Leap of Faith (5 page)

It seemed only moments later when the alarm went off, and she got up quickly. And this time, with no one to see what she did, she helped herself to three slices of toast, with jam, and prayed that her aunt hadn’t counted the number of slices left in the loaf when she put it away after dinner. She knew it was excessive, but she was always hungry.

It was dark when she went outside and walked to the barn, and still dark when she headed down the road in the direction that her aunt had told her. She knew Carole would be up by then, but Marie-Ange didn’t stop in the kitchen to say good-bye. She was wearing a pair of pants and the ugly sweatshirt from the Goodwill store. Her hair was brushed, but for the first time in her life, as she left for school, there was no ribbon in it. There was no Sophie to wave her off, no Robert to make canards of cafe au lait for her, and no kiss or hug from her mother or father. There was only the silence of the Iowa plains, and the darkness, as she headed down the long, lonely road toward the bus stop. She had no idea what the school would be like, or the children there, and she didn’t really care. She couldn’t even begin to imagine having a friend here. Hers was the life of a convict, and her aunt was the jailer.

There were half a dozen children at the bus stop when she arrived, most of them older than Marie-Ange, and one considerably younger, and none of them spoke to her. They just stared at her as they waited, and the sun came up slowly, and reminded her of mornings in Marmouton when she had lain in the grass or under a tree, watching the sky turn pink at dawn. She said nothing to the other kids as they took their seats and the bus took off, and an hour later, they arrived at a long, low, brick building, where other school buses had converged, and students were spilling out everywhere, of all ages. They went from kindergarten to high school, and came from farms within a hundred miles of the school. Marie-Ange’s was by no means the greatest distance. And looking lost, she wandered into the building, and was quickly spotted by a young teacher.

“Are you the Collins girl?” she asked, as Marie-Ange shook her head, not making the connection.

“I am Marie-Ange Hawkins.” They had been expecting a Marie Collins, and it had never dawned on her that her great-aunt would register her under her own name.

“You’re not the Collins child?” The teacher looked perplexed. She was the only new student they were enrolling. All the others had started two weeks before, but she recognized the accent instantly, and led Marie-Ange to the principal’s office, where a balding man with a beard greeted her solemnly and told her which room to go to.

“Sad-looking little thing,” he commented when she left, and the teacher answered him in hushed whispers.

“She lost her whole family in France, and came to live with her great-aunt here.”

“How good is her English?” he asked with a look of concern, and the teacher said that her homeroom teacher was going to test her.

And as they discussed her, Marie-Ange wandered down the hall in the direction she’d been told, and found her classroom filled with children. The teacher was not yet there, and they were a lively bunch, hooting and screaming and throwing paper balls at each other. But no one said a word to her as she sat down at a desk in the back row, beside a boy with bright red hair, blue eyes like her own, and freckles. She would have preferred to sit next to a girl, but there were no empty seats beside them, and no one offered to make room for her.

“Hi,” he said, avoiding her eyes, as she glanced at him, and then at the front of the room as the teacher entered. It took her over an hour to notice Marie-Ange, and then she handed her some papers with questions that were designed to assess her reading, writing, and comprehension in English. It was pretty basic, and Marie-Ange understood most of it, but her answers, when she wrote them, were phonetic. “Can’t you spell?” the boy asked her with a look of surprise when he glanced at her paper. “And what kind of name is that? Maree-Angee?” He pronounced it strangely, and Marie-Ange looked at him with dignity as she answered.

“I am French,” she explained. “My father is American.” She could have said “was,” but couldn’t bear it.

“Do you speak French?” the boy asked, looking perplexed, but suddenly intrigued by her.

“Of course,” she said, with her accent.

“Could you teach me?” She smiled shyly at the question.

“Do you want to know how to speak French?” It seemed funny to her, and he grinned as he nodded.

