by Tamer Lorika
Madame Orange was not beautiful, though she almost looked just like her daughter. Jeanne thought maybe it was the fatigue. She seemed so tired…
Ms. Milovskaya was tired, too, though, and she was absolutely gorgeous. But she was only gorgeous when Ms. Roma was with her. It was only then she seemed like a whole, complete person.
“Jeanne—Jeanne, ow, you’re pulling!” Paris complained.
Jeanne stuck her tongue out, though Paris couldn’t see it. Evilly, she tugged the bun a bit tighter before pinning it firmly. “You’re all set!” she crowed.
Paris made a face, “Thank you, I think. Walk me to the library?”
“Are you nervous?” Jeanne asked with a soft, encouraging smile.
“No,” came the too-sudden answer.
Jeanne nodded happily, following Paris out the door of her bedroom, accepting bread and cheese from Madame Orange on the way out of the house. As they strode in the direction of the main street, Jeanne nodded politely at Paris.
“I think I will leave you here,” she announced, “and go see what Jedrick is up to.”
Paris waved her off. “Fine, fine. Have fun.” She grinned. “I know I will.”
Jeanne smiled, bemused, as she skipped off and away.
Jedrick lived close to Paris’s house in a set of apartments. Jeanne clipped to the door and knocked cheerfully.
Jedrick’s voice rang through the wood. “Who is it?” he demanded. As there was no answering reprimand for his rudeness, Jeanne assumed his parents were not home.
“Jeddy, c’est moi! I have something to show you,” Jeanne called back at him.
There was a muffled grumbling about her unfortunate word choice on the subject of ‘showing’ anything as the door unlocked. Jedrick was still in his pajamas—no shirt, just pants. His down-blond hair was tousled like a bird’s nest, a, and he scowled good-naturedly.
“Hurry up and come in. I don’t want my neighbors to see me in my pajamas,” he ordered, turning and heading inside without waiting to see if Jeanne would follow.
“There’s something different about me,” she offered happily. “Care to take a guess?”
“Your hair isn’t in braids,” Jedrick answered abruptly. “Even I can see that. You haven’t become a woman like Paris, have you?”
“A woman like Paris!” Jeanne marveled with a giggle. “What an odd way of putting it. But no. Feel it!”
Sighing in resignation, Jedrick threaded his fingers into Jeanne’s curls. She could not help but think his fingers were much more broad and coarse than the ones that belonged there.
“You chopped it half off!” Jedrick said in delight, tugging on a strand or two. “What on earth…?”
“Needed a change,” Jeanne explained off-handedly.
Jedrick accepted the justification without comment. “What did Paris think?”
“She’s properly jealous, I’m sure. But she was awfully preoccupied…had a library date with Louis.”
Jedrick snorted as he sat cross-legged on the red, woven rug next to the couch. Jeanne flopped down beside him. “I know,” he said. “I watched her browbeat him into it. That poor boy was cornered. He’ll be eaten.”
Jeanne just hummed in agreement.
“Why does she like him anyway?” Jedrick grumbled. “He’s got no personality—he’s a regular mouse. Gave in to her demands just like that.” He snapped his fingers for effect. “And from what I can tell, h, , e’s never spoken six words back to her at a time. Doesn’t have a chance, the way she prattles on.”
“She says he’s attractive,” Jeanne supplied. “Blond hair and blue eyes and the like.”
“I’ve got blond hair and blue eyes, too, and you don’t see her all over me!” Jedrick exclaimed.
“Yes, I do. Jeddy.” Jeanne leaned against him and, in a sing-song voice, crooned, “Oh Jeddy, won’t you be my dancing partner? Oh Jeddy, do you need help getting to class?”
Jedrick waved his hand at her irritably. “That’s different.”
“I don’t think it is, by much.”
Jedrick sighed. “Well. Whichever way. Doesn’t matter much to me.”
Jeanne laughed at the inaccuracy of that. Jedrick just shook his head, and they lapsed into comfortable silence on the living room rug.
“What do you think is attractive, then?” Jeanne asked. “Tell me something you like.”
