Eternal Spring (A Young Adult Short Story Collection)

by Eternal Spring Anthology

  “He caught me by the fluorescing exhibit and kissed me.”

  “I heard you,” she croaks out.

  I rush on. “He told me not to tell you, but then—”

  Her voice is firm and shaky at the same time. “You lying bitch.”

  “No, Stacy, I’m not lying. I wouldn’t lie about this.”

  “Yes, you would.” She nods swiftly. The motion reveals the glitter of tears in her eyes. “Just like before. You lied to me before and I let it go. Not again.”

  “Stacy, listen to me. I don’t know what he’s up to. He did it on purpose. He did it so I—”

  Her shove this time is not gentle. It is filled with the strength of anger and pain and I stumble backward. My heel teeters over the edge of the low curb, and I backpedal into the road, trying to capture my balance.

  “Stay away from me,” she hisses. She swipes at her eyes and turns away.

  “Stacy, stop. Listen to me.”

  She turns to walk backward. “Stay away from me!” And then she’s trudging up the hill, head bent, hands deep in the pockets of her jacket.

  I stand in the street, slowly growing aware of the ache in my ankle and my knee and my heart. Tears of frustration burn down my cheeks. I should have known Stacy wouldn’t believe me. Mark knew it, of that I was certain. Mark knew if I told her what happened she would call me a liar.

  So why did he do it?

  I should go after Stacy, but I know this drill already. She won’t talk to me, won’t listen to me. And really, get right down to it? We’re rooming together — along with a couple of French club girls — so it’s not like I won’t have an opportunity to speak to her. Right now, she needs to … whatever. Calm down, maybe. Curse me while I’m not there to hear it. Or plan the curses to hurl at me when I am there to hear it.

  The only way she’s going to believe me is if Mark admits the truth to her. So I need to find the son of a bitch.

  I return to the sidewalk and head back down the hill. The ache in my knee and ankle from my stumble off the curb slows me, but downhill is better than up. I don’t know where Mark and the guys went, but I have a pretty good idea. I just have to figure out how to get there.

  At a tobacconist I review a tourist map of the area, locating the Abbesses station, deciphering where I stand. I figure if I continue down the hill, cross past the station and walk in a few blocks on the other side, I should be able to spot the windmill marking the Moulin Rouge. It’s only a guess, but it’s the best guess I’ve got as to where a bunch of guys would head off to on their own. Not that they’re the type to take in a can-can show, but there must be a bar nearby where they’ll be able to get a drink and whistle at girls and otherwise be annoying.

  As I walk I forget a little of the drama that’s left me on my own. All around me the buildings are lit to stunning perfection; colored floodlights on pale stone walls, amber street lamps that could pass for gas light, and little white fairy lights wound through trellises and trees. I don’t know whether these lights are for the residents or the tourists, but I fall in love with them either way.

  This is Montmartre, home of the Moulin Rouge and Picasso, sinners and artists, basilica and bars. I traveled thousands of miles to experience this city with my friends, and I only have a few short hours here on this hill. I might as well enjoy the scenery for this brief time, forget about Mark’s kiss and Stacy’s anger and Bowie’s eyes. I can snack on a crepe and laugh at the stars and leave the worry of smoothing over friendships for another day. I can….

  …until I turn the corner onto a road I know at once I shouldn’t be on. I shouldn’t be here alone, at night. I shouldn’t be here at all. I should be back in the bustling heart of Montmartre, I should be exploring Sacre Couer, I should be wondering about Bowie in the Place de Tertre. Instead I stand rooted to the spot, staring slack-jawed at Mark and one of his basketball buddies as they throw their arms around the shoulders of a pair of half-dressed hookers and disappear indoors.

  Room service leaves continental breakfast in the room I’m sharing with Stacy and the French club girls. Thankfully, the little substitute for a meal includes coffee — heaven bless Paris — and I pour a half cup and grab a plain croissant and sit cross-legged on the end of the bed, waiting for Stacy to emerge from the bathroom.

