Romancing the Dark in the City of Light (6 page)

Poor guy. He has no idea that she has nothing to lose.

He takes two quick steps toward her as if to compensate for his delay. More skinny homies, looking amused, slink up and surround them. Now he’s feeling braver and rattles off a bunch of chipped and broken-sounding French, an ugly sneer on his face. The others laugh.

Adrenaline courses through her veins, as she fleetingly wishes she were her old weight.
Never corner something that’s meaner than you are,
her dad used to say.

A half dozen guys inch closer. She probably can’t vanquish them all but she could do some damage. She’s threatened people numerous times, but has only come to blows twice. The possibility of sexual violence distracts her. Six on one. But surely not here on the sidewalk in front of the M
é
tro entrance in broad daylight. Although pedestrians are now keeping clear of them.

She steps toward him, watching herself move in slow motion. Every detail of the scene assaults her senses—garlic and grilled onions from a nearby restaurant, diffuse gray light reflecting off the chrome of a parked Honda, the guy’s hi-def patchy facial hair, his flickering eye movements.

“In that case, don’t forget to FOOK your
MAMAN
.” She pronounces
maman
with her best accent so he is sure to understand. He does, and snarling, fumbles to grab at something in his jacket. Fortunately, it’s extremely unlikely to be a gun here. And she has a Swiss Army knife in her pocket. She can slash them with the corkscrew. Plus her flask is in an inner coat pocket over her heart, so at least if they stab her there, they’ll bounce back.

Summer assumes her tae kwon do fighting stance.

THIRTEEN

“Summer!”

“Moony!” Summer cries. He’s at the top of M
é
tro stairs. “These turkeys are annoyed that I’m not covered up with one of those … long
black things
!” She fails to smooth the shake in her voice. “Oh yeah, I did
clash
them and their moms.”
Clasher
is a slang French verb she picked up.

The gang collectively observes Moony’s limp and posture like the pack dogs they are. If they try anything with him, she vows to pop their eyes out.

Moony rattles off something in Arabic. They frown and look back at her. Summer holds her stance and lifts her chin. Moony pats his coat pocket and keeps talking, now in French that flies over her head. They look alarmed, exchange glances, and slink away.

Summer lets her breath out. “What did you say?” she demands when he reaches her side.

He scowls at her. “You mean ‘Thanks for saving my butt.’”

“I was doing fine.”

“Think so?” His right arm hangs, but he’s shaking his left hand in her face. “Outta your mind?”

“They started it. They wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“You really can’t back down,” he states.

“Look, it’s my training.
Sell
chicken, don’t
be
one.”

“What?”

“My family is—was—in the chicken business.”

He shakes his head. “Oh. Right. Explains stupidity.”

“I don’t need someone to protect me!”

Moony looks at her like that’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. “Everyone needs someone to watch their back.”

She blinks. “Whatever. So what did you tell them?” She is kind of drained.

“You’re my violently insane cousin. Have your medication here.” He pats his pocket and the left corner of his upper lip pulls suspiciously toward a smile.

Her mouth drops open. Then she laughs, and pulls out her flask. She offers it to Moony. “Just a splash? To calm our nerves.”

“No, thanks.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” She takes two sips then puts it away. “And, um, thank you.” She does totally appreciate that he had her back. Plus it’s just nice to be near him.

Moony says, “‘Black things’ Muslim women wear, for modesty, are
abayas
. Men cover their heads and wear long
thobes,
too. In the Gulf.”

“I know
why
they wear them. I just didn’t know what they’re called.”

He herds her in the direction of the freeway overpass. The flea markets start on the other side of the freeway, la P
é
riph
é
rique. His eyes have dark circles, and his face is pale and pinched. At the risk of another fight, she asks, “Are you okay?”

He sighs, but doesn’t get mad. “Yeah. Rough night.”

“I know what you mean. Post-party penance.”

“No. Not that.”

“Oh.”

They walk at a snail’s pace past dozens of narrow collapsible stalls and blankets spread on the sidewalk. It’s a mini-souk full of used clothes, shoes, cell phone covers, posters, and cheap red, blue, yellow, and white plastic bowls, tubs, and pails. Whiffs of grilled meat and ripe garbage float in the drizzly air.

Something is different about Moony today. His movements are stiffer. He looks sort of beat up. Maybe he’s in pain. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t sleep last night. Jeez.

“You know, we could do this another day,” she says carefully. “What with the sucky weather and all.” The altercation left her feeling a little wrung out. Moony may feel the same. They could just sit in a caf
é
and talk.

“I’m fine.” He frowns, clearly annoyed, then mutters, “Thanks to modern pharmacology.”

“Okay, okay, just checking. What’s on the shopping list?”

He pulls his phone from his jeans pocket and thumbs through a couple of screens. Small white French delivery vans and compact Renault hatchbacks zoom by as they wait to cross the road. The south end of the huge flea market area starts on the other side.

“Clothing, accessories,” he reads. “Rifles.”

“Rifles?” she asks. Maybe they are easy to get at Les Puces.

