Beautiful Americans (24 page)

I throw my arms around him and his backpack. “I’m so sorry, Zack. Please, please forgive me. I’ll do anything.”

“You treat me like a lapdog, Alex,” Zack says, shaking me off. “Just leave me alone.”

“But Zack.” My voice rises in alarm. “Jay didn’t even hear me! I know he didn’t! No one did.” The TGV train, over an hour late, shudders into the station.

“It doesn’t matter,” Zack says, walking over to the train. “What matters is that he could have, and if he had, there’d be nothing that you could do about it.”

Before we board the train, George taps on my shoulder.

“Yes?” I say, arching one eyebrow at him. I’ve had about as much humiliation as I can take with him today. I just want to get on the train, put something soothing on my iPod, and fall asleep.

George hands me a pack of Gauloises and a free matchbook from the shop where he bought them. “For all the cigs I’ve bummed off you so far this term,” George explains when I look at him questioningly. “I wouldn’t want you to think I don’t pull my weight in this little arrangement of ours.” He gives me a friendly kiss on my forehead. “What do you know? Looks like we’re finally boarding. Catch you later, Al.”

We climb aboard the train, all of us much more mellow than we were when we boarded the train in Paris on Friday. George takes a seat across from Patty and Tina, who are wearing matching new grandpa cardigans with elbow patches

The thing is, I
need
these cigarettes. Smoking is just one of the many expenses quickly draining my teeny bank account at the moment. Not only did George get me a present, he got me something I truly needed.

Olivia plops down next to me, lagging behind the group since she’s been checking her email in the Internet kiosk at the Lyon station.

“Alex!” she announces breathlessly, throwing her arms around me in a jovial hug. “Something amazing just happened! I checked my email—the day I danced on my ankle? When I wasn’t supposed to? There was a scout from the Paris Underground Ballet Theatre there, you know, that Left Bank company you told me your mom went and saw during spring fashion week last year?”

I can hardly follow what she’s telling me. “Yeah? What happened?”

“The scout from the dance troupe—the one who came to my class the day I danced on my ankle when I wasn’t supposed to—she emailed me! They want me for the troupe! They want to
pay
me to dance! And I never even knew I was trying out because I was late, and I’m
never
late! The scout wanted to know why I left in such a rush after the audition!”

“Oh, Olivia!” I congratulate her. “That’s amazing!” I’m genuinely thrilled for her.

“Isn’t it?” she giggles, then hesitates. “I actually got two emails just now. One from the scout, and one from my mom.”

“What did your mom say?” I ask, terrified. Not a letterbomb.

“Well, it’s good news and bad news,” Olivia says. “She’s—my whole family—is coming for Christmas.”

“They are?” I ask. “I thought you were going home to California.”

“I did, too,” Olivia says. She stares off into space. “I really wanted to. It feels like forever since I got to talk to Vince, really talk to him. I was really looking forward to talking to him in person finally.”

I consider this for a moment, then tweak her ponytail. “Livvy. Don’t think about Vince right now. You just got hired by a major dance company! That’s incredible! My mom is going to be so excited for you.” If my mom ever returns my calls, that is.

“It is incredible, isn’t it?” Olivia, says, the smile returning to her face. “Let’s find Zack and tell him the good news!”

“You go,” I say, not wanting to own up that Zack and I are still on the outs. She’ll worry about it too much; she’ll let it take away from her moment in the sun. “I’ll make sure no one takes our seats.”

I tap the pack of Gauloises against the heel of my hand.
These mean something,
I think, jittery with hope.
They have to mean something.

Second Chances

I
am so very sorry to have had to alert you to this situation,” Mme Cuchon apologized when she called M. and Mme “I Marquet into her office last week. It was the Monday morning after the party. “I am afraid that the freedom you have allowed her has backfired a bit. She is perhaps used to more parental guidance than she has had here in France.”

Mme Cuchon continued, “I’m thinking that a fair consequence of Penelope’s behavior would be to suspend her from the weekend field trip to Lyon that we’ll be taking next weekend.”

“No!” I said loudly, feeling suddenly close to tears. “I wanted to go so badly.” And I did. I wanted to see the
traboules
that Mary had told me about—slender, narrow covered passageways that were used by tradesmen since the Middle Ages, and then used by the French Resistance during the Second World War. The
traboules
are one of those things that you have to go to Lyon to see; you can’t just pick up a book and feel like you’ve experienced the history.

