A Song for Bijou

by Josh Farrar

  Suddenly, there’s an enormous pounding on the doors, like a small bomb exploding. We all turn to look as Angela Gudrun and Jenna Minaya stumble into the gym, cackling like maniacs. Angela and Jenna aren’t only the most popular girls in St. Cat’s seventh grade, they’re also the loudest. Never satisfied with simply walking into a room where every guy would be instantly staring at them anyway, they have to scream, slam doors, stamp their feet.

  “Speak of the devil,” Rocky says. “Or devils, I should say. Our devils.” He slaps Trevor’s bicep with the back of his hand. “That’s our cue, man.”

  Rocky jogs off without giving us another look, like a puppy whose owner has given him a swift jerk of the leash.

  “Slow down, fool.” Trevor smirks, and follows his friend, but slowly. “Boys run. Men walk.”

  No more than fifteen seconds after they’ve left, I look up to see Mary Agnes headed straight for the punch bowl.

  This is exactly what I want, right? Mary Agnes is laser-locked on us, with Bijou and Maricel right behind her. I suddenly wish I had a few more minutes to prepare, or maybe run and hide. No such luck. Mary Agnes trots up, gives the three of us a brisk nod, then picks up the ladle and pours two cups of the syrupy liquid for Bijou and Maricel before serving one for herself. Bijou eyes it suspiciously and then takes a cautious sip.

  “Hi, Alex,” Mary Agnes says, looking directly at me. She’s right down to business, her eyes burning with purpose. Definitely not subtle, but I’ve known Mary Agnes since kindergarten, and “subtle” is not a word in her vocabulary.

  When Mary Agnes decides she’s going to do something—whether it’s running for student council (she’s been class president for three years running), organizing a bake sale to benefit the homeless, or in this case, playing matchmaker with a girl she’s known for about five minutes—she just rolls up her sleeves and does it. Mostly, the girl scares me. She’s a little intense. But now, her aggressive approach to life stands to benefit me (I hope so, anyway), so I suppose I shouldn’t be too critical.

  “Hey, Mary Agnes,” I say. “Hi, Maricel.” I don’t know whether to shake hands, or hug, or what. I wind up waving, which feels weird, since the three of them are no more than three feet away from us.

  “And this”—does Mary Agnes pause for a split second here, drawing the moment out, or am I crazy?—“is Bijou Doucet.”

  I repeat it silently to myself, trying to memorize the name. Doucet, Doucet, Doucet.

  “Do you want to maybe … introduce Bijou to your friends?” Mary Agnes asks.

  “Sure. Of course.” Wow, am I screwing this up already? Everything is moving too fast. I turn to Bijou. “This is John Nomura. And this is Ira.”

  “That’s my brother.” Maricel nods toward Ira, who has pulled out his video cam. “Try to ignore him.”

  “Put that thing away,” I order, a little too forcefully. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask Ira not to film the evening’s events.

  “What?” he asks. “This is good stuff. We’re making memories.”

  “Not appropriate, Ira,” Maricel says. “Come on.”

  Finally, Ira, shaking his head, turns off the camera and puts it in his pocket.

  “Anyway, good to see you, boys,” Mary Agnes says. I half expect her to start shaking hands with everyone in sight. She’s a little too formal, maybe, but I wish I were as sure of myself as she is. It’s like she’s never had a doubt or a second thought in her entire life.

  Mary Agnes and Maricel are wearing almost identical outfits: skirts of different colors yet the exact same style and length, white T-shirts, and bracelets from their forearms to their wrists. But Bijou is wearing a full-on dress, very girlie; she’s the only girl in the entire room, in fact, who’s wearing one. It’s blue with white polka dots, ends a little below the knees, and isn’t even remotely trendy. But she could be wearing a brown paper bag and still look amazing. I make eye contact with her, say hi, and smile, but not for too long. I don’t want her to think I’m weird. Or that I’m too into her. Bijou’s got on the same patent-leather shoes as before, shiny as glass, and black tights.

  “Hello,” Bijou says, although her accent makes it sound more like “hallo.” Very French-sounding, I hear Rocky echo in my head. Her voice is lower than I would have thought, but in a good way: throaty and velvety.

