“No,” I blurt, glaring at him. Looking into this guy’s strange, dark eyes ringed with pale lashes, anger sparks inside me and flares to life. “No way.”
Gavin takes a step closer. I take a step back, nearly tripping over books and boxes on the floor.
“Why not? Is it because you don’t like me? Or,” he adds, lifting something in his hand. “Is it because you don’t want anyone else to know you’ve been taking things?”
He’s holding another bundle of letters. Marguerite’s letters.
He shouldn’t have them. They’re mine.
I try to grab them. He holds on. My fingers close over his hand, the hand that holds the letters. We’re standing too close.
“Why do you play these games with me?” he asks in a soft voice.
“What games?” I whisper.
His head leans in. I don’t stop him.
I can’t find my feet.
I can’t breathe.
I. Am. Kissing. A. Boy.
A tiny part of my brain wants to laugh in triumph. Jada dared me to kiss a boy on my trip to France. But then reality snaps back into place.
Why am I doing this? For one, two horrified seconds, I’m frozen, feeling Gavin’s lips, hearing him inhale, smelling the bubblegum on his breath, his flowery hair gel, feeling one hand move up my arm, the other still clasped in mine.
But I don’t like him! What am I doing?
In a single unconscious movement, I place both hands onto Gavin’s chest and shove, hard. He flies back and lands on his butt. Before he can react, I turn to go but stumble and grab the bookcase for support. It trembles and moves away from the wall. It falls in slow motion, each second an eternity, but finally cashes to the floor with a tremendous crash that reverberates through the apartment. Books scatter and explode and brittle pages fly, swirling like giant snowflakes in an indoor blizzard.
I freeze in horror, but Gavin hauls himself to his feet and grabs my arm. We hurtle ourselves through Marguerite’s apartment and squeeze back through the hidden door and into my bedroom.
And right when we push the bed back against the wall, Émile opens my bedroom door.
“Dessert is ready,” he says, looking us over with a strange expression. “And Rosie, please leave your door open when you have, uh, friends with you in the room.”
Gavin’s dimpled face grins at me. Émile leaves and I finally grab the letters from Gavin’s hand. I’m glad he didn’t drop them when he fell.
I shove both new bundles of letters under my pillow, staring at Gavin the whole time, daring him to say something.
He doesn’t. But his eyes crinkle in amusement.
When we return to the kitchen, I am positive that my face is a bright Alizarin crimson.
And the cheesecake tastes like bubblegum.
Nineteen
The new bundles contain letters from different boyfriends. Each bundle is tied by a ribbon of a different color.
Ma Chère Marguerite,
How can you think that I would ever mock you? You, my darling, my beloved? When you grace the stage, the whole world adores you! I will die if you do not forgive me!
I offered to find the greatest elocution coach in the world, but that does not mean that I do not love each word you say as it falls from your lips. Do not leave me alone any longer, my darling! I die by degrees each day I do not hear from you. My wife travels again tomorrow, say you will allow me to come to you. I beg you, my dear, please open your arms to me once more!
Always,
Georges C.
My heart leaps inside me. “Elocution.” Does that mean what I think it does? I find the definition on my phone: formal or public speaking. An elocution coach isn’t exactly a speech therapist, but did they even have those back then?
I read the letter again, the words in their tiny script make my eyes hurt.
This guy wrote a lot of love notes. His wife must have loved to travel. Aside from being a lying cheater, Georges thought Marguerite needed help to speak correctly. Marguerite apparently didn’t like it, but what surprises me the most is what Georges says about the stage. Most of his letters are promises to meet Marguerite backstage after her performances.
Marguerite spoke with “weak words,” but she was an actress.
How did she do that?
We’re in the shop. June morphed into July and it’s sweltering. While I look at the letter, tucked discreetly inside an old cookbook, Sylvie sits by the cash register with her bare feet up on the little wobbly table, reading the kind of book that Mom always reads. On the cover, there’s a muscle-bound guy with no shirt who has a pretty girl clinging to his arm. That kind of book. Every so often, Sylvie glances up at me from behind the pages and winks.