“Girls who look like Penelope always attract trouble,
n’est-ce pas
?” Mme Marquet remarked to Mme Cuchon, who looked uncomfortably away.

“We will watch Penelope more closely from now on,” M. Marquet said magnanimously, looking relieved that the meeting was almost over. He gazed at me for a second, and I was shocked to see true fondness, rather than revulsion, in his expression. The Marquets hadn’t even noticed the broken vase, or the dress Alex borrowed for her balcony scene.

No, of course not—it had been Mme Cuchon, with her uncanny ability to sniff out a rat, who intercepted a note passed between the Texan twins about, among other inane things, “how cute George and Drew were to walk us home after the rager at PJ’s.”

“Penelope,” Mme Marquet said, smiling hesitantly at me as I walked into the apartment after PE class that afternoon. “We would like you to come with us to our château next weekend now that you are no longer going to Lyon. We do not wish to leave you home alone again.”

I smiled back uncertainly. “Really?” I asked incredulously. “You’re not mad that I lied to you? And had a party at your house?
Vous n’allez pas vous mettre on colère?”

M. Marquet shook his head. “
Non
,” he said. “You’re not in trouble for lying. What matters to us is that we don’t have discord here in our house. And sometimes that means just keeping our feelings to ourselves rather than drawing out any drama.”

I see.
I’d certainly never heard of this parenting philosophy. But not wanting any problems with the Marquets—ever—I nodded vigorously. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

“Let’s just forget this whole disturbance ever happened,” Mme Marquet said.

Indeed. It must just be the French way of letting things go. And if anyone is jumping at the chance to let go of unpleasant events in their past, it’s most definitely me.

As I got ready for bed that night, I tried to reason with myself the way the Marquets had reasoned with me. Letting things go . . . avoiding drama . . . that’s what I’d done when I left Vermont for Paris, right?

Wrong. It might be one thing to forgive myself for having a house party in an apartment where I’m a yearlong guest. But to abandon your real family the way I did?

I think of the misty fields behind the château, how beautiful the French countryside is. All I know is that I’m so relieved to have a second chance.

 

After breakfast the following Saturday, M. Marquet offers to finally take me for a horseback ride. He helps me saddle up a dark brown horse, buckling all the tack into place and snapping a belt on the velvet-covered riding helmet under my chin.

“What’s the horse’s name?” I ask, petting its soft, furry nose with the back of my fingers.

“
Vanille
,” replies M. Marquet, laughing jovially. I can’t help laughing too. The horse’s fur is so dark that it is almost black.

M. Marquet gallops ahead. I barely know what I’m doing, but Vanille stays astride M. Marquet’s horse. I just hold rigidly to my reins.

“
Regarde!
” M. Marquet shouts, gesturing broadly at the landscape. It’s stunning, like a scene from a fairytale. We’re riding along a bluff, below which stretches the town of Perigeaux and a snakelike river and ravine topped by small, slender bridges called
ponts
in French. The skies are gray today, with a tiny bit of drizzle in the air, but not threatening real rain or snow.

“
C’est magnifique!
” I shout to him. He smiles at me. It seems that he really has forgiven me after all.

When we get back to the house, Mme Marquet greets us at the door to the mud room. “I didn’t realize you were going for a ride with Penelope,” she says crossly to M. Marquet. “We have the hunt this afternoon with the Lafontants. Did you forget?”

“Adele,” M. Marquet goes over to his wife and puts his arms around her. “You know I love to ride. I won’t be too tired for the hunt this afternoon!”

One thing rich Europeans seem to do a lot is go fox hunting with their rich friends, and then have a giant dinner afterward with a bunch of different kinds of meat. Alex had told us about the custom, which grossed out Olivia, who’s a vegetarian. Then Zack had told us how his dad makes him hunt every spring with his uncles and male cousins, and they all have to pray before they kill anything.

“
Tu me rends folle,
” Mme Marquet says in a low voice. “We have so much to do to get ready for the Lafontants. I won’t be able to go with you now.”

“Isn’t that what Marie is for?” M. Marquet asks. Mme Marquet glares at him, then looks at me as if she hadn’t realized I’ve been here this whole time.

