by Phoebe Stone
“I’ll get the yellow towels now. I’ll be right back,” says Mom. “Then Angus and I are going out to the Monoprix for groceries.”
Suddenly I find myself alone in Ava’s beautiful room after an entire month. Maybe I could write her a note about what I have done and leave it under her pillow.
I turn and go toward her desk looking for a piece of paper when I happen to see her dark armoire door is open. It is the sister to my armoire. Ava’s armoire stands tall and towers too over her room. The door ajar, I see parts of dresses hanging in there. The colors from here look so familiar. Orange and maroon. I move forward and I look closer.
What I see throws me backward into the room. I land on the edge of Ava’s bed, like an elevator that has just crashed to the basement, the wire snapping. All the pieces of what I see fly before me, like a flock of blackbirds leaving the courtyard below.
The wind turns and storms through the open windows now. The curtains blow into the room like ghosts set free. Everything racks and rattles with wind. The bedspread lifts and ripples. What? No! No! The dresses hanging in there stun me and seem to blow out all the lights in all the rooms in all of Paris.
“No!” I shout, rushing past Mom with a pile of yellow towels in her arms. I tear down the stairs. I run out under the wisteria, out onto the rue Michel-Ange. It’s afternoon, the air thick, and I feel almost as if I am struggling through hot, churning, murky water. Vines climb and tangle against many of the buildings. They seem to rustle in the dusty wind as if caught in a dream. The air presses and heightens as if a storm is coming.
I run down the street, not knowing why. “No!” I call out again. I rush toward the Laundromat, remembering the lost backpack. For some reason I stop there, looking through the window. I watch the wall of dryers spinning. The stolen letters and the stolen dresses tumble through the air in my mind, as if caught in a dryer forever.
Just then Collette comes out of the Laundromat with a wicker basket full of wet clothes. When she sees me, her face becomes a net of shadows. French gray clouds sweep overhead in the heat.
“Collette!” I call out.
“Oh, my little angel,” Collette says. “You know I like to dry my clothes on the line, but we may get a storm now. And something has come up.” I hear thunder rolling. She looks away down the street. An empty cardboard box knocks along the sidewalk in the wind.
“Something?” I say.
“Yes,” Collette says. She sighs. “We have received another email about the fashion show.”
“No,” I say again. I put my head on Collette’s shoulder.
“I have pieced it together, ma chérie, and it’s not good,” she says. “Not at all.”
Across the street we see Ava returning home. She doesn’t notice us over here. She passes a lady with a dog on a leash. Ava kneels down in the wind with her knees on the sidewalk and pats the dog, rubbing its ears gently. Dust and leaves blow along the gutter.
Collette looks at me and her shadows turn darker. “The judges were confused by one of the entries. They had loved your designs and loved your essay about Madame Jumeau. They would have liked to award you a position, but they can’t.”
“Oh no,” I say. “They can’t?”
“No. Because someone else has submitted the same designs, ma chérie. The same dresses. That someone’s essay did not mention Jumeau and that person was not a finalist. But now they are concerned,” says Collette, looking down.
“Concerned?” I say.
“It brings up questions of originality, they said. They wondered, is there some kind of a mix-up, perhaps? Both parties having the same last name.” Collette looks at me with sadness.
“Ava,” I say.
“They offer any apologies, if the confusion is on their part. But as it stands, without an explanation, they wish you the best of luck in the future with your work.”
“Best of luck? An explanation?” I say. And a terrible cape of disappointment closes over me. I press my head against Collette’s shoulder and I start crying. “I saw the dresses in her armoire,” I say. “She even used the same fabrics.”
“Oh, ma petite,” says Collette.
“Tell me it’s not true,” I say. And we watch Ava winding her way along the street all alone, staring down at the sidewalk.
Now I storm into the salon. I find Ava sitting in a corner at a desk. Marie Antoinette in her garden is painted across its surface. Ava’s long blond hair falls over the letter she is writing. I go stomping up to her.
“Ava!” I shout. “What did you do?”
Ava looks jolted and I see she’s been crying.
