A Summer of Kings (28 page)

I felt his eyes on my back while I climbed the stairs. It was a narrow staircase with poor lighting so I suppose Monsieur Vichy could just have been holding the door and watching me to make sure I arrived at the top without any more mishaps, but I didn't think so.

I hurried up the steps, tripping near the top and almost dropping the thermos, and then finally I burst through the top door and shouted down, "Thanks, again," and rushed through the servants' quarters and down the hallway to my room.

I stashed the egg back in the sack, and the sack and thermos with my other things in the beach bag, tossed it onto my bed, and then fell onto the bed next to it, panting and waiting for my heart to stop pounding in my ears. My whole body trembled. I felt frightened from defying my parents, and frightened about what I had planned to do, and frightened that Monsieur Vichy had guessed about the trip and was right that minute telling my parents all about it.

I heard footsteps in the hallway, but my heart beat so loudly I couldn't tell whose footsteps they were.

Then I heard a knock on my door.

I sat up. "I—I'm busy. Go away. I'm—I'm getting dressed," I said, grabbing a shirt off the floor and throwing it on over the shirt I already had on so that I would be telling the truth.

"It is I, Esther. It is Monsieur Vichy."

Monsieur Vichy! He knows! He had probably already told my parents. Or maybe he was coming to gloat about it first, to torment me with it.

I felt panicked. I saw the beach bag lying on the bed and I grabbed it and said, "Just a minute."

I tried to toss it under the bed, but it got stuck and I had to get down on my hands and knees and push it under. "Just a minute," I said again.

Then I remembered that I had shoved my French notebook under the bed and I thought about my play. Maybe he had just come for the play! It was the end of August, almost. Well I would just show him the play. I would distract him with the play.

"I'm coming," I shouted.

I reached under my bed for my notebook with the two lines of my play in it. I stood back up, tried to straighten out the page with my sticky, sweaty, nervous hands, and then, at last, I opened the door.

"Here you go," I said, shoving the notebook in his hands.

"But what is zis?"

"My play. There it is."

"Your play? But it is just—"

"You were right, Monsieur Vichy. Once again, you were right. Esther is
tres stupide, non
? The family scandal,
non?
"

"I only—" he began.

I exploded, my arms flailing about, giving myself a
chance to expend some of my nervous energy and distract Monsieur Vichy at the same time. "How am I supposed to write a play when I know nothing about the world? I don't get it at all. Like, for instance, the other day, the day of the show, I thought it was going to be a beautiful, perfect day. I thought Mother would see me dance and ... and she'd see me. She'd see
me,
Monsieur Vichy. I thought Pip would come over and King-Roy would still be here, and I thought we would all go to Washington." I blushed when I said the word
Washington.
I shouldn't have said it, I shouldn't have reminded him. I continued, trying to cover up, "But... but you see, what do I know? I know nothing. I'm too stupid. So how can I write a play?"

"So you gave up," Monsieur Vichy said in this matter-of-fact way, as if he had just said, "So, have some toast."

"I'm just admitting that you were right."

"But no," Monsieur Vichy said, shaking his head. "I do not sink I was right at all. Zee first step in understanding anysing is knowing what it is you do not know. It is zee one who believes he knows everysing who knows nossing. I see you have learned a great deal zis summer, and so have I, Esther dear."

That stopped me in my tracks, Monsieur Vichy calling me
dear.
I stared at him, stunned.

"You will write your play, Esther. You will write about zis summer, eh?"

"But I don't know—"

Monsieur Vichy shook his head and waved his hand at me. "A writer doesn't write because he knows; he writes because he wants to find out."

"Find out what?"

Monsieur Vichy tucked my notebook under his arm and pulled a fresh cigar out of his breast pocket and unwrapped it. "What it is you do not know, my dear. You write to find out what you do not know." He stuffed the wrapper in his pants pocket and the cigar in his mouth.

"But how do you do that?" I stepped in closer to Monsieur Vichy. I really wanted to know.

"You simply write. Tell your story of zis summer and you will see zat you know more zan you realized."

"I just tell the story?"

