have a good weekend with your dad?”
I stick out my chest, ready to make him green with envy.
“Yeah, and guess what? Next weekend he’s taking me to a rock concert!”
“You’re a lucky kid! Wanna give me a hand redoing this desk?”
“No, thanks. I’d rather go finish my homework.”
I head up without another word, but notice the wounded look on my stepfather’s face out of the corner of my eye. I know he’s disappointed and wishes we spent more time together, especially since my mom is always afraid I’ll think he’s trying to take Dad’s place. I don’t mind Olivier, though. He’s a nice guy. It’s just that I don’t want Mom to have it too easy. It’s nice when she spoils me and fawns over me . . . so sometimes I’m hard on him.
I sit in the big rocking chair in my room and get out the two tickets Dad agreed to let me keep till the concert.
“Eagles of Death Metal.” The letters are printed in all caps. I slowly run my finger over the black ink. My first concert ticket. I think about how I’ll pin it to my wall as soon as I get back from Paris.
I put the CD Dad got me into my little stereo and bob my head to the beat, wishing my hair were a little longer so I’d look more legit. The lyrics are all in English, which sounds like gibberish to me, but that doesn’t keep me from excitedly humming the few syllables I think I recognize.
In my spiral datebook, I circle Friday, November 13, with a thick red marker, then stick out my tongue in concentration as I decorate the page with a dozen or so music notes.
9
LUCAS
Even now, after several years together, Anouk can still surprise me. I have no idea how she does it.
“How did you manage to get the tickets? It’s been sold out forever!”
She looks at me, eyebrow cocked mischieviously, clearly pleased with herself.
“I bought them this summer. It’s this thing called planning ahead, smarty-pants.”
It’s true that foresight is hardly my strong suit. I can’t even count the number of awesome concerts I’ve missed because I only realized the tickets were on sale once they were already sold out.
“So what’s the occasion?”
Anouk lets out a long sigh, and I start running through things in my mind to figure out why.
“What do you think?”
Uh-oh. Looks like I’ve put my foot in my mouth. It’s not my birthday, and it’s obviously not hers, so it doesn’t take me too long to realize it’s our anniversary. Our fifth anniversary. Nice round numbers like that deserve a little celebration—when you’re not an idiot like me.
“I left your present at home. I didn’t think we’d exchange gifts here . . .”
I doubt I’ve fooled her, and even if I have, it won’t take her long to realize I don’t really have anything for her when we get back to our apartment. I’ll have to c
ome up with something good! Lucky for me, she chooses not to say anything, clearly not wanting to ruin the moment.
“Do you want to go together?”
“Obviously! I didn’t give you two tickets so you could take someone else,” she exclaims teasingly.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
I have to ask because I know that Anouk is a bit claustrophobic, and she’s usually not crazy about being squished in the middle of a dense, wildly dancing crowd. For example, in the hospital where she works as an apprentice midwife, she knows exactly how many steps it takes to get from her basement office to the door leading outside. I’m exaggerating a little, of course, but I’m not too far off.
She shakes her head, annoyed.
“I’m not made of glass, you know. Can’t you just say you’re excited for us to go to the concert together? You’ve been making me listen to Zipper Down on repeat for over a month now. I know some of their songs by heart!”
Anouk’s best friend, Jessica, agrees with a series of overly enthusiastic nods.
“She’s right, Lucas. Plus, we’ll be there too! It’ll be fun for all four of us to have a night out.”
Anouk lights a cigarette and takes a quick puff—a sure sign of irritation. The waiter finally brings our drinks, and we wait until he leaves to trade glasses so that each of has what we actually ordered.
I glance toward Djibril, who’s staying out of it, his eyes focused on the screwdriver in his glass. He’s learned that there’s no point trying to argue with women.
After blowing a few perfect, sexy smoke rings, Anouk reminds me of how much she adores “I Love You All the Time” and that she’s eager to hear it “for real.” I want to reply that it’s the tamest song on the entire album, and hardly representative of what an Eagles of Death Metal concert will be like, but Djibril kicks me under the table and I stop myself.
“It’ll be great, then! Thanks, honey.”
I kiss Anouk while discreetly massaging my shin and thinking about the amazing gift I now have to find if I want to get off the hook for forgetting our anniversary in the first place.
It’s getting late when it starts to rain, a light sprinkle that holds the promise of an imminent downpour. Like all the other customers sitting on the terrace, we grab our glasses and hurry inside. Raindrops stream down Anouk’s face as she pulls her thick hair into a ponytail. I think about kissing her under the stormy sky—the same color as her eyes. She would find that incredibly romantic; she loves romantic comedies, and happy endings, and Hugh Grant. You can’t get more romantic than kissing in the rain. But I don’t like to get wet—I hate the feeling of rain running down my neck onto my back and of wet jeans sticking to my thighs. Worst of all is not being able to see because of the drops covering my glasses. Hugh Grant doesn’t ever seem to have such problems. I’m sure an entire army of hair dryers rolls up as soon as his rain scenes have been shot, but Anouk doesn’t know that. She prefers to think that Hollywood is real life, and that the best way to make up after a fight is to storm out of the apartment and slam the door, hoping that I’ll run after her throwing rose petals at her feet. But I’m not sure she even expects me to do things like that anymore, since I’ve always stayed true to myself—I’ve never been a very sentimental kind of guy.