“Sure. It would be like a secret language, and then no one could understand what we were saying.” It was an appealing idea to both of them, and he followed her outside at recess. He thought her curls and big blue eyes were beautiful, but he didn’t say so. He was twelve, a year older than Marie-Ange, but he had been held back a year after he had rheumatic fever. He had recovered totally, but had lost the year in school, and he seemed to take a protective attitude toward Marie-Ange as he followed her around the schoolyard. He had introduced himself by then, and said his name was Billy Parker, and she had told him how to pronounce her name, his first French lesson, and she giggled at his accent when he said it.

They had lunch together that day, and a few of the others talked to her, but he was the only friend she could claim when she got back on the school bus with him. He lived halfway between school and her great-aunt’s farm, and he said he would come to see her one day, maybe over the weekend, and they could do their homework together. He was fascinated by her, and made plans for her to teach him French on the weekends. He seemed to like the idea, and she loved the prospect of having someone who could speak French with her.

She told him about her parents and Robert the next day, and the accident, and he looked horrified when she told him about her Aunt Carole. “She sounds pretty mean to me,” he said sympathetically. He lived with his parents, and had seven brothers and sisters, they had a small farm and grew corn, and had a small herd of cattle. He said he’d come over and help her with her chores sometime, but she said nothing about him to Aunt Carole, and Aunt Carole asked no questions at night when Marie-Ange finished her chores in the barn. Most of the time, they ate dinner in silence.

It was Saturday afternoon, when Marie-Ange saw Billy ride down the driveway on his bike, and hop off with a wave at her. He had told her he might come by, for his French lesson, and she had hoped he would, but didn’t think he’d really do it. They were talking animatedly where they stood when a shot rang out, and they both jumped like frightened rabbits, and looked instinctively at the direction it came from. Her Aunt Carole was sitting on the porch, in her wheelchair, holding a shotgun. It was inconceivable to either of them that she had shot at them, and she hadn’t, she had fired into the air, but she was looking menacingly at them.

“Get off my property!” she shouted at him, as Billy stared at her, and Marie-Ange began to tremble.

“He is my friend, Aunt Carole, from school,” Marie-Ange was quick to explain, sure that that would solve the problem, but it didn’t.

“You’re trespassing!” she said directly to Billy.

“I came to visit Marie-Ange,” he said politely, trying not to let either of them see how frightened he was. The old woman looked as though she were going to kill him.

“We don’t want visitors, and we didn’t invite you. Get on your bike and get out of here, and don’t come back. You hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, hurrying toward his bike, with a glance at Marie-Ange over his shoulder. “I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to make her mad,” he whispered. “I’ll see you at school on Monday.”

“I’m sorry,” she said as loudly as she dared, and watched him disappear as fast as he could down the driveway, as Marie-Ange walked slowly toward her great-aunt’s wheelchair, hating her for the first time since she had come here. Until then, she had only feared her.

“Tell your friends not to come visiting you here, Marie,” she said sternly. “We don’t have time for little hoodlums hanging around, and you have chores to do,” she said, laying the shotgun across her lap and looking straight at Marie-Ange. “You’re not going to be hanging around with friends here. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Marie-Ange said quietly, and walked back toward the barn to do her chores. But the attack on them, and the fear she’d caused, had only cemented the bond between Marie-Ange and Billy. He called her that night, and her great-aunt handed her the phone with a grunt of disapproval. She didn’t like it, but she didn’t object openly to phone calls.

“Are you okay?” It was Billy. He had worried about her all the way home, the old lady was crazy, and he felt sorry for Marie-Ange. His own family was large and open and friendly, and he could have friends over after chores, anytime he wanted.

“I’m fine,” she said shyly.

“Did she do anything to you after I left?”

“No, but she said I cannot have friends here,” she explained in a whisper after her aunt left the kitchen. “I’ll see you at school on Monday. I can teach you French at lunchtime.”

“Just make sure she doesn’t shoot you,” he said with the solemnity of a twelve-year-old. “I’ll see ya … ‘Bye, Marie-Ange.”

“Good-bye,” she said formally as she hung up, wishing she had thanked him for the call, but grateful for the contact from the outside world. In the barren existence she led, his friendship was all she had now.