Why?
I heard her talk with Émile last night. His voice sounded worried. Hers was soothing, gentle, and strangely filled with mirth. Eventually, Émile sounded calmer. They laughed together.
Sylvie must think I’m in love.
In love . . . with Gavin?
I did let him kiss me.
Or did I kiss him?
I can’t believe I did that!
I close the cookbook and tuck it under my arm. Then, I grab the duster and swipe at some shelves, those same little shelves full of dumb glass bottles like the one I dropped my first day here after Gavin made fun of me. My mouth is dry, and I can barely swallow. When I do, I swear I can still taste bubblegum.
I want to hurl.
“Can I go, now, Sylvie?” I ask. All I want right now is to find my toothbrush and scrub away the taste of the kiss that still lingers.
“Of course, chère,” Sylvie says. She winks again. What’s with the winking? She waves me away with a languid hand and a knowing smile.
“Go.”
Half a tube of toothpaste later, I feel better.
In the bedroom, I nearly fall over Fat Cat who was parked in the middle of the floor. When he looks up at me with his glowing eyes, even he seems to be giving me that “I know what you’ve been doing” look that Sylvie was throwing at me in the shop. I suppress a desire to kick him.
“Shut up,” I growl at him. Then I feel stupid. He can’t talk and never said anything in the first place.
All of Georges’s other letters still lie in a pile right on top of my bedside table. I no longer worry about hiding them, since Sylvie and Émile never come in without permission. Suddenly, I want to look for more. I want to know more about Marguerite, the actress. And after a heartbeat’s hesitation, I march to the door in my wall.
With my ear pressed to the thin wood, I listen, holding my breath. I can’t hear anything. Did Thomas or his Mummy hear the bookcase come crashing down last night? I know how stupid it is to keep breaking into Marguerite’s home, but I find myself pulled, like there’s this invisible wire wrapped around my heart. I sneak back inside.
Dust motes swim before my eyes in the late afternoon sun that slants through hazy windows. Flies buzz, droning lazily in the otherwise perfect silence. I still love it, this feeling of being so totally alone. Something that weighed me down only moments before vanishes, and I breathe in the strange sensation of being solo. No Mom. No Sylvie or Émile, as much as I love them.
No Gavin.
The downed bookcase looks pathetic, almost like a murder victim left to lie where he fell. I pick through a few of the scattered books and I find more letters immediately. They were inside a book whose pages had been cut out to form a kind of hollow apartment. They’re tied with a purple ribbon.
Wow, that was easy. I shove the letters into my pocket.
I should leave, but I don’t want to, not yet. I’m standing close the spot where I had my first kiss. I lift my hand to my mouth, touch my lips.
In this very room, I kissed a boy. Every little movement of his dry, chapped lips plays in my mind. The smell of his hair gel, t
he sound of his breathing, the toxic taste of bubblegum. Why can’t I stop thinking about it?
“Because you’re an idiot,” I whisper into the silence.
The silence agrees with me. I swear it does.
Taking a deep breath to clear my head, I head back to Marguerite’s bedroom. I want to see her dresses one more time. Then I promise myself, I’ll get out of here.
The doors open more easily this time. I’m rifling through furs and gowns when heavy footsteps rumble down the inside stairs. I’m so stupid! I was so caught up in reliving The Kiss and looking for more letters that I forgot to listen for Thomas. I have no time to retreat. I’ve got to hide!
“I’m heading there now, Mum,” Thomas’s gravelly voice shouts, sounding way too close.
I sweep silk dresses aside and I’m in. My fingers find a metal bar on the inside of the wooden doors that I use to help me pull them shut. They close with a screech that makes me cringe. Then I pull mothball-smelling furs in front of me and crouch, trying not to breathe, but I end up panting because I’m so scared. I’m positive he’ll hear my ragged breathing and my hammering heart. Footsteps pound into the room.
