by Josh Farrar
“Maybe a little.” She laughs.
“Really?” Suddenly, I’m worried she might judge me for not being enough of a badass to sit through Terror Lake without freaking out.
“I was probably more frightened than you,” she lies.
“I’ve always been freaked out by horror movies, ever since I was a little kid.” It’s actually a relief to tell the truth about it. I mean, really—who cares? I wouldn’t even want to be with a girl who judges me for my horror-film phobia. “Ever since I was little, I just … didn’t like them. But how about you? You didn’t seem to mind.”
“You can get some actors, some lights, a camera, and make a movie. Add some music, make it scary. But it is not real life. In real life, I have seen far worse. These are the things that scare me. To see a man dying of thirst. To see a little girl die of cholera because there is no clean water to be found in an entire country. That is a horror movie.”
I don’t know quite how to respond to that. I look at the sidewalk again, unsure of what to say. Finally, I just take her hand. And there it is: that same electric current, shooting up my arm, making me want to cry out with joy. “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, suddenly guilty that I can be feeling so good when Bijou is reliving such difficult memories. “About what happened, with the earthquake?”
“Not really.”
“Okay. Sorry.” Bijou squeezes my hand, showing me I don’t have to be.
“Maybe I will tell you someday. But for now, just know this: to see people die, it changes you. Certain things that seem small, like the look on your mother’s face when she greets you in the morning, or the taste of a cup of tea, become much more important. And the things you thought you cared about, some of them do not matter at all.”
“Do you miss her? Your mother?”
“Of course I do, yes. I miss her every day.”
“But you can visit her, right?”
She doesn’t answer right away, and I don’t push it. Maybe it’s crazy-expensive to fly to Haiti, and she can’t afford to jump on a plane any time she feels homesick. “For now,” she says, “I must make America my home.”
We’re still a full block away, and Bijou stops in her tracks and squints up the street. Then she drops my hand like it’s on fire and puts her arm in front of me, blocking me from taking another step.
“What is it?” Mary Agnes whispers. It’s obvious Bijou sees something, someone up ahead—not her uncle, I hope!
“Alex, Nomura, turn around and walk away,” Bijou says. “Mary Agnes, walk with me.” We’re a little slow on the uptake, standing here staring at her. “Please, let’s go!”
“Bye,” I say, unable to come up with a wittier one-syllable final word of my second date with Bijou Doucet. And unable, somehow, to complete the single, simple task she’s set out for me: to get my butt in gear and move.
Taking a quick look behind her, Bijou approaches me, stands on her tiptoes, and whispers in my ear. “I was hoping I could give you a good-bye kiss today, but you see, it’s impossible.” And just like that, she and Mary Agnes are off, half jogging down the street toward the Bradys’ house.
Nomura and I hightail it in the other direction like smalltime thieves. Before we’ve gone a half block, a car door slams behind us. “Bijou Doucet, get over here, right now!” a voice that could belong only to Uncle Pierre calls out.
I duck behind a tree and look up the street, Nomura kneeling behind me with a freaked look on his face like he’s ducking stray bullets from a drive-by. A pretty sweet seventies Crown Victoria is double-parked right in front of Mary Agnes’s house. Must be Pierre’s, and it’s not a bad ride. He’s a short guy, but trim and very neatly dressed, with a snazzy knit cap sitting on his balding head. This is a guy who spends a lot of time and attention on his car and his clothes. And he also seems to have a habit, at least when his niece is involved, of showing up to appointments forty minutes early.
It’s lucky Bijou had such good eyes, because there’s no way the old man could have seen Nomura and me. Is there? It’s impossible to tell by looking at him; all I can tell by Pierre’s body language is that he’s giving her one heck of a hard time. Boy, he sure is gesticulating like a wildman.
Yikes, now Mary Agnes’s mom is walking up the street, too, fresh from her spa appointment, and she looks a little mad herself. Whether at Mary Agnes or Pierre, it’s hard to tell. Bijou’s standing there, looking at her feet, but Pierre and Mrs. Brady really seem to be getting into it. Does she have her hands on her hips? Uh-oh. I know moms, and hands on hips can never mean anything good.