Monsieur Vichy nodded and handed me back my notebook. "
Oui,
yes, just tell the story. Zen we will see."

I looked down at my two sentences and imagined starting over and writing about King-Roy and Pip and going to Harlem and learning to tap dance, and then I looked up at Monsieur Vichy and I smiled. "1 think I'd like to tell that story."

"But of course," Monsieur Vichy said, nodding. "But zat is not why I have come here. I did not come for your play."

"You didn't?" My heart skipped a beat.

"Esther, I have judged you incorrectly."

"You have?" I backed up and sat down in my desk chair. My legs felt too shaky for me to stay standing.

He nodded. "I have been watching you zis summer, and what I have seen has surprised me, indeed."

"It has?"

"Esther, you are a girl of great passion—zis I have known—but I have wondered in which direction zis passion would go. I sought perhaps you were a silly girl, driven by frivolous whims, but I have seen zat, in truth, you were just casting about for a sing worthy of your passion, a sing worthy of your energy."

"Oh," I said, and blushed.

"When you spoke to your father about zee march, I saw you had given great thought to zis idea and zee principles behind it."

I nodded. "Yes," I said, feeling suddenly defensive. "I have. When I went to Harlem, that time—that time I came home late and everybody was so angry with me—well, that's what started it. I think if everybody in this family could just go there and see how people are living, how poor they are because of how white people have cheated them, well, then, maybe
then
they'd see how important this march in Washington is."

I stared down at my bare feet and thought of the poor children down in Harlem who walked the dirty streets barefooted, and I looked back up at Monsieur Vichy, who was standing there rubbing at his big belly, and I asked, "Have you ever been to Harlem?"

Monsieur Vichy shook his head. "Never. But now I will have to go,
non?
Maybe you will go with me?"

"Yes. Yes, I will," I said, feeling confused but pleased.

"
Bien,
" he said, nodding and removing his unlit cigar from his mouth and staring at it a second. "But zat is not all I wanted to say to you. I thought, also, you did a very good job of planning and producing your show zee other afternoon.
Très bien! Très bien!
I did not know, even, zat you could dance."

"King-Roy taught me," I said.

Monsieur Vichy nodded and rolled his cigar between his thumb and forefinger. "
Oui.
He was good, also. He was very good; I could tell." Monsieur Vichy paused, and then he said, "I sink, Esther, zat you are a girl of many hidden talents,
non
? Our little Stewart has been telling me zat perhaps you act, as well, or perhaps directing is more your forte, like your papa. "

I felt myself blush, and I dropped my head forward, letting my hair fall into my face.

"What I know is zis: You have convinced me, my dear, zat zis march is
très
important. I have learned from you, you see. And I believe now zat I must go to Washington."

I lifted my head and saw Monsieur Vichy smiling at me, his little brown eyes twinkling behind his pince-nez.

"But I have
un petit
problem, you see," he continued. "I feel I should need an escort. I need an American escort."

I jumped up from my chair. "Me? You need me? To go to Washington?"

"But of course, it is you. Who else would do?"

"Really? To Washington?" I threw my arms around
Monsieur Vichy. "Thank you! Oh, thank you! I take back all the mean things I ever said or thought about you. Thank you!"

"Esther, you are choking me," Monsieur Vichy said, patting at my back.

I let go and grinned at him with tears in my eyes.

Monsieur Vichy smiled back at me, and after straightening out his slightly squished cigar, he said, "Now, we will need to get to sleep early because we will have to leave very early in zee morning. Agreed?"

I nodded and clapped my hands.

"
Bien
. I will come wake you when it is time, zen."

Monsieur Vichy turned to leave, but I called him back.

"
Oui?
" he said.

"I—uh—you're a good person, Monsieur Vichy. I just wanted to say thank you ... again."

Monsieur Vichy bowed. "It is
I
who sank
you,
my dear." He backed out the door and I closed it behind him. Then I took a flying leap onto my bed and jumped up and down on it with sheer joy in my heart. I was going to Washington.