“I like girls with soft skin,” Jedrick replied, “and pretty laughs. But that’s all shallow, I suppose. I like girls…who are loud and speak their minds. Odd, huh? I don’t like silence much. That’s probably why I hang out with you and Paris so often.”
“Don’t like silence?” Silence was the bit Jeanne liked best—accompanied only by the wind or the steady heartbeat of a warm body.
“If you’re quiet, how do I know you’re here?”
Jeanne reached over and squeezed his hand. “You can tell. I know you can. If I close my eyes, even if I’m not touching you—I know you’re here. So it isn’t that.”
Then there was silence again, and Jedrick looked uncomfortable and squirmed a bit, but Jeanne had a point to make, s, o she let him squirm and waited. Finally, he broke the quiet himself.
“So I don’t have to say anything, okay! I can just nod and agree. It’s easier that way.”
“It is,” Jeanne agreed. “Much easier.”
“Anyway!” Jedrick announced, suddenly standing. “Did you come here to interrogate me, or did you have another reason?”
“Just to tell you about my hair,” Jeanne replied, placid. “Do you want to do something today?”
Jedrick shrugged. “Yeah. Sure. We can walk by the river or something.”
“Let’s go to the library first,” Jeanne suggested mischievously.
Jedrick smiled. “I believe that is the best idea you’ve had for a long while. Let’s go.”
* * * *
Paris would not talk to either of them the next day at church. Jeanne and Jedrick considered their outing a success. They had spent the entire afternoon running around different rows in the library, giggling and making loud, embarrassing comments whenever Paris would try to talk, or else pushing the books on their side of the shelf so the ones on Paris’s and Louis’s side would fall on them. They felt like grade-schoolers. It was altogether far too much fun.
Although they were ignored for most of the mass and the social time afterwards, they certainly did not ignore Paris.
“So, Paris, how did your date go?” Jedrick asked, elbowing her in the ribs as they sat on the grass outside the church, waiting for their parents to be done inside.
She was silent, but her eyebrow twitched at the insinuation.
“I bet she had a great time—Louis is really cute, huh?” Jeanne replied. “She was awfully close to him as they shared a book about…” She sighed rapturously. “Igneous rocks.”
At that point, Paris pouted and flounced off in a huff. Jeanne and Jedrick waited a few minutes, then gleefully followed her. They passed a very productive Sunday in this manner.
By Monday morning, Paris was talking to them again—complaining, really, loudly and persistently at Jedrick as Jeanne trotted up to the both of them. The tirade on their joint rudeness and selfish attitude lasted until they reached school and surrendered Jedrick into Armand’s care and past that, until Paris bounced off to join Monique and the others and gripe about inconsiderate friends.
She was back to her old self eventually, though, and by the time school was over, she bragged about how close to Louis she had gotten over the weekend.
“I mean, really, there was definitely a connection!” she gushed at Jeanne as the two of them walked to Armand’s room for Cotillion. Charles walked a few paces behind them.
“I’m sure there was,” Jeanne said with a nod. “I was there, after all.” She smiled at that, and Paris looked put out. Secretly, though, Jeanne thought Paris was reading an awful lot into the situation. She had been at the library, after all, and the closest the two had been was when their hands
brushed on the spine of a particularly nasty-looking dictionary (which Jedrick had promptly pushed so it would fall on them). Still, she let Paris have her fun.
Armand was fuming quietly at the head of the classroom when they entered, given a wide berth by the pods of chattering eighth years. Jedrick sulked in some far corner, waiting to be pounced on by Paris. Jeanne bounced up to Armand’s side.
“You’re back!” she exclaimed.
“So I’ve noticed,” Armand returned snappishly. “I knew this duty would inevitably fall to me in permanence. Madame Bonnefoy thought I had done such a wonderful job that I just had to continue!”
“But of course, Armand!” responded Jeanne. “It’s fun learning from you. I never knew quite how much fun the box-step could be.” She wasn’t being facetious. There was something relaxing about the movement, the easy count one-two-three that left the mind open to a million and a half other things while the feet were whirling.
“Hmph,” was Armand’s only reply. But he flushed, just a tiny bit, before beginning the lesson.