Bijou looks miserable, like she already knows that whatever grief she’s getting now, it’s going to be ten times worse at home. And all because of this group date. She’s paying a heavy price for spending a couple of hours with her friends, for catching a lame horror flick at the Pavilion. Will she look back on today and think it was worth it?
It was definitely worth it for me. This has to go down as the best day in my short life. After all, it’s the day that Bijou Doucet told me she wanted, actually desired, hoped, wished (Bijou’s wish is my command) to kiss me on purpose. Not to say hello or good-bye. Not to be polite. But because she wanted to.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Yes!
Dear Alex,
I’m so sorry about the way things ended today. This is not how I wanted to say good-bye to you. (I think I told you that already. Ha ha.)
I am writing to you in my room, where my aunt and uncle think that I am working on my social studies homework. I think it is safe, though. Tonton Pierre, he does not read English so well, and Marie Claire does not at all.
We have just finished dinner, and can you think of the one thing we spoke about the entire meal? Yes, that’s right, the “sin” I committed by leaving Mary Agnes’s house for a few minutes (that is the phrase we used) on a sunny spring afternoon. Pierre says that I broke a promise to him by going outside, and that a promise is “a sacred thing” (I’m translating from the Kreyol). So, a sin it is. (Don’t worry, he calls many things a sin. Even playing cards, which he does at least once a week, so it’s not as serious as it sounds!)
The thing so strange is that after nearly an hour of being lectured to by this man who wants to keep me inside all day like a prisoner, I began almost to feel bad for him. Can you imagine this?
But really, I do believe Tonton Pierre felt more bad than I did. He was angry at first, but very quickly, he became almost sad. He says he misses my mother, that he made a promise (this is his favorite word) to “his only sister” that he would protect me “as if you were my own.” I tell you, Alex, he looked as if he was about to cry, even after I apologized a hundred times and told him I will never do it again.
Oh, also: Pierre swears to me that he was not trying to catch me in a lie. After dropping me off at Mary Agnes’s, he had an appointment with his accountant, who has an office in Park Slope, not far away from the Bradys’. The meeting went longer than he thought it would, and he thought it would be silly for him to return to Flatbush, only to turn around a few minutes later to pick me up. So, starting at 4:45 (only five minutes before we returned!), he begin to wait outside Mary Agnes’s house. He did not knock on the door, because he said he did not want to disturb my time with my girlfriends. His plan was to read his newspaper and wait until 5:30, knocking on the door only at the time we had agreed to. But when he see me with Mary Agnes (thank God he did not see you and Nomura. Can you imagine how much worse this would be?), he got out of the car and started to go crazy.
Mary Agnes’s maman came home a moment later, and he go a bit crazy with her also. He said she should have known where Mary Agnes and her friends were at all times, that it is her responsibility to “protect my niece” as well as her own daughter. The woman was shocked. Speechless. Looked at my uncle like he was a lunatic. She apologized over and over, and finally, we left. I am so embarrassed, Alex.
Anyway, Marie Claire, my aunt, saved me as she does so often. She calmed my uncle down, let hi
m see that this was not the end of the world. “Girls need their friends,” she said. (Of course, she has no idea that not all of my friends are girls!) After much talk, she convinced him not to punish me. For now.
But I’m afraid that seeing each other will only become more difficult. I really like you, Alex. I want to see more of you. But we are going to have to be even more careful. I don’t want to get into trouble. And I don’t want to hurt Tonton Pierre, either. He is only doing what he considers his duty. I don’t want to keep lying to him. It feels wrong, and bad. Even mean.
I will continue to write you, though, stopping by our Gran Bwa on my way home from school each day. And if any creative ideas come from your brilliant mind, please know that I am ready to hear them. I would like to see you again.
Soon.
Bisous (this mean “kisses” en français, but you must know this already?),
Bijou
22
Brainstorming Masterpieces
“Don’t worry,” Mary Agnes says. “There’s always Musicale.”