I didn't know if Monsieur Vichy had guessed that I had planned to go to Washington on my own or not, but after he left, I noticed that my letter to my parents, written in gigantic letters so they wouldn't miss it, had been sitting on the desktop, right in front of Monsieur Vichy the whole time he was in my room. I saw it clear as day while I was jumping on my bed. I jumped off and tore the letter into little pieces and threw it away. Then I pulled my beach bag out from under the bed, and dug into my chest of drawers for the clothes I would wear, and set all of this out on my desk, ready for the morning.

I felt so excited about the trip to Washington, I couldn't sleep. I grabbed my transistor radio, turned it on, and set it down close to my head on my pillow.

It seemed that every song that came on that night was meant for me. I heard, "Those Lazy Hazy Crazy Days of Summer," and "Our Day Will Come," and "I Will Follow Him," and "Can't Get Used to Losing You," and "Cast Your Fate to the Wind," and "Big Girls Don't Cry," and I cried through all of them. I cried because I was happy; then I cried because I was sad and missing
King-Roy and Pip and even Laura and Kathy. I moved my radio off my pillow because I had cried so much I had gotten my pillow wet and I thought I might electrocute myself. I tucked the radio under the sheet and listened to more songs and cried. The later the night got, the slower and sadder the songs became, and at long last I found myself drifting off to sleep to the heartbreaking song "Blue on Blue."

My dreams that night frightened me. I dreamed I was at the march, standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial with my arms raised, when someone came up from behind me and clubbed me over the head. Then I dreamed I got trampled by the crowd, and then I dreamed a fireman with glowing red eyes aimed his hose at me and fire came out and burned half my body. Between each dream I would wake up, remember the dream, and then fall back to sleep. The last dream I remembered having, I dreamed I met Martin Luther King Jr. and he looked just like King-Roy.

Then I heard someone whispering to me, "Esther. Esther, wake up."

I opened my eyes. It was still dark out. I looked at the form in front of me, blinking a few times.

"Pip?" I said, trying to decide if I was awake or asleep.

"Yeah, it's time to get up."

I rubbed my eyes. "Are we going running?"

"No, silly, we're going to Washington."

I sprung out of bed. "Washington! I have to get
dressed. I have to meet Monsieur Vichy. I have to get—" I stopped and looked at Pip.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, starting to come to my senses.

"I'm going with you to Washington. I'm going to march."

"Pip!" I hugged him. Then I stood back and said, "I had decided you hated me forever. You didn't come to our show."

"I was jealous," Pip said. He switched on my bedside light and we both blinked at each other. "I was jealous of you and King-Roy," Pip said.

"But you can't be jealous. You have Randy. You're going steady with her. I'm the one who's jealous." I grabbed my clothes off of my desk and went into my closet.

"You are?" Pip followed me and stood just outside the door.

I stuck my head outside the closet. "Pip, we need to get things straightened out about us."

"I don't," Pip said. "I'm in love with you, Esther, and I always will be."

"But what about Randy?" I asked. I looked down and noticed I had buttoned my dress wrong and had to unbutton it and start all over.

"We're not going steady. I mean, we were, for a day, but I knew I was just trying to get you out of my mind. I wasn't really interested in Randy and she wasn't interested in me."

I pulled on a pair of shorts under my dress, the way I always did when I went to school, and stepped out of the closet and looked at Pip. "But she's so pretty," I said.

Pip nodded. "She was really pretty at first, but you know what, she got boring to look at really fast. Her face never changed. Once you saw it, well, that was it. Pretty once; boring twice." Pip shrugged.

I laughed. "Pip, I love you, but I guess what I'm afraid of is that if we decided to be boyfriend and girlfriend, then in a year or two, it would all be over and then I wouldn't have you as a friend anymore."

"We'll always be friends, Esther."

"We almost weren't this whole summer, Pip." I slipped on a pair of sandals because I had torn at the holes in my sneakers so much over the past few days, they were almost unwearable.

I continued with Pip. "So I think maybe if we just stay friends for now, then later, when we're older, when it counts more, if we're still, well, interested in each other, then we could do something like go steady."

I grabbed my beach bag off of my desk and checked inside to make sure I had everything. I slipped a comb into the bag so I could comb out my hair in the car.