Today they were adding a spin to the box-step. The couples stumbled through the strange footwork, and squawks were heard across the room as toes were crushed. Jeanne gripped Charles’ arm, hard, turning him until he understood the steps. He learned quickly, all athletic muscles and bones. It was easy after that and they twirled to the music. She put her head against his chest to feel the solidity and the heart beat and allowed herself to think.
“One, two, three, one, two, three…” Armand counted out loud.
One: She had woken in the bathroom, a crick in her neck and her hair shorn in a manner too skilled to be her own work. Charles had shyly complimented it earlier, and a few of the girls stared jealously at her freedom. Ms. Milovskaya had blinked in surprise when she walked in the door.
“One, two, three…”
Two: There had been no dreams in two days. Only two days—the last lapse between dreams had been a week and a half apart—but already there was a strange itch, a tic in the back of her brain that told her she was missing something. She was nervous and on edge. Teasing Paris and baiting Jedrick, warm bodies, a precise count, could only provide so much distraction. God, she was pathetic, waiting for something she did not deserve. It would serve her right if she never dreamt again.
“One, two, three…”
Three: Charles was warm and he quietly let her think.
That’s all that occupied her mind.
“One, two, three, one, two, three…” And so they whirled, the only couple in the room who could move in sync. To know someone that well, enough to understand how they would move and move with them, that was something for which Jeanne could not help but ache. A miracle, the connection of a moment, of a song, of a strident count of one two three.
Jeanne’s greatest fear was to be alone. Her greatest love was the moment of dance that gave her someone to cling to.
* * * *
Jericho did not return that week. By the end of it, Jeanne drifted, grey, her stomach sick with a twist.
Her only thought for hours at a time was, How pathetic. The sky outside the school window was bright and clear and cloudless, still and stagnant. And she thought how pathetic, to be feeling this way about a figment of her imagination. How pathetic, to be at the age where her entire existence revolved around another person. How pathetic, to remain alone.
Maybe Paris and Jedrick noticed, but whenever they broached the subject—maybe Jeanne looked sick, was she getting a fever?—she only replied, I’m just tired. It was an excuse that seemed boundless. Everyone was tired these days—she could see it in Papa, the way his transparent hands tuned the radio every morning and evening. Maman looked frayed around the edges, like an old book cover, strands coming out along the creases. And Gramaman was just…old. She breathed old, smelled like paper and dust. Suzette cried at night, the only one with energy, the only one that got Maman or Papa to stand up and keep going.
Jeanne went to school every day that week, but once she returned home Friday afternoon, she went upstairs and collapsed into a heavy, horrible sort of sleep, the kind that weighed in her bones and provided no rest at all. She woke up, startled, as a mechanical snap, click, and whirr filled the dark air. Oh. Planes. Planes, and it was already night; she had slept away the afternoon.
Her heart beat, sharply, disappointed, reminding her she was alone again. Dreamless.
Her breath was acidic, and again, for an uncountable time, she felt sick and hated herself. How pathetic.
She stayed in bed that weekend, faking a cough. Maman came up with a cool cloth and a bowl of water, and Jeanne didn’t understand why until Maman pulled out a thermometer and gave it to her to suck on. Then Jeanne realized her forehead was burning hot. What a strange feeling. She was detached. But she was always detached, watching from the outside and dreaming what her life might be like.
It never really occurred to her that, perhaps, her might have been’s were too full, or full of the wrong creature, at least.
Monday bloomed again, even now as still as glass. She got out of bed and brushed her hair. Maman never came up to do it anymore, since it didn’t need braiding. Jeanne didn’t need help with it. She stumbled downstairs, ate her oatmeal, and left for school. It felt mechanical, being pulled along like a clockwork cog. Only…a week and a half. How pathetic. She was becoming familiar with the voice. It didn’t sound like her, or anyone she knew. It was twisted and distorted like the whirr of the planes.
She stared out the window in class. Ms. Milovskaya glanced at her from time to time. The young woman wasn’t annoyed, just worried, or at least that was the way it seemed. Jeanne thought it was sweet. Ms. Milovskaya was a good person, to care like that. She had even come up to Jeanne the Friday before and tried to ask her what was wrong, to see if she wanted to talk, and to inquire if there was anything the girl needed.