“What did you do, Ava?” I shout again.
She looks up at me then and kind of recoils, as if I am shining a flashlight in her eyes. I glance down at the letter on her desk.
Dear Dad (if you deserve that name), Please do not …
After that, the ink is smeared. The paper looks wrinkled.
“What did you do to me, Ava?” I scream.
“What did you do to me, Pet?” Ava screams back.
“Ava, you copied my dresses. You sent my designs into the fashion show. You said they were yours.”
“Oh, please,” says Ava. “I copied an old doll dress. History does not belong to you alone!”
“But I found the doll dress. It was my idea to use it as an inspiration,” I shout.
“I found the dress too. I used it as an inspiration too,” says Ava.
“No, Ava, you used my dress as inspiration. You stole my idea.”
“Ideas come from everywhere. They are in the air. You don’t own the air. And what makes you so sure anyway?” says Ava.
“Because I applied to the fashion show too,” I say.
Ava stands up. “What! You applied? How could you do that to me! You knew I was applying!!! You weren’t supposed to apply. You’re too young. I wouldn’t have sent in those designs if I knew you were sending them in too,” Ava shouts.
“That’s not the point, Ava. You copied me. You took them from me. That’s stealing, Ava. They know. They figured it out when we both applied.”
“Why did you apply?” screams Ava. “Why did you do it without telling me? Now I’m embarrassed. You are always embarrassing me. I could just die.” Ava throws her arms around herself and tucks her head down against her shoulder.
“Embarrassed?” I cry out. “You stole from me. How could you steal like that?”
“You stole from me!” shouts Ava. “You stole something precious from me.”
“You mean the letter?” I say, trembling. My knees collapse. The floor buckles. I fall inside; everything seems to crash around me.
“Yes!” screams Ava. “The letter!”
“Ava, I only kept it for a few days! I was about to give it to you, only someone stole it from me before I could. I wasn’t going to keep it. And I felt terrible about it. I tried to tell you, but—”
“But you didn’t tell me,” shouts Ava.
“I wanted to tell you, but I lost the letter. I didn’t know how. I was trying to find a way. I was really sorry about that. But then when I found out what—”
“It was a ruinous thing you did to me!” screams Ava.
“It was a ruinous thing you did to me!” I scream back. “You copied my work! There is nothing meaner in this world! And you were copying me before I stole the letter! And it’s not fair. It’s wrong!!! And now you have to explain. We have to tell the judges. I would have been accepted! I almost made it in, Ava!!! You have to explain. They want an explanation. I want an explanation.”
“No, I can’t!” screams Ava. “And I won’t.” She grabs the letter to her father lying on the desk.
“Ava, you have to,” I say.
“No, I don’t!” she screams. “No. No. No.” And then she drops down into a chair with her head against the back of it.
“Ava!” I shout. “You have to tell them what happened. You have to come forward.”
“No!” she shouts. “I won’t. It’s your word against m
ine. Maybe you copied me!”
“Do I have to tell them what you did?” I scream. “Because I will! Collette knows! She gave me the other doll dress. She’ll back me up.”
“No!” Ava starts sobbing. “Don’t do that to me. I can’t. I can’t come forward. I won’t. I am sorry I did it.”
“You have to tell them,” I scream.
“I am so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Look how sorry. See how sorry. This sorry,” she cries and she reaches in the desk drawer and pulls out a pair of scissors. With a quick motion, she chops off a chunk of long blond hair. It falls on the rug in a big shank.
“Ava, what you are doing?” I shout. But she keeps on going. She cuts another bunch of long, silky hair. Another and another and another, until her beautiful hair is chopped off, all uneven. Her mascara has blackened in rivers of tears all over her cheeks.
“What are you doing, Ava? Stop!” I scream.
“I won’t come forward,” Ava cries. “No. No. No. You don’t understand. I can’t. You have all the talent. I don’t have any talent. I can’t think of anything original. I can’t do it. It doesn’t happen for me. It happens for you all the time.” Ava sobs. Her face looks twisted and smeared and she’s all scrunched up against the chair. “It’s not fair. You got all the talent. It was such a great idea. How did you do it?” She still has the letter to her father in her hand, and she crunches it up and throws it across the room. She slumps over.