  The French club girls are stretched out on the other bed, heads bowed together over a map of the city, whispering their plans for the morning. They’re nice enough, really, and I feel bad they had to put up with the tension and silence Stacy and I dragged into the room last night, but a girl can only apologize just so much.

  I nibble on the edge of the croissant and regret - out of the clear blue nowhere - not bringing my mp3 player along. I would feel better if I could just hear some familiar music, some sound that could shatter the silence with memories of home.

  The latch on the bathroom door rattles. The moist croissant goes dry in my mouth. On the next bed, the club girls each suck in a breath.

  I wash down the croissant with a swig of coffee, cough at the bitterness as Stacy emerges from the bathroom. “Stacy, you got a second?” I ask.

  “Not for you.” She breezes past, her pajamas and makeup bag tucked in her arm. She’s already dressed for the day, makeup in place, hair twisted and pinned with decorative chopsticks.

  “I need to talk to you,” I say.

  As she passes by, she slams her makeup bag down on the dresser. “I don’t want to hear any more of your bullshit.” She throws her pajamas into the closet and rips her jacket off its hanger. “Ever.”

  The club girls whisper in French and scramble off their bed.

  “Stace, I know you’re pissed and I understand it, I do. But you have to believe — no.” I shake my head. “I don’t care if you believe me about the museum, but there’s something you need to know, something more important.”

  I spent the bulk of my free time in Montmartre last night sipping Orangina at a dusty café near the Abbesses station. Watching the clock, waiting for my classmates to return, I turned over all the options in my mind. No matter how else I arrived at the conclusion, the conclusion remained the same: Stacy needs to know her boyfriend was with a hooker. And that the hooker was the plan all along and I wasn’t lying about the kiss.

  Stacy shrugs into her jacket and turns on me, leaning over me, her face inches from mine. Her skin is flushed and her eyes are narrowed. “I know everything I need to. You’re jealous of me and Mark, you always have been. And you’ll make up any bullshit lie to try and break us up so you have someone else to be lonely and pathetic with.”

  “Stacy, that’s—”

  “I have. Nothing. To say to you. Ever.” Her nostrils flare, her lips pinch, and she storms out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  I flinch at the noise, splashing coffee over my hand. “Shit.”

  French club girls scuttle past me and flee the room wordlessly. I’m left alone with a croissant and a cup of bitter coffee. A hollowness fills my chest. How did I get myself into this? Why? Why does telling someone the truth, telling a friend the truth, end up being a punishable offense? And how long will it take before I learn to keep my mouth shut?

  I take my time dressing, polishing off the croissant as I do so, leaving the bitter coffee in its pot. By the time I leave the room it’s after nine. The MacArthur High group is required to assemble at the Eiffel Tower at 1:30. I have hours to kill and no idea how. But it’s Paris. There must be something.

  Grabbing my camera and my jacket, I head out. The little shop in Montmartre had a map of attractions. I figure I can find something similar close enough to the hotel.

  When the elevator reaches the lobby I realize the concierge might have a map. If only I can find the concierge desk.

  I approach a cluster of chairs, eyes on the line of bronze marble check-in desks stretching against the far wall.

  “Hey, Rachel!”

  Bowie. He stands among that same cluster of chairs, and I realize the rest are occupied by kids from
school - choir kids and drama kids and kids I only know from passing in the halls. I freeze, not certain what to do.

  And then Bowie smiles. A flutter tickles my belly, and I smile in return. Without further doubt or question, I turn toward him, cross the lobby in his direction. One by one the rest of the kids are slowly rising from the chairs, pulling on their coats and checking phones.

  “We’re going to do the ten o’clock tour at the Opera House. Want to come with?”

  There’s a hopeful glint in his dark eyes, and a sudden melting in my spine. “Sounds good.”

  “What about your friend Stacy? You two don’t have some other plan?”

  Again I experience the sensation that he sees more than the face I present to the world. I look at the carpet rather than hold his gaze. “She’s, uh, off with her … Mark.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I see him nod. “All right. Let’s go then. This way.” He sweeps his arm in the direction of the antique revolving doors, and walks beside me as we cross the lobby.