She, Maricel, and I are sitting along the back wall of the cafeteria, enjoying the sun coming through the large windows and eating meatballs in a gooey white sauce. Many West Indians, especially Jamaicans, are vegetarians. Another few months of St. Catherine’s lunches, and I might have to join them.
“Tell me, what is Musicale, again?” I ask. In the last week, everyone seems to be talking about it, like it’s the answer to peace and global happiness. But no one ever takes the time to explain what it actually is.
“It’s a chance to show your talent to the whole school,” Mary Agnes says. “To both schools.”
“Is it, how do you say … mandatory?” I ask.
Mary Agnes and Maricel exchange looks. “Well, not technically,” Mary Agnes says. “But who wouldn’t want to? It’s our only cool tradition.”
“Basically, it’s an excuse for boys and girls to make out in the catacombs,” Maricel says.
“That, too,” Mary Agnes says, giggling. “Well, that, primarily. Especially now, since your grumpy uncle has made your love life so difficult.”
“Love life?” I say. “I don’t want a love life.” I wish she would not make fun of Tonton Pierre. If I am going to have to deceive him, I certainly don’t want to talk about it in front of the whole world. And Mary Agnes is not always so generous as she seems. She’s looking for ways to be with the boy she likes, too, but she is too afraid to ask him on a “solo date.”
“Anyway, back to the topic,” Maricel says. “It’s pretty much free-form. You pick your group—groups are encouraged, because there are only ten soloists allowed, and those are usually musical-prodigy types who spend all their non-school time practicing piano or whatever—write up a one-paragraph summary of what you’re going to do, then submit it to the Musicale Committee.”
“That’s Mr. Sinclair, from St. Chris’s,” Mary Agnes says. “And Ms. Alonzo, our music teacher.”
“They have a thing for each other,” Maricel says.
“They totally do, and get this: they’re the Musicale practice monitors,” Mary Agnes says. “Which means we spend more time flirting in the catacombs than we do brainstorming masterpieces.”
“What are the catacombs?” I ask.
“This building is superold, and there’s a network of, like, underground tunnels that somebody dug here a long time ago,” Maricel says.
“That sounds … scary,” I say.
“It’s not,” Mary Agnes says. “In the olden days, monks prayed down there or something. But the school fixed them up a few years ago, and now it’s like a nice, finished basement. Lots of practice rooms for … brainstorming.”
“For example, flirting and/or making out with cute boys,” Maricel says.
“Yep,” Mary Agnes says. “Lots of narrow hallways, and twists and turns to get lost in. And nice, hygienic spots to pursue both musical and nonmusical interests.”
“You two are both terrible!” I say.
“Okay, now that that’s been established,” Mary Agnes says, “what are we going to do?”
“I say we go for something cross-cultural,” Maricel says. “Like a mash-up. I can work on my DJ skills.”
“Absolutely,” Mary Agnes says. “Sinclair and Alonzo will love that. They’re having a cross-cultural romance of their own, after all. And what are we, if not diverse? We’ve got a white girl, a Haitian, a couple Dominicans, and the cutest Japanese boy in Brooklyn.” She winks. So silly. “Bijou, didn’t you say Alex is pretty good on that Haitian drum thingy?”
“Yes, he’s not bad.” I can’t help but smile. He was so cute, drumming with his eyes closed, like my brother and his friends.
“And you can dance, right?” Mary Agnes’s eyes open wide. Her excitement always scares me a little bit. She could have played a role in Terror Lake.
I frown, imagining myself performing Haitian traditional dance for several hundred Episcopal middle school students and their families.
Ms. Barrington, my English teacher, lets our seventh-period study hall out early, so I get to leave school at two forty-five. This is good. I can use the extra time to stop by the Gran Bwa to drop off my letter to Alex (and see if he’s left anything there for me!), and still be home early. Pierre won’t be home until after six, but Marie Claire will, and she will be expected to give her husband the most detailed of reports on my comings and goings, especially since last Saturday.
What a lucky thing to have some extra time! I have promised Marie Claire I would pick up her dry cleaning on Flatbush before meeting Jou Jou at Guillaume’s. I decide to walk by St. Christopher’s to see if, by chance, Alex and I might go together. He doesn’t even know I will stop by our Gran Bwa, or that I’m going to sit in on his lesson.
