Eternal Spring (A Young Adult Short Story Collection)

by Eternal Spring Anthology

  I struggle and squirm to get my hands up against his chest then shove him hard. My slight strength against his athlete’s body is insufficient to completely dislodge him, but he breaks the ‘kiss’ and steps back all the same.

  “I was right about you,” he says. “So desperate for attention you’d throw yourself at your best friend’s boyfriend.”

  Shock, humiliation, and disbelief all rush my mind at once, clogging my throat and silencing my defense.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he says. “I’ll let this be our little secret. You don’t want to get on Stacy’s bad side.”

  He winks, turns, and strolls away, leaving me alone and hugging myself in the darkness.

  We eat an early dinner at a restaurant that falls somewhere between casual café and elegant eatery. The wooden tables are bare and the floor is linoleum, but the walls are painted a warm sunflower yellow and hung with old paintings in gilt frames.

  Stacy insists on eating with Mark and his buddies from the basketball team who made the trip. I pretend regret when I tell her I promised to sit with some of the kids I know from show choir, but slink off feeling more relief than regret and not a small amount of self-disgust. Avoiding Stacy makes me a coward, maybe. Probably. But I have no idea what to tell her, or how to pretend nothing has changed if I don’t.

  The show choir crew has staked out the bench and chairs stretching along the back wall of the restaurant. My appearance at the end of table is met with a half-dozen stunned expressions but everyone quickly recovers.

  “Move over.” Bowie, a smooth-toned tenor elbows the kid next to him. They slide left and Bowie pats the seat beside him, eyes on me. “Have a seat.”

  I mumble my thanks, fearing the burn in my cheeks tells more than my words.

  “We were just talking about everyone ordering something different,” Bowie says, sliding a single sheet prix fixe menu toward me, “and making one big sharing meal.”

  “Think you can handle sharing?” Noreen, a second soprano, sits across from me, her dark eyebrows arched in challenge.

  “Yeah, pretty sure I can remember stuff we learned in kindergarten,” I counter.

  “Ladies, ladies. This is truly arousing, but can we all have something to eat before you entertain us with a girl fight?” Bowie raps his knuckles on the tabletop and the remainder of the group laughs a little. They resume what conversation I interrupted, closing Noreen, Bowie and I off in our own little bubble.

  Noreen straightens her shoulders and shakes her shaggy, multi-colored hair out of her eyes and looks at Bowie, humor in her gaze and the lift of her lips. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A girl fight?”

  “That’s what Paris is for, isn’t it? Wish fulfillment?” He knocks the side of his knee against mine. “Isn’t it, Rachel?”

  I turn to him. “I guess that depends upon the wish,” I say. Though I mean the statement to be lighthearted, even joking, my voice conveys neither emotion. Instead, I sound like my hamster drowned.

  Bowie’s brow rumples, his gaze locks on mine. The warm clear brown of his eyes shines with unspecified sympathy.

  I nearly shake my head to toss away the absurdity of the idea he cares, but I’m caught by him, caught by this guy I’ve shared no more than a nodding acquaintance with since freshman year. He’s looking at me like he knows me—not like he’s drawn a conclusion about me based on who I hang with or how I dress, but like he truly knows me.

  I tear my gaze away from Bowie, glance down at the dings and scratches in the table, out across the room to where Stacy sits with Mark. The strain of guilt and anxiety blend into a single nauseating wave in my stomach.

  “So. Free time tomorrow morning. Where’s everyone planning to go?” Bowie’s tone is boisterous. He’s either truly interested or intentionally changing the subject. The answers around the table cover the Opera House, Notre Dame, and the Arc de Triomphe. No one mentions returning voluntarily to a museum.

  “What about you, Rachel?” Noreen asks, the slightest bite in her voice. “Got plans with your friends?”

  The sting in her words catches me square in the gut. Even though I mix my voice with theirs twice a week and in the occasional performance, I am not one of them. And I have no desire to be a part of the crowd on the other side of the restaurant laughing at Mark’s antics.

  For just a moment I feel like I’m falling…

  I let Noreen’s question and its implication about who my friends are hang unanswered in the air. A waiter approaches with a basket of bread and an order pad. From that point on I lose myself in the flood, barely participate in the world around me, waiting for the bad dream to end.

