by Cecilia Gray
The bartender doesn’t seem old enough to drink beer in America, either. He wears a white V-neck tee that sets off a deep tan and a head of close-cropped black curls. He wipes down the counter in slow circles.
Exit—the porthole door behind him that likely leads to a kitchen with an alley door. Weapon—any of the glass bottles behind the bartender, broken in half.
He glances up—chiseled jaw, pronounced nose—and holds my gaze from across the bar with dark eyes that scrutinize the newcomer. I amble up to the counter and take a seat on a red stool.
He flings his white towel over his left shoulder. “Peux-je vous aider?”
My ears perk up at his voice—deep and gravelly, like a rock ’n roll singer.
“Oui,” I say, forcing confidence I don’t feel with French. “Le menu, s’il vous plait.”
“Américaine?”
So much for passing for a local. I have a whole repertoire of smiles when I’m keeping my voice under wraps—a knowing smile, a playful smile. The bartender gets my polite smile that says yes, I’m American.
“Un menu, tout de suite.” He points to a plastic-wrapped menu on the counter. He reaches under the bar and sets a moss-green bottle of sparkling water in front of me. “C’est gratis.”
Free, huh? That earns him one charming smile.
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a switchblade. I start and almost fall off the stool. Amateur move—which reminds me I need to check in with Porter on getting some basic self-defense training. Chelsea had high objections to my being involved in hand-to-hand combat, but that was before I became a field operative. I finally get to kick ass. I bite my cheek so I don’t grin like an idiot.
With a flick of his wrist, he pops the top off the bottle and returns the switchblade to his back pocket. I could get used to this life of adult things.
All the excitement of the day and my hunger make my hands a little shaky. Out of habit, I pull my charcoal pencil out of my back pocket and reach across the counter for a cocktail napkin. My fingers move the pencil back and forth. The sketch takes form, takes shape. A snazzy catsuit. A heroic pose. My gold cuff clangs against the wood with every swipe of the pencil.
The bartender glances down at my napkin. A dark fringe of lashes hoods his eyes. His gaze snaps from the napkin to my face. He glances away and resumes wiping down the counter. “Qu’aimez-vous?”
Aimez? Like aimer, amour? Why is he asking me who I love?
In my silence, he looks at me expectantly and I go a bit breathless. His fingers extend over the counter as if to brush my palm, which tingles with pins and needles. I feel heady as his fingers near, heat radiating between us, and—
He taps the menu.
I yank my hands off the counter and bury them in my lap. My neck burns as I glance down. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I remember now. Qu’aimez-vous means What would you like. It happens to use the French verb for love—aimer. Of course he doesn’t care about my love life. He just wants to take my order.
Please let him not know what I’m thinking.
I glance down at the menu like a spazz and blurt out the first recognizable item my eyes latch onto. “Frites.”
Without a word, he heads through the swinging porthole-door. I slump over the stool. So much for being cool and collected. I glance around to see if anyone has overheard my faux pas, but the bar stools around me are empty, with everyone snuggled in the booths or collected around tables in boozy, loud groups that laugh and high five. I turn back and rest my elbows on the bar top and spin my cuff around my wrist.
I want to walk out and reset somewhere new, but I can’t. I already have this free water and I ordered. I can’t be rude. There’s some southern in me yet.
After a minute, he returns with a bowl of crispy fries, which he sets down in front of me before getting back to some bar business. I give the fries every ounce of my attention to avoid eye contact. There’s a dollop of nasty mayonnaise in the middle so I palm a handful from the edges, chewing even as they burn the roof of my mouth.
“Sebastien,” a customer calls. “Vite.”
“Va te chier.”
Go screw yourself? Of all things to be able to translate perfectly. Chelsea would be so pleased. I glance sideways to watch him balance a tray of glasses in one hand as he glides to the other end with unusual grace.
“Vite,” the customer yells again.
With a curse, Sebastien sets down the tray and launches himself over the counter like a gymnast. He swears at the customer good-naturedly as he strolls over to take his order.