“We’ll find it,” Thomas shouts. “I’ve got some tools to open that wardrobe.” Oh no. I knew it. I knew it! I suppress a gag. The stale, mothball air is getting to me. I’m positive I’m going to pass out. I gasp for air and choke on a mouthful of fur coat. Then, I hold absolutely still. He’s inches away from me.
Thomas drops something heavy to the floor that lands with a metallic clang. Then, he grabs the handles of the wardrobe doors and yanks. The entire cabinet shakes. I’m surprised to find that my fingers are still gripping the interior metal bars. Somehow, miraculously, they hold tight. Thomas mumbles to himself.
The wardrobe shakes violently. Then the high-pitched whine of a drill screams in my ears and I feel the doors vibrate. My fingers lose their hold. I’ll have to run for it. As soon as he gets these doors open, I’ll jump out and bolt for freedom. He’ll be so surprised that he’ll be too slow to catch me. But as I shift around to get into a good position, my butt and my legs are numb from crouching. Besides, I’m dizzy from the hot, stale, mothball and sweet perfume air. I’ll probably fall out, right smack on top of Thomas. I’m going to hurl.
The whine of the drill shuts off, and a tiny circle of light appears as one of the door handles falls to the floor with a thud. A bony finger reaches inside the hole, tugging and pulling, and I have a wild thought that I should bite that finger off. The thought only makes me feel even more like I’m about to vomit all over the dead animals and silk dresses around me. Then the wardrobe shakes once again as Thomas tugs, pulls, yanks, and wrenches, and I hear him swear, because he’s hurt his finger. Miraculously, I’m still holding the door shut.
Thomas’s footsteps pound away and up the stairs.
This is my chance! I push against the doors, but they don’t budge. I push harder. I hear a screeching sound, but nothing moves. He’ll come back and find me here! I scrabble around and brace my back against the rear of the wardrobe, and push as hard as I can with my feet. The old, rusted hinges squeal and shudder, and at an achingly slow pace, the doors start to move. Light bursts into my eyes and I fall, wrapped in silk and furs. There’s a sickening sound of tearing fabric. I untangle myself as quickly as I can, grab an armful of furs to shove back inside, and I see her. It’s Marguerite.
The portrait was behind the dresses, at the back of the wardrobe. It was hidden behind a panel that must have come loose when I moved around in there or got tangled and fell. The panel is now on the floor and the painting is at my feet. I drop the dresses and gingerly pick Marguerite up, forgetting that I need to get the heck out of here.
She sits on a curved chair and wears a satiny pink dress. Posed in a dramatic way, Marguerite’s face is turned to the side and she smiles. Her curly brown hair isn’t cut short, like that of the woman in the other painting, but is pulled up at the back of her head. Her other hand rests in her lap and her fingers are long and graceful-looking. She’s everything I would imagine her to be. Beautiful, self-assured, perfect. The woman of weak words, who ruled the stage.
A door slams somewhere above my head and I remember Thomas. I shove stuff back into the wardrobe and shut the doors, kick the fallen wood panel under the bed, grab Marguerite and run. Back in my room, I place her flat on the floor, cover her with a towel and slide her under the bed, adding her to my collection.
“Rosie?” Émile calls.
“Yes,” I gasp the word out, sticking my head out the bedroom door.
“Dinner’s ready. I hope you’re hungry.”
Not really.
Twenty
Dearest Friend,
Forgive me for addressing you in such a familiar manner. I feel certain that when you read my words, you will understand, and not consider it impertinence. Last night as I heard your clear voice from the stage, my eyes filled with bitter tears. I have always yearned for such a gift as you possess. From the time I was a child, I longed to be an actress.
Mademoiselle, I joined the waiting throng of admirers outside your dressing room after the lights dimmed. I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps I only wished to see you close at hand instead of from afar. Imagine my surprise and delight when you, surrounded by men throwing flowers at your feet, caught my eye and smiled. I was not able to draw any closer because of the great press of the crowd, but I heard your voice. This is what brought even greater joy to my heart and caused me to write this letter.