  Mary Agnes is paying close attention, silently cheering us on, maybe, but I can’t tell who knows what. Does Bijou know I’m into her? Does Mary Agnes? They came right up to us, which means they must know something. But whatever knowledge they have isn’t driving them away; it’s bringing them closer. For now, anyway.

  I’m in a daze, unsure of what to do next, and everything is out of focus, blurry. I have my cards ready, but I can’t bring them out into the open. Not now.

  No one has said anything for ten or fifteen seconds, which seems a lot longer when you’re surrounded by girls waiting for you to talk. I wish Nomura would somehow rescue us, but Ira beats him to it, which means that instead of a life preserver, he might be throwing out a three-hundred-pound barbell.

  “Have you guys seen Rise Again?” he asks.

  “What’s that?” Mary Agnes asks.

  “It’s a movie,” Ira says.

  Why is he bringing up, of all things, a zombie movie, in front of a Haitian girl?

  “Ah,” says Mary Agnes, giving Ira a pitying look. “Haven’t seen it.”

  “Enough, already. You’ve been talking about it nonstop for the last forty-eight hours,” Maricel says.

  “Because it rocks,” Ira says.

  “Zombies.” Mary Agnes shrugs. “They never do anything. They just walk around grunting. Where’s the drama?”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you’d actually seen Rise Again.”

  “Ira, they’re interested,” I say, pointing to the dork area. “Go tell the geeks about it. You can film their reactions.”

  Ira’s mouth hangs open, like he’s five years old and I’ve stolen his ice-cream cone. “Relax, Ira, I was only kidding,” I say.

  I meant it as a joke; maybe it didn’t quite come out that way?

  I turn to Bijou. “You look … very nice,” I say. It’s the only thing I can think of.

  “All of us?” Mary Agnes asks, the hint of a smile on her lips. “Or just Bijou?”

  I feel a glow of warmth spread out across my face. Can they see I’m blushing like a tomato, or is it dark enough in here for me to hide it?

  “All of you,” I say. “You all look really nice.”

  “Thank you,” Bijou says, but she’s not really smiling. She turns and looks toward the dance floor, where Rocky, Trevor, Angela, and Jenna are prancing around, fully pleased with themselves.

  “Great,” says Maricel.

  “I was hoping they wouldn’t show,” says Mary Agnes, shaking her head at the two most popular girls in her class.

  Did I say “most popular” again? Just like with Rocky and Trevor, “most feared/despised” is more like it. But if anything, they play it bigger and bolder than their boyfriends. Angela has on heels that make her tower over almost every guy in the room, and Jenna’s wearing a black skirt three inches above the knee, and she’s dyed her bangs an outrageous electric blue. Angela and Jenna already have Rocky and Trevor, so they haven’t come to the dance to meet guys. They’re here to do what Angela and Jenna do best, which is to suck up all the attention in the room.

  And it’s working: we’re all staring at them. Angela and Jenna, ignoring their boyfriends, have gone to the dance floor alone and are currently gyrating to Usher’s “Hot Tottie.” I see Mr. Price, one of the dance chaperones, on the other side of the gym. He’s noticing the two crazy-hot girls dancing provocatively close to each other—you’d have to be blind to miss it—and probably trying to figure out whether, and how, to stop them. Rocky and Trevor have joined them now, but the girls are still dancing more with each other than with the guys, leaving the two boys looking awkward and out of place. I notice with pleasure that Rocky doesn’t look
too relaxed himself right now.

  “I’m sorry,” Mary Agnes says, folding her arms across her chest and aiming a death stare at the dance floor. “I don’t see what’s so great about them.”

  “Jenna’s extremely, extremely attractive,” Ira says. “They both are.”

  “Gross, Ira,” Maricel says, shaking her head at her brother.

  “Well, she is,” Ira says.

  Oh, Ira. I mean, of course Angela and Jenna are both ridiculously cute. Angela is blond, with perfect porcelain skin, and Jenna, Dominican with a deep tan that offsets her green-gold eyes, may be even prettier. But you don’t share that information with other girls! That’s just common sense, isn’t it?

  “She’s good-looking, yeah, but she and Angela are totally evil. I mean, really, really cruel, for real,” Maricel says. “Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  “Of course,” I say. “If Angela and Jenna are anything like their boyfriends, I wouldn’t go near them.”