Refocus, Sasha.
I turn my attention back to the fries and it’s no chore. They’re so good I lick the oily salt off my fingertips, hankering for a milkshake to go with them. I don’t miss Sebastien’s return to my line of sight. He’s as distracting as Porter’s family. I’m supposed to be memorizing maps, and am about to get back to it when his head snaps up at the sound of the door swinging open behind me. A smile lights up his face, puts a sparkle in his eyes. I’m compelled to swivel my head to see what the big deal is.
It’s her.
Her Save The Whales tee has been accented with a wide pink belt that matches her headband. I half expect her to pull out a wand and sprinkle me with fairy dust. She sidles up to the counter. “Hey, Seb.” She doesn’t notice me as she hefts up on her forearms. Those fries turn into an oily knot in my stomach.
“Ah, Vee-Vee,” he says. “You made it.”
The sneaky bastard speaks English. How stupid was I with my frites s’il vous plait line? He’s an entirely different person with Viviane. A huge grin. Dimpled cheeks. He leans over the counter to kiss her on the left cheek, then switches to the right and comes back to the left. Three cheek kisses—the Belgian greeting of champions.
She finally glances to the side, and jumps at the sight of me.
I get a sick satisfaction from the O-mouthed shock on her face when I wave my fingers by my ear and say, “Surprise.”
“She’s going to rat me out.” Goose. She swears and turns away.
Rat her out, huh? “Don’t worry. I’m not going to say anything to your parents.”
She flashes me a smile like I’m doing her a favor, but I’m not. Getting involved in teen politics means Porter will see me as a teen instead of an equal. The last thing I need is for him to put me in the same league as his daughter.
“Is this your boyfriend?” I ask to divert the conversation. Not that I care.
“Ew,” Viviane says as Sebastien’s face simultaneously blanches. “I’ve known Seb since I believed in cooties. He’s a year ahead of me at school.”
“Was a year ahead,” Sebastien says.
“He left,” Viviane explains.
Left. Not graduated. A dropout?
Sebastien wags his finger between me and Viviane. “You know each other?”
“This is her.”
“Ah, oui. Your étudiante d’échange.”
Viviane glances over at my bowl of fries, snatches a handful, and shoves them in her mouth. A vegetarian and a thief, apparently. She sees my napkin drawing and picks it up, palming another handful of fries. Her palm stains the napkin and the grease blot spreads over the sketch, dulling the charcoal lines. She may as well blow her nose on it.
“Careful, Vivi.” Sebastien leans over the counter and snatches the napkin from her. He lays it flat on the counter and presses his fist to smooth it out at the corners. “Ah, merde.”
“Sebastien, quiet. The ladies are talking.” She spins on her stool to face me. “Sasha, did you draw this?”
“Yeah.” Who knew everyone would find drawing so impressive?
She nudges Sebastien. “Well? Whaddya think, Seb?”
“Non, Vivi.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Ta toi.” Sebastien slams the towel down on the counter, his body tight and tense.
Vivi sobers up and purses her lips, forcing a serious expression. “Sorry, Seb, but you know I could use the help. You’
re always saying I need to focus more on art.”
I want to ask what they’re talking about, but I’d rather avoid whatever fight the two of them are having. Adding a Goose into any equation where two people are arguing is a bad idea.
He shoots her a loaded look.
They have some kind of unspoken, silent argument with nothing but raised brows. A nonimaginary friend who can communicate telepathically—that’s what I need. A friend who doesn’t have to speak so I never have to find out that she thinks I’m nuts or lame. Someone I could hang around with without being paranoid that the next thing out of her mouth could be the revelation that breaks us apart. I swirl a fry in the mayo, then dump it back in the bowl.
“Why don’t you worry less about me and more about how your thing went this weekend?” Viviane snaps.
Thing? Like a date? Why am I hung up on this guy’s dating life? I should get out of here. Things are starting to feel social, which means they’re one step away from being conversational, a Goose cesspool.