How awkward she suddenly looks hunched over in the chair. Her feet seem large and sad looking. Does Ava have large feet? I never noticed before. They look puffy and swollen and miserable waiting on the floor below her. And I look at my perfect beautiful older sister all twisted up before me with her hair chopped off and her feet in those shiny wedge sandals.
I stand there speechless and stunned. My head spins and I can’t hear any sound suddenly. Nothing makes any sense. “Ava,” I scream. “What have you done to your hair?”
And then something terrible and strange sweeps over me. It comes in great shudders through my whole body. Something raw and new and painful pours through me. It comes with a kind of deep, wrenching, horrible blush. Pity. It is pity. Pity drops over me in waves.
Ava is sobbing and crying. “I shouldn’t have done it but I had to. Dad didn’t like the patterns I was using and you weren’t going to show them, so I just thought …”
“But, Ava, you didn’t need to do that. You have so much,” I say.
“No I don’t,” she cries.
“Yes you do. You’re so beautiful,” I say. “Everyone says so.”
“Who cares about that? Anybody can have that. Beauty fades,” she cries. “It disappears. Look at Mom.”
“Oh, Ava, you’re clever. Look how great at math you are. I can barely add and subtract.”
“But the dresses you make—they’re good. How do you do it?” She has slipped to the floor now. She looks up at me kind of like a child. Kind of lost like that.
“What?” I say. “You like my dresses? I thought you hated my dresses. You’re always making fun of them. I can’t believe you like them,” I say, starting to cry.
“I make fun of them because they are so beautiful. I mean, you come up with these things I could never do. I don’t do anything like that. All I have is a father who I hate. An awful father. And he looks like me. Exactly, and he’s horrible.”
“How do you know he’s horrible?” I ask. “You’ve never met him. I mean, not for years.”
“I know because Mom tells me. She says he’s horrible,” says Ava. “And I feel horrible.”
I look at her and am overwhelmed. I am on new ground. Fresh new ground. “But, Ava, you have to make up your own mind. You used to love him when you were little. Before Mom decided you should stop seeing him. He’s part of you. You can’t listen to Mom. She had her own relationship with him. It has nothing to do with you. I think not seeing him is messing you up. Collette thinks so too.”
Ava rolls herself into a ball now. Blond Rapunzel curled up among shanks of her chopped-off hair, long swatches of it all around her. My perfect older sister.
“I am so ashamed, Pet. You won’t tell Mom and Dad what I did, will you? Or Logan? I would die. Dad would be so disappointed in me. It would break Mom’s heart. I couldn’t bear it. I can’t tell the judges what I did. I can’t.”
I close my eyes. I feel shattered. Bombed. And I stand there in silence. I don’t know what to say or do. I am without words. I fall backward into a chair. I put my head in my hands. I can hear Ava crying. I can hear the traffic on the rue Michel-Ange.
Finally I whisper, “You won’t tell Mom and Dad that I stole your letter? I would die about that. That was wrong too. It was terrible. I wish I had never done that but I can’t take it back. I won’t tell them about the dresses if you won’t tell them about the letter.”
“I won’t, Pet. I won’t,” says Ava.
“Ava, what will Dad and Mom say about your hair?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t know where I fit in here and you have managed to break through. You have made real French friends.”
“I have?” I say. I look at her and open my eyes wider.
“Yes, Pet, you’re part of Paris now. And I am not,” says Ava.
“But they would love you if they knew you,” I say. “Oh, Ava, I didn’t know how you felt. I didn’t know.” And I slide down on the floor next to her and I lean my head against hers. And then I take a deep breath and say, “You know what I think? I think you should see your other father. You used to miss him when you were five. Remember?”