  “That’s not what you said about Angela the other—” Ira said.

  Nomura cuts him off, thankfully. “I’d go near Jenna Minaya, but only if she asked me really, really nicely.”

  “As much as we hate them, they did get people out onto the dance floor,” Maricel says. “At Fall Ball, we all kind of stood around and stared at each other.” It’s true—Angela and Jenna have made it instantly cool to head to the dance floor. Ninety seconds ago it was empty, and now it’s half-full.

  “Well, I say if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,” says Mary Agnes. “Anybody want to dance?”

  “I’m in,” says Nomura. Then he looks toward Maricel. “You?”

  Maricel’s looking cute. Golden-brown skin. Black hair cut into a bob. Does Nomura like Ira’s sister, or is he being an awesome wingman? Mary Agnes takes a big breath, as if about to jump off a steep cliff, and asks Ira if he wants to dance, too.

  “Yeah, right,” Ira says.

  “Ira …,” I whisper. “Be cool.”

  He looks confused, but he eventually follows Nomura to the dance floor. He hasn’t waited for Mary Agnes, though, and as he passes her, he almost knocks her over.

  I’m about to follow, too, until Mary Agnes whispers, “I’m doing this for you, you know. Stay here. Don’t dance, talk.”

  Bijou and I watch them move onto the floor, now almost completely full. I smile at her, and she smiles back. But we’re not talking yet, and the idea, the horrible thought that occurs to me, is that we might never talk, that I might stand here twiddling my thumbs for the rest of the dance out of pure, animal fear while this beautiful girl stands awkwardly next to me, hoping that she could talk to someone cooler, someone who at least has a clue.

  So I take a deep breath, pull out my cards, and go for it.

  9

  No Boyfriends

  If I had known, for even one moment, that the only reason Mary Agnes and Maricel have been pushing me so hard to come to this silly dance is to meet a boy, I never would have agreed to it in the first place.

  I, Bijou Doucet, do not want a boyfriend.

  Maman would kill me if I even smiled at a boy who wasn’t an immediate member of my family (and I might even get slapped on the wrist if he was). She may be far away now, but she would know—she really would. And she would fly here like an angry spirit to set me straight.

  Where I come from, this is the way things are: Girls go to school, then we go straight home. We go to church with our families on Sundays, then we come straight home. We help our mothers and sisters and aunts buy the food at the market, then we come straight home.

  Port-au-Prince priests speak of miracles, but for me, the real miracle would be to spend five minutes without an adult carefully watching every single thing I do.

  Even now, at this dance, teachers hide in the darkness on the edges of the gymnasium and observe us, making sure that no one does anything bad or wrong. Mary Agnes, Maricel, and the others pretend, because we are in school while it is dark outside and because there is a DJ spinning Top 40 music in the same room where we play each other in basketball, that we are free here. But I know the truth: the adults are watching us, all the time, and we do only what they allow us to do.

  Even while I was getting dressed, my tante, Marie Claire, refused to let me wear the outfit I chose: my nicest jeans, white flats, and a pretty lavender top, which was a Christmas gift from Maman.

  “But it’s too small for you,” Marie Claire said, smiling at me in that way that makes me wonder whether she truly cares for me or just feels sorry for me because I am so far away from home. “And it looks a little bit … old.”

  “This dress looks even older. It has a collar on it.” I do not know what American girls wear to a dance, but I know they would not wear this dress.

  I could have told my aunt that the shirt was a Christmas gift from my mother, and that the soft fabric, washed so many times and left to dry on the clothesline, reminded me of her. But would it have made a difference? Marie Claire and I both knew the real reason she was making me change: Tonton Pierre, my uncle, didn’t want me going to the dance at all, and if he saw me come out of my room in anything less than a dress, he would refuse all over again.

  “It’s very pretty,” Marie Claire said. Her eyes looked tired and heavy. She wanted to be done with this and see me on my way without any further argument. It had taken her forty minutes to convince Tonton Pierre, who has lived in America for almost thirty years but has never had any children of his own, that a dance is a perfectly acceptable activity for a young person here. “The child is only trying to fit in,” Marie Claire had said in a voice barely above a whisper. The teachers at St. Catherine’s and St. Christopher’s would not allow their students to run wild in the streets, she explained. And, she hinted, the entire world would not crumble to pieces if Tonton Pierre let me out of his sight for three hours on a Saturday evening.