  “So after you blew off my invitation to Place de Tertre, what’d you and Stacy end up doing last night?” he asks.

  I search for something to tell him, something so dull he won’t ask more questions. The words are nearly formed when I hear Stacy accusing me of lying when I was telling the truth. I realize I’d rather tell Bowie the truth than a lie. “We ended up fighting,” I say, and step by myself into the revolving door.

  On the street Bowie gazes at me with concern and a kindness that makes my throat ache with the warning of impending tears. We are surrounded, though, with the rest of the crew. Bowie steers the chatter effortlessly toward their discoveries in Montmartre - a cross-dressing painter, a drunk crepe maker, and a street corner busker whose skill they prevailed upon to back them up in singing some classic Beatles tunes. Their stories and reminiscences continue until we board a morning-crowded Metro, and the tales are swallowed by Paris residents starting their day.

  It’s not until we’re standing at the foot of the Grand Staircase within the opulent Paris Opera House, gazing up at the sweeping steps, the ornate candelabrum, the carved archways that Bowie pursues my remark about Stacy.

  “So, bad fight, huh?” he asks.

  “You could say that.” I wander away from him to study the sculpture atop the newel post. Noreen and one of the drama kids shuffle up the stairs while the rest of the tour group meanders around the spacious lobby, oohing and aahing and snapping pictures.

  “Sorry, it’s not my business,” Bowie says, coming up next to me.

  “No, it’s not.”

  “It’s just…” He sighs, folds his arms. “You’re not you, you know?”

  “I’m not me?”

  “The girl that sat with us at dinner last night was, like, distracted. The girl I’m looking at today is on a whole different plane.”

  I shake my head, amble toward the center of the lobby. High overhead, a circular domed skylight lets through the meager morning sunshine. “You know me so well you can determine my moods?”

  “No, I don’t know you that well.” He smiles a little, shuffles closer, eyes on the classic marble floor. “I just, you know, pay attention is all.”

  His statement draws my attention away from the ceiling. I try to read the emotion on his face, get some clue from his eyes, but he’s studying the floor as though memorizing the pattern. I want to ask him what he means, but I’d rather not be embarrassed if I’m reading too much into things.

  But I can’t stop looking at him, and wondering. So when he glances up, he catches my stare. The thoughtful, almost sad slant of his lips transforms to his usual broad grin. He stands straight and his gaze sweeps the lobby. “What do you think the acoustics are like in here?”

  “Umm….I think they’re excellent for changing the subject?”

  The curve of his ears flush pink, and he returns his focus to the floor. “I could help. I mean, I could listen or…whatever.”

  I can’t keep back the giggle. “You?”

  “Yeah, me. Why not?”

  “You’re offering to listen to me whine about a fight I had with Stacy that didn’t involve wet t-shirts or mud?”

  He appears puzzled for a moment then his brow clears. “Oh, the girl fight thing. I get it.” He nods, edges closer to me. “I’m a good listener. Really. I have sisters. Twins. I spend a lot of time mediating while my mom’s at work.”

  “Somehow I think this particular issue hasn’t come up.”

  Our tour guide bustles to the center of the lobby, orders us to gather together so we can move into the theater itself. She gives us the history of the place, naming rulers and architects, and runs through an impressive list of luminaries who performed here.

  My mind, however, has returned its full attention to the question of Stacy and Mark and what I should do. I can apologize - but for what? I told the truth. The apology might buy me time to tell her about Mark and the hooker, but I’d only be right back where I started from as soon as I give her the news. She won’t believe that either. I could say nothing, but then isn’t that lying, too?

  I slump into one of the red velvet chairs filling the opera house auditorium. Leaning back I can admire the elaborate painting on the ceiling, the chandelier the tour guide says weighs seven tons, but the wheels of my mind are stuck on ugly things.

  As I gaze at the velvet theater boxes ringing the balcony, Bowie drops into the seat beside me. Somehow I feel like I should be annoyed at his persistence, but I find myself comforted by it. And that means a lot right now.