I grab my beer and her gin fizz and we head quickly into the bar. As soon as I’ve set our drinks down on the first free table, I grab her arm and pull her in close for a kiss. A long, passionate kiss. I brush aside a strand of hair from her eyes and feel her wet lips on mine. We forget where we are for a second.
“Get a room!” Jessica says with a smirk.
Anouk and I pretend not to hear—proof that there’s no need to get drenched in the rain for a kiss to be romantic.
We met on the Internet our first year of college, on a dating site that was so lame I doubt it even exists anymore. A buddy from school signed me up one night after we’d had way too much to drink. Anouk sent me a message a week later, when I had already totally forgotten about it. I wrote back, just to see. She must have had the same idea. We exchanged e-mails for a long while—she wasn’t in a hurry to meet. Her romantic side yet again, I assume. An epistolary romance was very Richard Gere (because, obviously, Hugh Grant isn’t her only reference).
Two months later, we finally made plans to meet in front of the Créteil train station—and I forgot to show up. The date totally slipped my mind until I got a text message asking if something had come up. Epic fail. I ran as fast as I could to the train station, almost getting run over about a dozen times on the way. When I saw a woman waiting all alone out front, I knew right away it was Anouk. She was exactly how I’d imagined her. Only better. I’m not sure she thought the same thing about me as I stood in front of her, all sweaty, with giant pit stains on my shirt. But she pretended not to notice and, after listening to my excuses with a dubious look on her face, she decided to give me a chance. Good thing too, because man, would it have sucked if we hadn’t made it past the first date.
As we’re heading home arm in arm at one in the morning, a bit tipsy, I finally admit I don’t have a present waiting for her at home.
“No kidding,” she replies sarcastically, with a slight slur.
“Hey, how about a ticket to an awesome concert next week?”
She laughs. “Do not tell me you’re trying to regift me half of the present I just gave you.”
I look sheepishly down at my feet.
“Just take me out to dinner this week, jeez . . .”
I sigh in relief, thinking how lucky I am to have such an accommodating girlfriend.
“A fancy restaurant, though, okay?”
I nod and a brilliant idea pops into my head.
“You got it. Candles and white tablecloths.”
Anouk smiles, and I’m surprised not to hear a sappy violin melody playing in the background—the perfect accompaniment to this scene straight out of a great silver-screen love story.
10
ROMANE
If my calculations are correct, and the man behind the counter at the post office is at all trustworthy, my letter should have arrived in my little sister Adèle’s mailbox this morning. Now all I have to do is work up the courage to call her. It’s after eleven; she must be up by now.
She answers on the first ring, which is hardly surprising given she’s never far from her smartphone. The hello on the other end of the line sounds a bit sleepy. I hope I haven’t woken her up—she’s never in a good mood first thing in the morning.
“I was just calling to see how you’re doing. It’s been a while since we’ve talked . . .”
“I didn’t know my life interested you.”
I was expecting a difficult conversation, and, true to form, it doesn’t look like Adèle’s inclined to make things easy for me. At twenty-three, she hasn’t yet learned the meaning of the word compromise, or that everything in life isn’t always black and white . . .
“Look, things haven’t been good between us for a while, and I was thinking we could bury the hatchet once and for all.”
Adèle doesn’t answer; she just waits. I hear the muffled sound of a lighter and her first puff of a cigarette as she stays silent.
“How are things in Dijon? Mom and Dad good?”
“Great.”
“Are you getting settled in your apartment?”
“There are still a bunch of boxes to unpack, but it’s starting to come together.”
She makes zero effort to hold up her side of the conversation or raise new topics. I’m starting to think maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to call her after all.
“And . . . your job?”
“Really good. We’re already all booked up for December with shows in daycares and schools. The company is starting to make a name for itself around the city.”
After two years of law school, Adèle suddenly decided to become a stage actor. She totally overhauled her plans for the future, against the advice of everyone around her. Our parents dug in their h
eels, convinced that she’d only changed course because of the boy she was dating at the time, a kind of bougie Rasta guy who spent his days trying to walk across an elastic band stretched between two trees. But my little sister held her ground and got a degree in theater before joining a small troupe whose name always escapes me.
“That’s great! I’m really glad that your career path is working out—”
“‘Career path?’ Do you hear yourself, Romane? It’s like you don’t know how to talk normally anymore. All that comes out of your mouth is uptight administrative jargon! I’m an actress and proud of it, even if it’s not the kind of career everybody dreams of.”
“Why do you always have to be so defensive? When I say I’m happy for you, that’s what I mean . . .”
“Oh really? You weren’t here to support me when our parents did everything possible to make me stay in law school! You weren’t here to tell them that I could choose my own path, that it didn’t have to include what they call a ‘conventional’ profession. You didn’t defend me when Dad said that only losers and nut jobs want to be actors!”
It’s true that I didn’t immediately side with Adèle three years ago when she decided to pursue acting. I thought it was just another one of her whims, one that she’d get over in a couple of weeks and that she’d regret when she realized she’d lost a year of school for nothing. The theater . . . I never would have thought anyone could make a living at it, or that anyone would ever want to live with that kind of insecurity, not knowing what tomorrow holds. So, no, I didn’t back her up, even though I knew quite well that no matter what our parents said, my sister would do whatever she wanted.
Now all I want is to make up with her, but I’m not sure I can if she won’t meet me halfway.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t openly on your side. But I did lend you money when you needed it. And you didn’t even have to ask . . .”
On the other end of the line, I hear Adèle quietly exhaling the smoke from her cigarette.
One Night in November Page 4