I learned your secret. You, the great stage actress, speak with a stammer, as do I. What joy filled my heart! Late as the hour was, I returned home and penned this letter to you. Thank you, my dear friend, for I will always consider you such! You have made me realize that my own foolish dreams are not as foolish as I may have thought. My speech difficulty does not mean that I may not obtain what I truly desire: to recite upon the stage.
I will never forget what you have done for me this night.
Fondest regards,
Adeline Bernier
My eyes sting when I read the words “stammer.” Marguerite stuttered. Before I finish the letter, my face crumples. Something way down inside me twists and tears. It fights its way out and I’m surprised by the sound that escapes my lips. It’s not a wail or a sob. It’s harsh and deep. A groan. No, a growl.
“Don’t be stupid,” I mumble to myself, gasping for air when I’m able to finally open my eyes. A tiny breeze rustles the papers I’ve spread out around me on the cracked tiles of my little rooftop garden. Marguerite’s letters rustle in the blowing air, making soft whispering noises. It’s like they’ve been silent too long and want to be heard. The nineteenth century fan mail is written in a few languages I recognize and many I don’t.
I pace. Dirt and dry leaves crunch under my feet. I sit on the little wall at the edge of the roof and stare out over the jumble of weathered buildings that surround me. I’ve never noticed how run-down this place is. It’s ugly. The people on the sidewalks below scurry by, unaware that I’m watching. They’re all normal. I hate them. As much as I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter that Marguerite wasn’t like me, I still feel that pathetic hope lying all crumpled and dead inside me and it hurts.
Rosemary? Are you there?
Ignoring my mom’s text, I start dropping handfuls of potting soil down onto the people who walk by. The dirt scatters and nobody notices. I try gravel. There! Bull’s-eye!
Rosemary? I need to talk to you.
Ducking down out of sight, I smile as I listen to the shouts from four stories below. I’ll wait a few minutes and find a new target. I toy with my phone but don’t answer. I don’t feel like it.
So Marguerite stuttered. I should have known. Someone who stutters can still be an actor, or a singer. Something in their brains lets them do it. When they say something on their own, they stutter. But when they pretend to be someone else, and
when they sing, they’re fine. They have an escape. A time when they can be normal. They’re not like me. I can never speak perfectly. I don’t stutter sounds or words, I slaughter them.
Someone is coming. It’s time for me to leave.
When I begin to gather the letters back together, one of them catches my eye. It was written in English and is signed, “With sincere disgust.” Letting the other papers fall to the tiles, I read with wide eyes.
My Dear Mademoiselle,
How is it that you can consider yourself an actress? After seeing tonight’s performance, I am convinced of two things. First: it is obvious that you walk upon the stage thanks to your pretty face and form, not to your so-called ability to perform as an actress. Second: anyone who encourages you to think otherwise should be summarily examined by a licensed medical professional to determine if he is safe to remain in society, since he obviously suffers from some sort of delusion. Your diction was clumsy and confusing, rendering your performance unbearable. If you desire a life in the theatre, Mademoiselle, I suggest that you apply to your local theatre as a cleaning woman. Your talents are much more suited to sweeping up after those rare individuals who truly belong on the stage.
With sincere disgust,
Henry B. Billingsley
Why would Marguerite keep this letter? This man said that her “diction,” which I guess means her way of talking, was clumsy and confusing. Did she stutter on the stage?
A guy in a suit and tie emerges from below, nods in my direction, picks up a watering can and meanders over to his tomatoes and peppers while keeping his cell phone glued to one ear. I gather my papers and flee downstairs. I head to my spot; this place at the end of the hall on the second floor that’s like an architectural mistake. The hallway turns and leads to a wall only a few feet away from your face. I’m willing to bet there was a door there once. Anyway, the resulting space is basically a tiny room, and some kind soul left an overstuffed chair in there.
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