Alex is not here, but I do spot another couple of boys lingering on the front steps. I try not to make eye contact with them, but it’s too late; they’ve already looked up. No, no, no. It’s Rocky and Trevor.
“Hey, Bijou,” says Rocky.
Then Trevor stands up. “I’ll catch you tomorrow, Rock,” he says.
“You sure you know what you’re doing, man?” the spiky one asks.
“Watch and learn.” Do they think I cannot hear them? Or do they simply not care?
“Hey, wait up a second,” the tall one calls out to me. Do I just keep on walking? Ignore him completely?
“It’s Bijou, right?” he asks. I force him to walk alongside me; I do not make extra room for him on the sidewalk. “You remember me, from the dance? I’m Trevor.”
“I remember,” I say. “So?” My attitude toward him is not cold. It is subfreezing.
“Oh, I get it, totally,” he says. “That was a completely uncool situation. But I wasn’t really the one giving Schrader a hard time. That was Rocky, remember?” He puts on a sad face. “I guess I need to start picking better friends.”
“You don’t need to start with me. There are lots of other people you can make friends with.” The subway is only two blocks away, on Clark Street. I have no idea where this Trevor lives, but I pray he leaves me at the station. If I have to sit with him on the train, I’ll go crazy. Why did Ms. Barrington have to let us out early again?
“Listen, we got off to a wrong start, and I’m sorry about that,” the boy says, brushing back his hair behind his ear. He knows he is handsome, which makes him almost ugly. To me, anyway. “But I’m not the guy you think I am. I’m actually pretty nice.”
“Are you nice to Jenna?” I ask. “She’s your girlfriend, right?”
“I never know with her.” Again, the sad face. “Sometimes she is, sometimes she isn’t.”
“Well, I’m not looking for any new friends.” At last, the Clark Street station is only another half block. “And I’m in a hurry to get home, so—”
Then, out of nowhere, Trevor grabs my hand. “Stay and talk for a second,” he says.
“What are you doing?” I say, yanking my hand away.
“Hey, sorry, I didn’t mean it lik
e that.” He smiles. “I … really like you.”
“Well, thank you, but it’s not polite to reach for a girl’s hand, unless it’s offered to you first.” Finally, the elevator. Unless this rich-looking white boy plans on following me to “scary” Flatbush, I only just have time to reach our Gran Bwa and still get to Monsieur Guillaume’s.
“Is this what you did with Alex?” he asks. “Play hard to get?”
I don’t respond, but I’m sure he can see the look of disgust on my face.
Suddenly, Jenna appears beside him. “Hey,” she says, shoving him while giving me a dirty look. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you.”
“Well, you found me.” Trevor smiles, taking her hand.
I turn away and step into the elevator. I cannot escape from these two soon enough.
“What were you doing, talking to her?” I hear Jenna say behind me.
“I wasn’t ‘talking to her.’ I just ran into her on my way to the newsstand in the station. They’re the only place that carries sour-cream-and-onion Utz.”
I’m looking down into the station, so I don’t see or hear Jenna’s reaction. The elevator takes me down, down, down, away from this boy, away from his foolish games. I shake my head, thinking about Jenna. Now she will hate me even more, and for nothing.
Please God, tell me that, deep inside, not all boys are like this. Because I am on my way to see a boy right now who is quite different.
23
Lessons
As I’m leaving school, I run into Rocky and Angela. They’re lounging out on St. Chris’s front steps, where they always hang out, draped over each other, lazily smacking gum.
“Hey, here comes the big man,” Rocky says, leaning back against the steps. He toys with Angela’s hair. She swats at his hand, like the girl from Terror Lake. “How’s that little girlfriend of yours?”
“Bijou?” Darn, I shouldn’t have said her name. Now I’ve put a target on Bijou’s back. And mine, too.
“She’s adorable,” Rocky says in that voice where you can’t tell whether he’s being serious or not. Angela flashes him a look. “I mean, she’s not a goddess, like you, but she’s … interesting.”