  “All problems,” he says in a voice like a mellow whisper, “boil down to very simple questions. Get it down to its simplest form, and the answer is easier to find.”

  I roll my head against the back of the chair, meet his eyes. “Thanks, Yoda.”

  He gives me The Smile. “Happy to help.”

  We stay where we are, face-to-face, silent, while the tour guide yammers about “The Phantom of the Opera” and Noreen softly sings “Think of Me” - as if no one’s ever done that before.

  Bowie is the first to move, shifting forward in his seat and crossing his arms on the chair in front of him. “Bottom line. The only time fighting with a friend is worth it, is when not having the fight makes it impossible to live with yourself.”

  I turn the words over, looking for some sensibility in them. “Umm…”

  “So is it worth it? Whatever you two are fighting about, is it important enough to risk the friendship?”

  The friendship is already at risk, already fragile, maybe beyond repair. And that’s going to make for a long week in Paris, and a longer school year. But I can’t think of a single solution, no way to undo what’s been done, only make it worse.

  I’m not a liar. Stacy thinks I am; Mark will tell her I am. Even if she doubts herself, she’ll believe him.

  I let me eyes slip closed. Low in a chair in a two hundred year old theater, surrounded by ghosts and classmates, I am once again lost. But this time, at least, I begin to have a sense of where I need to go.

  The group from MacArthur High assembles at a cluster of stone benches beneath the Eiffel Tower. At one-thirty, chaperones count heads, teachers look annoyed, and my classmates laugh and wander and make the chaperones’ job harder and the teachers more annoyed.

  I stick close to Bowie and Noreen. Noreen, at last, has decided I’m not an enemy, so the tension constricting my chest is all of my own making.

  As far away from me as she could possibly be and still remain with the MacArthur group, Stacy stands wrapped in Mark’s arms, her back to his front. He talks over her head to his buddies while she shoots daggers in my direction.

  “What exactly did you say to her?” Bowie asks quietly.

  “The truth.”

  He sucks air in between his teeth. “Ouch.”

  The chaperones and teachers herd us toward the elevator that will take us to the second level of the tower. We shuffle into a semblance of a line, waiting for the double-decker cars riding the
outside leg of the tower to take us up. Stacy and Mark are further along in the line, frustrating my plan to corner her on the elevator. Instead, at Bowie’s insistence, I gaze out the full-length window, peering past the cross-hatched iron of the tower out onto the city of Paris.

  “Pretty cool,” Bowie says from behind me. His breath is warm on my neck, and I’m surprised how much I enjoy the sensation.

  “How many decades do you figure it’s looked just like this?” I ask, certain I’d seen old movies from the fifties that showed precisely this view.

  Bowie exhales. I shiver. “Centuries, more like it. You know, except for the motor boats and cars.”

  I’m forced to wait until the entirety of the MacArthur group has collected on the second observation deck before I can hunt down Stacy. My palms are moist and my knees are weak but they manage to hold me up while I circle the deck in search of her.

  I find her looking out across the Seine, nestled under Mark’s arm as expected.

  I pull in a deep breath, proud that I don’t shudder as I do so, and tap Stacy’s shoulder.

  The smile she wears when she turns falls away instantly when she sees me. “I’m not speaking to you, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember,” I say, forcing my voice calm, telling myself not to back away from the venom in Stacy’s eyes. “But I’m not here to talk to you. I’m here to talk to your boyfriend who doesn’t want me to call him an idiot or tell you how I threw myself at him which of course I would do because I think he’s so amazing and irresistible, right?”

  Mark drops his arm from Stacy’s shoulders and turns his back on Paris. “Look, I already told Stacy what happened, how you begged me not to tell her what you did, ok? Now just leave us alone.”

  More than anything I want to do as I’m told and slink away, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. “Okay, good, that’s good, I’m glad you told her your side of the story. Because you tell her everything, of course. Which means you told her about the hooker, too, right? I just want to be sure about that because, you know, I’d hate for you to give my former best friend any kind of disease you may have picked up.”

  His face contorts - eyes narrowed, teeth bared. “You bitch.”