“Ne demandes pas de savoir si tu es prêt.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m ready.” She scowls. “Although I’d be way readier if you weren’t naysaying me all the time.” Her gaze darts to me.
I can take a hint. I drop a bill on the counter. While they argue, I pick up my sketch by the corners, careful to keep it flat. It’s not ruined and he did save it for me. “You can finish up the fries. I’m leaving.”
“No, finish.” Viviane nudges the bowl of fries toward me with a crooked knuckle. “It’s late and a school night so I should get going.”
“It’s late for both of you,” Sebastien says.
The hint is starting to beat me over the head. My eyelids feel heavy. I haven’t shut them since leaving Marietta. I might even be tired enough to fall asleep in that strange bed with the fresh sheets. I stand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Relax, Seb, she’s not gonna narc us to the cops.” Vivi’s eyes widen and she guffaws, clapping her hands over her mouth as Sebastien’s face goes stony.
Goose. Big time.
Cops? Why is she worried about cops?
What am I supposed to do about that?
Cops are not good news for a NOC. Spies operate in foreign countries without official permission, so any official scrutiny of Porter or his family could mean trouble.
“I was kidding.” She drops her hands to her sides and shakes them out. “Ha. I’m joking. I can be such a freak sometimes, right, Seb?”
I glance at him but he is looking at me, lips pressed in a grim line.
Maybe he knows I’m the real freak.
IV
St. Anne’s International Academy, Brussels, Belgium
I approach the hulking, gothic mass of St. Anne’s from the east side. It spans the entire block. It blots out the sun. Students lounge on the dewy lawn, they and their snippets of guttural German, sophisticated French, and posh English all mingling. The same paralyzing scene of foreignness I experienced at the airport seizes my legs, but I will them forward up the winding concrete path, because there will be no handler with a cardboard sign to guide me here.
My stomach grumbles and I rest my hand against my belly as if to tell it, no, sorry, not now. I can only blame myself. The sight of Viviane and Rachel this morning in their pajamas, nibbling toast, had sent me flashing with memories. All those mornings Chelsea and I fumbled around the kitchen. I boiled water for oatmeal. She started the caffeine drip. We’d go over casework cupping mugs of coffee in our hands. I briskly brushed by, claiming I didn’t want breakfast. Here there’s no oatmeal, no casework, no coffee machine, just an espresso monstrosity.
I enter the school under a domed archway with a coat of arms emblazoned in stone. The warm rush of heat thaws my cheeks. My skin tingles. I toss back my hood and yank my backpack straps tight over my shoulders. Strangers track me with curious eyes, but I am no stranger to being a curiosity. If anything, I am disappointed that St. Anne’s doesn’t have more to offer.
On the outside, the Academy looks every inch its pretentious name. On the inside, it feels like any other school. Institutionalized steel lockers line either side of the hall. Students rush by with textbooks clutched to their chests. Then a nun glides past, the skirt of her habit sweeping the floor, and we’re back to pretentious. I am sure school will be the same drudgery I’ve come to expect. There’s a relief in that; novelty aside, this will be the same old, same old.
I case the joint via the campus map as I sprint up the stairs to first period. Advanced Algebra. I round the door into my classroom, where another nun presides over the festivities.
Viviane is perched at the front center desk, looking very perky and nonchalant for someone who might have the cops on her case and who may freeze to death. Pairing a distressed grey Eat Like You Give A Damn tee with orange tights and Uggs does not make it a dress. She smiles, but I scan the room for an empty seat. I take the only one—directly behind her. The students around me are engaged in full-scale cheek assault—the three-kiss routine that Sebastien and Viviane did last night. Small talk is the ultimate Duck-Duck-Goose-athon so I avoid eye contact while scoping the room.
Exit—a leap out the window. Weapon—a sharp fountain pen.
The nun takes to the blackboard and chalks up a balanced equation for the math lecture.
Scratch that.
Weapon—boredom. Set to kill.