“Penelope,” she says, “the gathering tonight is for adults only.”

M. Marquet looks embarrassed. “Adele, you don’t want Penelope to join us?”

“No! This dinner is far too important,” she says.

“It’s okay,” I reassure M. Marquet. “I’d be happy to help you get ready,” I tell Mme Marquet sweetly. “What do you need?”

“Well,” Mme Marquet says generously, “as long as you don’t mind.” She leads me into the kitchen. “Just help Marie with whatever she needs.” She gestures around at the table full of fruit, vegetables, and potatoes. Hanging above the sink is a hock of beef that needs to be cleaned and butchered.

I, of course, want the Marquets to think of me as helpful, and useful, and never, ever as a burden to them. Hell, if they asked me to clean their château from top to bottom, I’d do it with a smile after letting their vase get broken.

“
Merci, cherie,
” M. Marquet says, touching my cheek with his wrinkled hand. “Adele, let’s go dress for the hunt. Did Marie wash my new jodhpurs?” He guides her out of the kitchen. Neither of them looks exactly comfortable in here.

Marie puts me to work chopping chunks of beef for
boeuf bourguignon
—a hearty, delicious beef and vegetable stew served with peeled, boiled potatoes topped with butter and parsley. It’s hard work, and messy. Soon my T-shirt is covered with splatters of meat juice. The cubes I’ve cut are rough and hardly the same size.

“Is this okay?” I ask Marie. She nods.

“Some caregivers you’ve got,” she mutters quietly in French. “At least I’m getting paid for this work. They’ve got you working in here like servile labor.”

I pretend not to hear her, even though the same thought occurred to me as I was tearing cow’s flesh from the bone.

We cook all afternoon in the hot kitchen, washing and peeling vegetables, baking bread and praline cake. By the time Marie excuses me I look like I’m about to be battered and fried myself.

I take a bath in the old tub down the hall from my room, soaking in the steaming water for over an hour. After I’m good and clean, with all the vegetable matter dislodged from my fingernails and soaked out of my hair, I wrap myself in a big towel, lie on my canopied bed, and try and read Annabel’s old copy of
Madame Bovary
I’ve been carrying around with me since she left. Unlike my sister, I’ve never been much of a bookworm. I can’t sit still for long enough.

Downstairs, I hear a car drive up and Marie let in the Lafontants.

Even though I’m not invited to the dinner, I take care to look less rumpled than usual before I head down to my own dinner, left in the oven by Marie, who’ll serve dinner buffet style, then go back to the little caretaker’s cottage she shares with her husband across the pasture from the main house. I’ll eat in the kitchen.

I run a comb through my long hair, shaking it out so that it makes a shiny yellow fan over my shoulders. I brought one of my nicer sweaters with me, a simple black cardigan that I button over my tucked-in white collared shirt in an attempt to look more polished. I wear my cleanest jeans with the least holes in them.

The Lafontants and the Marquets are drinking wine in the dining room, which seems odd to me. I wonder if Mme Marquet was too embarrassed to entertain them in her sitting room, since it’s not as nicely kept up as other parts of the house. I wonder when the last time the Marquets had anyone over socially. I pass by the door to the dining room as quickly as possible to keep myself out of the way.

The trees outside rustle in the windy autumn night, their branches tapping the kitchen windows. Marie is a fantastic cook. Each bite of the
boeuf bourguignon
is absolutely lovely, though it’s a shame to eat something so cozy all by myself.

I think about my horseback ride today, how lucky I am that the Marquets were so forgiving about the party. One of the things I’ve missed about my life in Vermont is being in the outdoors and roaming around the woods by our house. The château is almost like being there, except even more stunningly beautiful.

I wonder how Dave’s doing. In Vermont, there’s probably already frost covering the grass every morning when he wakes up. I bet he’s lonely, wondering where Annabel is, not having my parents’ house to go hang out at. When he realized finally that I don’t know where she is, and I realized things weren’t changing for my parents—they are still facing time, and I’ve still got to get the Marquets to invite me for winter break so I won’t have to go home to Vermont—our conversations dropped off. My desperation to talk to him turned into dread. I figure if there’s more bad news, he’ll email me. Though I’m not sure I could stand any more bad news.