“I’m just tired, so don’t worry,” Jeanne had replied with a soft, worn smile like an old coat. So today Ms. Milovskaya didn’t say anything, just stared, directing tiny glances at the girl when they could be spared.
Charles stared at her a lot, too. It was nice of him; he even offered to walk her home because she looked sick. She waved him off, placating him with the same worn-thin smile she gave everyone. He walked her to Armand’s room instead, after school, and Paris gave them a wide berth, arching an eyebrow at Jeanne as she passed.
“Today’s work is deportment!” Armand announced as they entered, a little late, a little slow in the halls. “We will be working on table manners.”
He had a heavy desk dragged into the middle of the room, covered in a nice tablecloth and set with china and real silver—some woman’s dowry, certainly.
“These are my own things, so you will be careful with them,” Armand ordered, shooting venomous glares around the room, as if afraid a single glance from the young rabble would set his precious silver aflame. Then he began to lecture about forks, about the way one ought to hold the utensils, when to use them, which plate went where—the words swirled in one ear and out the other, not just for Jeanne, but most of the students in the room.
“Armand,” Jeanne interrupted suddenly, in the middle of a particularly heated paragraph concerning dessert plates. “Armand, when will we dance?”
Armand sniffed. “That is not in the lesson plan today. Madame Bonnefoy has left me specific notes relating to your instruction—though why she does not just teach you herself, I am beginning to understand—and the notes regarding today’s lesson do not involved dancing.”
A little piece of Jeanne’s self-control crumbled then. She did not dare admit she had been thinking of this lesson all week, looking forward to her precious moments of human connection.
The lesson continued with a demonstration on how to properly fold a napkin for six different formal occasions.
“Jeanne…are you sure you are well?” Charles asked, seeming out of the blue. He put a warm, broad paw against the back of Jeanne’s hand, knocking her heavily fro
m her thoughts.
“Fine,” she answered shortly. “I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking,” he pointed out.
And she was. Her hand was shaking, her leg was twitching.
“I’m fine,” she repeated, backpedaling. “Sorry. I’m probably a bit ill. Maman said I had a fever. That’s all.”
Charles nodded. He did not remove his hand.
Maybe he meant it to be a gesture of comfort—Jeanne could think of that, clearly, and allow herself to see the good in the boy. It was meant to comfort her, the way his thumb brushed her knuckles in a rhythmic way, but it was just out of time with her beating heart and it was beginning to make her twitch. Her whole body was tense and the heavy, warm weight on her hand was the only thing she could focus on. It should not be so heavy. It should not be so rough. It hurt.
Jeanne’s gaze flicked around the room with flashes of light, trying to find something to focus on. The blackboard, with Armand’s careful drawing of place settings and cup levels. Armand’s face, red with passion, dictating his lesson. The slack faces of the less-than-willing students, watching him become so passionate but unable to summon much of a focus, giggling with friends or poking at the cracks in the wooden floor. The glass-smooth air outside. Nothing. A shadow in the door, just visible in the warped half-window.
That shadow. Jeanne froze, so still her muscles locked painfully and her joints slotted together. She knew that silhouette. God, she knew that silhouette like she knew the curves of her own body.
The windows of the classroom began to buzz in their casings seconds before the baritone hum of machinery began to echo. Hum, click, purr, dangerous and dark and soot-covered. Planes, many of them. Armand looked spooked. The planes were loud and monstrous.
“Everyone away from the doors and windows,” he managed to squeeze out, fighting his own voice.
Jeanne sprang to her feet with a wild cry, racing to the door. She knew that outline, she knew that creature.
No one had time to catch her as she leaned on the handle and shoved the door open, looking wildly up and down the deserted hallway. The single window at the end of the watery-dim hall was half-blocked with lazy shutters and the air outside was grey; clouds must have rolled in, silently and high, though the wind down lower, at human level, had not stirred at all still. The buzz came, louder, and Jeanne vaguely knew Armand was behind her, aiming to catch her but…