  The school instructors and trip organizers are intent on acclimating us to the time zone through the simple means of sleep deprivation. I want nothing more than to return to the hotel, crawl into bed, and pull the covers over my head. Instead, I board the Metro like we’re told and sit beside Stacy while Mark and his buddies stand over us holding handrails.

  “Please tell me you haven’t promised to spend any more time with the choir people,” she says. The train lurches into motion, knocking Stacy and I against one another before settling us into a synchronized swaying rhythm.

  “You say that like there’s something wrong with those guys. Choir doesn’t cause plague.” My line of sight has me trying not to look directly at the waistband of Mark’s jeans and the checkered boxer shorts peeking out over the top. I focus on his hideously overpriced sneakers instead.

  “Of course there’s nothing wrong with them. It’s just we planned to spend this trip together. I don’t like you ditching me.” There’s a little break in her voice. I glance at her but she’s fixating on her manicure, keeping her eyes hooded.

  I sigh. “I didn’t ditch you. It was one stupid meal.” Just a meal. Nothing at all as personal as lurking in the darkness, letting her boyfriend kiss me.

  “Stick with us tonight, ok? You have to, it’s safety in numbers.” Her blue eyes dance with mischief. “Besides, we’re going to a champagne bar the waiter told us about.”

  “Are you serious?” I scan the train car for our group chaperones, the parents of some French-club kid. They’re engrossed in their own conversation, unconcerned that a group of under-aged teens in their charge are planning an evening of alcohol consumption.

  A hint of excitement buzzes in my veins. A champagne bar. In Paris. How awesomely cool is that?

  Once the train pulls in to Abbesses station, we all troop onto the platform and loiter beside the sparkling tiles, the molded plastic seating. In contrast to what I’m accustomed to seeing back home, the station walls curve and rise to the ceiling, an overhead arch seemingly formed to the shape of the train. It seems only right that in this place there is not a single sign in English - or Spanish - as there is at home.

  The group leaders inform us we have until ten-thirty to explore on our own. Whoops and cheers bounce against the tiling and swoop up to the curved overhead, echoing and intensifying. Stacy gives me a quick, one-armed hug and grins. I smile back, sharing the thrill of the unknown and unapproved. “Come on,” she says. “I’ll race you to the top.”

  Laughing, she starts up the stairway of one of the deepest Metro stations in the city. I pause to take a breath, and that’s my error. Mark takes hold of my elbow; I flinch despite the barrier my spring jacket provides. He tugs me out of the path of the rest of the group, and I move away from the stampede as much for my own safety as from his pressure.

  As soon as I’m clear I wrench my arm out of his grasp. “Let go of me.”

  “Hold on.” He reaches for me again, catching my sleeve. “I need you to do something for me.”

  “Why would I do anything for you?”

  His lips twitch in a slithery smile. “You don’t want me telling Stacy how you threw yourself at me today, do you?”

  “I threw myself —”

  “It would really suck to have her thinking she can’t trust you, wouldn’t it?”

  “You asshole. You
really think —”

  From midway up the steps, Stacy shouts, “Hey you guys! Come on!” There is still laughter in her voice; she believes Mark’s smile. She will believe him over me.

  My throat aches as I face him and force out the question. “What do you want?”

  He smiles wider, slimier. “You’re going to tell Stacy - come on, up we go - you’re going to tell Stacy that you want to go to the champagne place just you two. Girlfriend shit.”

  “And why am I doing this?” Before he answers, the realization dawns. “This whole thing was a set up. That disgusting come-on at the museum… just so you could get me to agree to this plan.” I feel the wrinkles of disbelief forming on my face. “You really are an idiot.”

  If he had only asked, I would have agreed. But he’s too self-absorbed to realize that, to even consider Stacy might want to spend an evening without him.

  “I’m not an idiot.” He lowers his voice as we close the distance to where Stacy waits. “I’m smarter than you give me credit for.”

  “What’s going on?” Stacy asks. Her eyebrows draw together, her gaze darts from Mark to me and back again.