Ava looks away quickly now and starts shaking a little. I can feel her shoulders trembling. “Ava, I think you should see him, if only for a couple of hours. I mean, Dad is your true dad, of course, but you should see him. Don’t listen to Mom. She just wants you to be on her side. So you’ll have two dads. Everyone will love you just the same. I will and Dad will and Mom will. Two dads will just be double trouble, in a good way, I mean. Collette says you need to discover who he is. He wants to know you.”
Ava pulls back and looks at me. Her face that was shattered a few moments ago now looks quietly and oddly grateful. Her shoulders keep shaking, though, like the time she had a high fever and chills and Mom asked me to sponge off her forehead. She shook and shook and shook no matter how many covers we put over her.
“I mean, I’ll go with you. He can be my second dad too. Two is always better than one. We’ll call him Papa like the French do,” I say.
Ava laughs at that and tilts her crumpled head. Then she looks down at her hands and she starts to cry again softly and so do I.
Soon we hear bells chiming and a dove cooing in rhythm with it, as if it is singing with the bells. And somehow Ava hears that and she stops crying and leans her head against mine and closes her eyes.
“Ava,” I say finally. “For an explanation, I’ll tell the judges that you are going to be the model for the clothes and that’s why you sent the application in. You sent all that in as the model, thinking you were supposed to. We have to supply a model. Ava, I was hoping you would want to model the clothes. I mean, for the show. I mean, for me. I mean, after I explain, if they decide to accept us.”
“Us? You want me to model your clothes?” she says.
“Yes,” I say.
“What? Why me?” she calls out. “I stole from you. I betrayed you.”
“It’s okay, Ava. It’s okay. I love you. I love you so much. We’ve been together our whole lives. Everything we know, we know together. Sisters are forever. We’re forever. And besides, you will make a beautiful model. Even with your hair all chopped off, you are still beautiful.”
“You want me to model for your program?” she says again.
“Yes, Ava,” I say.
“Oh, Pet! I am so ashamed. I have been so terrible to you,” says Ava and she starts crying again.
“Maybe we have been terrible to each other,” I say. “But about the dresses, I forgive you.”
> “I forgive you too for stealing Logan’s letter,” she says.
“You do?” I say and I squeeze my eyes even tighter to keep back more tears. But they break through anyway.
And then something really amazing happens, something unusual, something really unexpected. Ava leans toward me and throws her arms around me and hugs me. “Oh, Pet,” she says. “I will never forget this. Never. Never. Never.”
“Ava, I love you,” I say. “I love you and everyone there is gonna love you.”
“Pet,” says Ava again, “as Mom always says, you’re the living limit. And I mean in a great way.”
And then I say, “Ava, about the letter. I am really sorry I did that.” And I reach for the scissors lying on the floor next to me and I cut off one of my braids and then I go for the other. They both fall away, long dark braids, and lie among the silky blond strands that once were Ava’s crowning glory. We sit among lengths of brown and blond hair on the floor all around us. “There,” I say. “It’s only fair. I deserve that.”
Ava shakes her shorn head at me. “Pet,” she says, crying. “Look at us now. Just look at us.” We both stand up and look into the mirror above the French mantle. Ava and I, side by side, staring at ourselves.
“You know what?” says Ava. “We look like sisters.”
“Yup,” I say. “We do.”
I touch my hair. It’s chopped off just below my ears. I have never had short hair before. My head feels lighter. I shake it. I feel different, springy, flippy, perky.
“By the way,” I say as we both put on vanilla-flavored lip balm and try out different expressions in the glass in our new haircuts, “how did you know I stole Logan’s letter?”
In the mirror Ava looks at me with her serious fern-green eyes. But there’s a sparkle in them now, a flicker that dances across the surface, a light wavering in the distance in each of them, a light that is growing brighter and brighter.
“How did you know?” I say again.
Ava smiles and turns around and goes to her room and opens her drawer. I follow her. She fishes around in the bottom and pulls out my backpack. She holds it up by its straps. She dangles its squashed body in the air. My backpack! I fall forward now in amazement. My head starts to swim and I feel confused and mixed up and find myself wandering through a series of events, everything tumbling at me.