Leap of Faith

Chapter 4

The friendship between Billy and Marie-Ange grew over the years into a solid bond that they both relied on. Through their childhood years, they became like brother and sister. And by the time he was fourteen, and she thirteen, their friends began to tease them about it, and asked if they were boyfriend and girlfriend. Marie-Ange always insisted they weren’t. She clung to him like a rock in a storm, and he called her faithfully every night at her Aunt Carole’s. Marie-Ange’s life with her remained as bleak and as gray as it had been from the first moment she saw her. But seeing Billy in school every day, and riding home on the bus with him, was enough to keep her going. And she visited his family as often as she could. Being with them was like taking refuge in a warm safe place. She visited them on holidays, after fulfilling her obligations to Aunt Carole. For Marie-Ange, Billy’s family was her haven. They were all she had now. She didn’t even have Sophie anymore. She had written to Sophie for two years, and was still puzzled by the fact that she had never had a single answer from her. She was afraid that something terrible must have happened to her. Otherwise, Sophie would have written.

In some ways, Billy had replaced Robert for her, if not her parents. And as she had promised to, she had taught him to speak French during lunch and recess. By the time he was fourteen, he was almost fluent, and they conversed with each other in French frequently in the schoolyard. Billy called it their secret language. And her English had improved to the point that she scarcely had an accent. But given her fraternal feelings for him, it was all the more surprising to her when he told her he loved her, one afternoon as they were walking to the school bus. He said it under his breath, with his eyes cast down, and she stopped to stare at him with a stupefied expression.

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said in answer to what he had told her. “How can you say that?” He looked startled by her response – it wasn’t what he had hoped for or expected.

“Because I do love you.” He was saying it to her in French, so the others wouldn’t understand them, and to them, it sounded like a heated argument, as Marie-Ange said, “Oh, alors, t’es vraiment con!” She told him he was a jerk, and then she looked at him and started laughing.

“I love you too. Okay. But like your sister. How can you go and mess everything up between us?” She was determined not to let him risk their friendship.

“I wasn’t trying to do that,” he said, frowning, wondering if he had said it wrong, or perhaps at an inappropriate time, but they had no other time together. He still wasn’t allowed on her great-aunt’s farm, and the only time they had together was in school, or on the school bus. Except for her rare visits to his parents’ farmhouse. It was even harder for them during the summer, when they weren’t in school together. Instead, they would both ride bicycles to a meeting place they had found the year before, and sometimes spent hours by a small stream, sitting there and just talking to each other, about life, their families, their hopes and dreams and their futures. She always said she wanted to go back to France when she was eighteen, and planned to get a job as soon as she was old enough so she could afford to. And once he had said that he wanted to come with her, although for him, the dream was even less likely and more distant.

They rolled along after that, as they had always been, devoted friends and buddies, until the following year in the summer, when they met at their secret hiding place. She had brought a Thermos of lemonade with her, and they had been talking for hours, when he suddenly leaned over and kissed her. He was fifteen, and Marie-Ange had just turned fourteen, and they had been best friends for nearly three years then. And once again, she was startled, when he kissed her, but she didn’t object quite as violently as she had the year before. Neither of them said anything, but Marie-Ange was worried, and the next time they met, she told him she didn’t think it was a good idea for them to do anything to change their friendship. She told him in her innocent way that she was afraid of romance.

“Why?” he asked gently, touching her cheek with his hand. He was growing into a tall, handsome young man, and sometimes she thought he looked a little like her father and brother. And she loved to tease him about his freckles. “Why are you afraid of romance, Marie-Ange?” They were speaking English, because hers was still far superior to his French, although she had taught him well, and he even knew all the important slang expressions, which he knew was going to impress his French teacher in high school. They were both starting high school, at the same school they’d been, in September.

“I don’t want anything to change between us,” she said sensibly. “If you fall in love with me, one day we will be tired of each other, and then we will lose everything. If we stay only friends, we can never lose each other.” It was not entirely unreasonable, and she remained firm about it, although no one who knew them would have believed that. Everyone had always believed that they were boyfriend and girlfriend since their childhood, even Aunt Carole, who continued to make disparaging remarks about him, which always made Marie-Ange angry, although she said nothing to her.