  Mark jogs the last few steps toward her. “Rachel needs a favor.”

  My jaw drops, but Stacy hasn’t taken her eyes off her guy. My gut reaction is lost to her. By the time she turns to me, I have control of my expression.

  “Really, what do you need, Rach?” she asks.

  “We’ll tell you upstairs,” Mark says. “Come on, let’s get going.”

  Trailing the crowd of MacArthur kids, we hustle up the remaining steps and into the twilight over Montmartre.

  “Oh, my God, this is amazing.” Stacy hits street level moments before I do. She bounces on the balls of her feet and dances a small circle before Mark rushes her from behind and catches her up in a spiraling hug. Her laughter cuts through the clear air, draws smiles from passersby and classmates streaming past. She wraps her legs around Mark’s waist and he walks a few steps with her before one of the chaperones cautions them on behavior. But not even Mark putting her down dims Stacy’s enthusiasm. “Come on, Rachel! Let’s go.”

  I swallow down the combination of anger and unease and walk with Stacy and Mark toward where the basketball crew has gathered at the corner beyond the station entrance. On the surface, spending the evening just me and Stacy knocking around Montmartre and hitting a champagne bar sounds ideal. The fact Mark orchestrated it makes me more than a little suspicious.

  Someone is running, the sound of feet hitting pavement muffled by the green leafy trees and putter of cars easing past. “Rachel!” It’s not a shout so much as someone singing out my name.

  I turn but do not slow, keeping pace with Stacy until we reach the rest while Bowie approaches at a jog.

  “Hey Bowie,” one of the jocks calls. “ ‘s up man?”

  “ ’s up?” Bowie responds. He and the jock share a fist bump, but nothing more, and his attention falls on me. “Bunch of us are headed over to Place du Tertre to see if any of the artists are still hanging around. Want to come with?” He stands at the edge of the group, not quite a part, not quite separate.

  “Umm…I…” I’m caught. I’m committed, as it were, to staying with Stacy, but a tug in my chest and a thread of anticipation in my gut make me want to abandon that plan. Why am I suddenly so attuned to Bowie Theissen and his brown eyes and big, easy smile? “I…”

  He grins and holds up his hands, palms out. “Say no more. I can see you’ve hit the point where you’re afraid you can no longer resist me so you’re safer keeping your distance. I understand.” His words bubble beneath his laughter. “We’ll see you around.”

  And he jogs off, back to where a cluster of choir kids waits for him beneath an old-fashioned street lamp. They shuffle into motion before he’s quite arrived, but he turns back to me and waves before losing himself in that crowd.

  “Who was that?” Stacy stands shoulder to shoulder with me, leaning her head close to keep her voice soft.

  I’m not sure how to answer. Saying his name suddenly feels like exposing a seedling to the light before its time. “Nobody,” I say.

  “Not ‘nobody.’ You were sitting next to him at dinner.”

  “Just one of the guys from show choir,” I say. I can feel my forehead wrinkling, so I must be looking at her like she’s insane. “Don’t you remember seeing him at concerts?”

  “Well duh, Rachel, I know he’s in choir with you. Not that I go to concerts or anything.” She slips her arm through mine and turns me toward the basketball crew. “I just wanted to know his name. He’s kinda cute.”

  Yes, Bowie is kinda cute. Did he somehow get cuter when I wasn’t looking? “Relax. You have Mark,” I state.

  She sighs, smiles. “I do have Mark, don’t I?”

  I follow her gaze to where Mark is horsing around at the front edge of the group, pretending to jump onto his buddy’s shoulders. That curl of guilt knocks against the wall of my stomach. “Listen,” I say, “about Mark…”

  “Yeah, he said you wanted a favor from him. So spill it.”

  Again my tongue is caught at the back of my throat, tangled with words. I look to Mark, find his cold glare on me. I don’t know what his endgame is, but I know my option is to go along with his plan or spend the evening with the whole crew, and by extension, with him.

  “I, uh — What would you say if we let the guys go off and do their thing and just you and me go to the champagne bar?”

  She releases my arm, pivots so we stand face to face.

  “And that’s what you asked Mark? Or did he put you up to this?”