  My aunt had worked hard, I knew, to give me the chance to spend time with my new friends, and I wasn’t ungrateful.

  She touched my cheek, gave me a sad smile, and said, “You said you wanted to go to this dance, and you know your uncle well enough to know that would come with certain … requirements.”

  “I know.” I look up at her and try to smile.

  “So, what’s the matter?”

  “I do want to go. Everyone is going, so why shouldn’t I? But—” I shiver, even though it is not cold in this room.

  “You wish your maman were here?”

  “Oui, c’est ça.” Yes, that’s it.

  Marie Claire pulls me in to hug me. “Ah, mon enfant. One day, you will be together again. Je te promets.” I promise.

  “All right, tante. I will wear it,” I said. Even though I hate polka dots. She kissed me on the top of the head and pulled me into her chest again. Her shirt smelled machine-washed.

  “So, do you remember that boy from Peas n’ Pickles?” Mary Agnes asks me as we put our coats on the bleacher seats, where only yesterday morning we sat for Friday assembly. She waves to someone, but there are flashing lights coming from the stage, where the DJ plays, so my eyes have not adjusted yet and I still can’t see a thing.

  “The one who was looking at his shoes?” I ask. There were two: the Japanese boy with the big, round glasses, and the white boy who was so shy he couldn’t look me in the eye.

  Mary Agnes raises her eyebrow. “Yes, that one. He’s cute, right?”

  “How would I know? I never saw his face.”

  Now Maricel is laughing, too. “Well, you can get a better look tonight. He’s staring laser beams at us right now.” She nods to her right.

  I look across the gym, and even though it’s still quite difficult to see, I can tell that there are three boys looking right at us. One is the Japanese boy; another is the little one, Maricel’s brother. So the third must be this “cute” one. As soon as they see me returning their stare, all three quickly turn away and pretend to be in the middle of a very funny conversation.

  “What was his name?” I
ask. Ashley? Andrew? A typical American boy with a typical American name. I have not thought of him once since seeing him.

  “Alex,” Maricel says.

  “He likes you,” Mary Agnes says. “He’s a little shy, but he’s really nice.”

  “Wait, why are we talking about—”

  “He and my brother and Nomura have been best friends since practically kindergarten,” Maricel says.

  “Why is he looking over here?” I ask.

  Mary Agnes gives me a funny look, as if I should already know the answer. “Because he wants to … get to know you better,” Mary Agnes says.

  “Alex is sweet,” Maricel says.

  “Beautiful eyes,” says Mary Agnes.

  “Kind of a blue-green,” Maricel says. “Really pretty.”

  “I don’t want to meet him, if that is what this is about. That wouldn’t—”

  “Let’s just go talk to them,” Mary Agnes says. “That’s all we’re doing. Talking. Is that illegal?”

  “Nope,” Maricel says, giving me a light jab in the arm. “It’s totally legit. Come on, Bijou.”

  Before I even have time to protest, Mary Agnes and Maricel are walking across the room. I can’t stay here alone; I have no choice but to follow them. What are they getting me involved in?

  I, Bijou Doucet, want nothing to do with boys at all.

  If Tonton Pierre finds out, he will go crazy, and I will never be allowed out of the house again.

  The next moments are a blur. First, Mary Agnes is introducing me, my first and last name, both. Very formal-sounding. The white boy’s eyes go wide, and then, like last time, he looks down to his feet.

  He is not my concern, though, not for the moment. I am looking around the room to see whether or not any teachers are watching us. I don’t mean to seem rude, and I try to look like I am paying attention to what the others are saying. But if the adults see me being introduced to a boy, will they tell my aunt and uncle? In my old school, the nuns would have considered reporting this information a sacred responsibility!

  Soon, it gets worse. Before I know it, Mary Agnes and Maricel have left me alone with this boy, with this Alex! He is smiling at me, looking me full in the face, but saying nothing. Waiting. But for what? For me to do something? I was not the one who created this scenario; I can only assume that he and my supposed friends did. And now I must come up with things to talk about?