I covertly scan the students, including the redhead to my right. They may be the children of foreign dignitaries and executives, but they’re like the kids in Marietta. They doodle. They pass notes. They laugh. A lot. They probably run to the mall after school and share clothes and texts. They probably lock elbows. They have conversations one over another, speaking and breathing and thinking in the same sentence and sharing the same air, same brain, same heart, like it’s nothing.
I glance at the textbook, glazing over terms like binomial theorem and continuous function. I do a lot of things. High school math isn’t one of them. Neither is Modern European History. Or Chemistry.
I need to get through six hours of pointless lectures until last period. Intro Art. I’d been hoping to get into advanced drawing, but the scrawled note that came with my returned portfolio had read, “Her work has a good sense of shape, texture, and value, but we recommend Introductory Techniques and Principles of Art. She is technically proficient but not evocative.”
Not evocative? Not evocative? Maybe that says more about the person judging the art than the person drawing it, okay? That they’re so uptight they don’t have a pulse.
A shrill bell signals the start of the period. Unlike in Marietta, the students collectively quiet and settle into their seats, so that the only sounds are of expensive hardback textbook spines creaking open.
“Welcome back from your Christmas break, class. Your midterm scores will be available at the end of the week. You may have noticed we have a new student.” The young nun points the chalk in my direction. “Would you like to introduce yourself?”
No, but best to get it over quick. I flick my head. “Sasha.”
The class choruses into a round of “Welcome, Sasha,” but two other comments sneak in. One from the redhead beside me—”Nappy head.” One from a guy in the back—”Fresh meat.”
Two Gooses, right off the bat. Two hands clutched around that scalding pot handle.
The redhead gasps into the palm of her hand. Viviane turns around with saucered gray eyes. An I can’t believe she said that look. Well, believe it, people. It ain’t going away as long as I’m around.
The nun pins a fierce glower on the two offending students. “Stay after class.” She softens as she looks at me. That sad downturn of her eyes. Forget that. I don’t need it. Nice try. Pretend like you care until you’re the one who Gooses. “Welcome, Sasha. Please see me during office hours if you have any questions about the syllabus.”
Viviane swivels in her chair and tries to reach for my hand. I pull back—what is she thinking? She tries to whisper something. I shake my he
ad and wave her off.
Civilians—always overreacting.
I don’t need her sympathy. I don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me. My voice is a gift. My voice gives me value. Any superhero, any comic, any movie, any novel will tell you that serving the greater good requires sacrifice, and from what I can see of the redhead and the douche bag in the back, this sacrifice is an easy trade-off. I’ve endured things they’ll never understand, things far worse than some stupid slur I don’t care about.
I copy notes from the blackboard and keep a kung-fu grip on my pen since I’m having fantasies of jabbing my redheaded neighbor in the eye with it. Viviane finally turns around and eases forward in her seat. Others pick up their pens, too.
There’s nothing to see here, folks. Nothing at all.
When every set of eyes drafts from the back of my head to the board, I fumble for the charcoal in my back pocket. Inhale. Attack the page with it and mark over the notes. Hard slashes. Satisfying stabs. The redhead reimagined as an old hag with sharp, bloody fangs. She stiffens next to me.
Good—she can see my drawing. As the image renders fully, I breathe again. I’d forgotten this first-day routine. I’d been at my last school district for years and everyone was used to avoiding me. No one could probably remember why or when, but back in junior high it became obvious that whenever I was around, things got awkward. People stopped talking to me. I stopped talking to them.
I figure it means fewer distractions from work. Better it happens sooner rather than later.
It’s better this way.
~~~~~
The students filter out of Modern European History at the lunch bell, but I can’t find a cafeteria on the campus map. I head to the hall and make like I know what I’m doing. Follow the herd to the water source. But the herd splits.
A few pairs peel off to exit to the street. A handful head to the courtyard.
Viviane and two athletic girls in the school’s snazzy basketball uniforms are making their way down the hall when she spots me. She beckons for me with cupped fingers but I pretend not to see and stride the other way.