  Moments like this make me wonder if hidden way deep inside Stacy carries a seed of distrust in Mark. But then something happens to make me realize I’m crazy.

  She purses her lips, eyes bright. “He did this, didn’t he? This was his idea because he thinks you and me should spend more time together wasn’t it? And he wants you to pretend it was your idea.”

  Now the words make it all the way to my lips but no further. Stacy darts away from me, runs straight for Mark and throws her arms around him. She squeals and tells him how wonderful he is; I fold my arms and grit my teeth. In a flash she’s grabbed my arm again and is turning me away from the guys, waving to Mark over her shoulder.

  “He’s so sweet to think of this, isn’t he?” She sighs, a little squeal revealing contentment. “Okay, according to the waiter we have to head toward the basilica. He said you can see it from nearly every road so it’s easy to find.”

  While I push down the irritation, she leads me across a narrow cobbled street, points up the hill to where one of the basilica’s white stone domes glows against the darkening sky.

  “Mark was just saying at dinner how I should probably spend more time with you, that this trip is a good time to…you know.”

  The silence between us fills with the memory of all the ugly words we exchanged, of the jealousy and hurt that surfaced and has yet to fully heal. I never felt as alone as I did when Stacy and I weren’t speaking, never cried so hard or felt so wrenched apart. Plenty of friendships fade away, you know? But the ones that are torn to pieces, those are the ones that make you grieve.

  “I know you’re still not crazy about him,” Stacy says softly, “but he’s a good guy, he really is. Think about it. How many guys do we know who would give up the first free night in Paris with their girlfriend so she could hang with her best friend?”

  Every bite of dinner churns in my stomach, rolling in the acid of Stacy’s delusions. We pass a bakery whose ovens are still venting savory aromas into the air, and I swallow down the threat of nausea.

  “I wish you two could really learn to be friends.”

  The memory of Mark’s tongue shoving into my mouth washes over me and pushes me to the limit of my endurance.

  “Ooooh.” Stacy swings me to the right, stopping in front of a shop window where a headless mannequin is draped in a scrap of sheer fabric in which Stacy would look great and I would l
ook like a hooker. “How much is that in American?” she asks.

  I read the little price placard, do quick and rough calculations. “About a hundred and twenty bucks.”

  She pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth. This is her thoughtful pose. “I might need to get Mark to bring me back here tomorrow. We have free time until when?”

  “I don’t know. Stacy, listen for a sec.” I don’t know what Mark is up to, but I can’t stand my friend thinking he’s so wonderful any more.

  “I’m listening,” she assures me. She turns away from the window, turning me with her.

  Newly conscious of the drop in temperature accompanying the gathering night, I fold my jacket closed across my chest rather than bother with the zipper “Remember this morning when we were at the museum and you were looking at the diamonds and stuff?”

  “Like I could forget the diamonds?”

  Dumb question, I guess. “Yeah, well you remember when I left you to go look at the fluorescing exhibit?” I shuffle sideways a little to make room for a trio of women coming at us from the other direction.

  Stacy’s laughter makes them smile as they pass. “Yes, you wanted me to go with you,” she says to me, untwining her arm and giving me a good-natured, low-effort shove. “As if I was going to leave the diamonds, hello.”

  The hill grows steeper. At the top of the cobbled street the white stone of Sacre Coeur basilica glows brighter than the emerging stars. The shock of white against the dark sky is otherworldly; to me, spooky, and not at all comforting.

  “So what?” Stacy says, burying her hands in the pockets of her jacket. “You’re going to tell me you saw something cool and didn’t come get me?”

  What I saw… fluorescent lighting shadowing Mark’s face like a cartoon villain. I wouldn’t call it cool.

  “Rach?” she prompts.

  I can’t figure a way to make the words gentle, so I blurt, “Mark kissed me. At the museum. He kissed me.” I’m surprised by the scratch in my throat, the burn of unexpected tears.

  We stop on the sidewalk, in front of a little shop, dark for the night, with a hanging basket reaching out from beside the front door, greenery trailing halfway to the ground. Stacy’s eyes are wide, her jaw slack. There is a blankness in her gaze, a lack of comprehension, I think.