“Old ornamental ones. Probably too expensive.”

“Oh. But we can check.”

“Antique plate or bowl. One piece to wave around so audience thinks it’s all old. Period clothing. 1910. Ladies’ hats maybe.”

“Isn’t the costume designer in charge of that?” she asks. Graffiti that looks just like American graffiti covers the buildings, the walls, and the overpass above them.

“Yeah, but said I’d look.” The light changes. They step into the street. A guy on a big French scooter rounds the corner and narrowly misses Summer. Moony grabs her arm.

“Truth or dare,” Summer says, taking a chance.

“Truth. I avoid dares.” He smiles.

“Ever been in love?”

“Madly.”

She waits. “Aren’t you going to give me a little more?”

“Frame questions better.”

“Okay, with
whom
were you madly in love and when and what happened?”

“Nurse Sophie. In hospital. Met her my eleventh birthday.” He grins. “Saw me naked.”

“Ha!” Nurse Sophie probably helped give him a reason to recover. Good for her. Summer’s also relieved that he’s not madly in love with petite Jackie-who-fondled-him-at-his-locker.

“You have a distinctive way of talking, you know.”

Moony nods. “Used to be harder. To talk. Habit. Your turn.”

“No, it’s cool. Efficient,” she says. They enter a covered walkway that goes past dozens of bright antique stores full of crystal chandeliers and massive wood and gilt furniture. “Um. Truth.”

“Same question.”

She hesitates, but knows she can trust him with the story. Wants to trust him with it. “It was more of an infatuation, hardly love, and I was unceremoniously dumped … and humiliated.”

Moony regards her with surprise.

“Remember? I was bigger.” She fills her cheeks with air to show him. “Last June—boarding school number four, for misfits—I had a crush on the debate team cocaptain. Not much to look at, but a very witty guy. Probably sociopathic.”

“Here we go,” says Moony.

This area is open air but covered from the light rain. A stall straight ahead displays stacks of soft piles of mostly white old French quilts, sheets, table linens, and dish towels. A rosy-cheeked woman is folding.

“And?” prompts Moony.

She’s glad he’s still listening. “One evening we, um, hooked up”—she glances at Moony—“then I was scared and avoided him for a couple of days. He dumped me kind of … publicly.” She’s never told anyone the full story and won’t get into all the details now. It’s more complicated. The dickhead posted a horribly unflattering fat photo of her, eyes half-closed, clutching a vodka bottle, with the caption at the top,
DRINKING TO FORGET
 … At the bottom it read,
I’M A SLUT
. He shared it with his 743 friends. At least he got in trouble. But so did she. And at the time, it smashed her to an unprecedented low.

“Turn here,” he says. “Stupid guy.”

“Thanks.” She froze it away months ago. It took awhile, though.

A glint catches her eye across the courtyard to her left. At a stall crowded with gleaming silver candlesticks, bowls, and frames, a man in dark glasses and a fedora hat holds up and examines an ornate flask. It’s exquisite and she’s now dying for a slug from her own. He looks at her, expressionless, then smiles.

It’s Kurt.

Summer stumbles on a crack in the sidewalk and almost pulls Moony down.

“Sorry!” she says. Whoa, what is he doing here?

“What?” says Moony. He turns toward the stall.

Kurt raises a gloved hand. He’s looking at her like at a lavish layer cake.

Moony’s eyes widen.

She nods at Kurt, but turns away. She’s with another friend now. Could he have followed her? He’s as hot as she remembers, but she will not think about him.

“Do you know that guy?” Moony’s eyebrows are low and a scar between them is squeezed into a new shape.

“That’s—I think I met him once. Let’s just move on.” And she drags him the other direction.

FOURTEEN

Late the Saturday morning of the Thanksgiving weekend, Summer sits at her desk organizing her notes and assignments. She has a major French exam on the following Tuesday. Perfect. She texts Moony. She’s been wondering how to see him again.

Can we schedule French tutoring?

Sure. Next week?

ASAP. Test Tues. Today?

I’ve got a football game this p.m.

He means soccer. She knows he’s not playing. Maybe he can miss it. She calls him.

“Hey. You’re going to a game this afternoon?” She’ll talk him out of it.

“Have to. I’m manager.”

“Oh.” He’s so
involved
. “Well. Could we study tomorrow then?”

“Sure.”

“How about four o’clock?”

There’s a pause. Moony says, “Want to come watch the game today?”

“Is the hog’s ass pork?” she says.

“What?”

“It’s a rhetorical question. It means, ‘yes,’” she says. “In Arkansas.”

He laughs. What a great sound. A hum starts in her, warm gold notes in triplicate from violin strings, a cello, and a sax. Like the opening notes of Kentucky’s “Looking for Grace
.
”

Summer waits for Moony on the same corner where she saw the hooker, flanking one of the ubiquitous six-story limestone buildings with black wrought-iron balconies. She repeatedly zips and unzips the navy wool jacket she took from Mom’s closet as she scans the street for her ride. She also pulled her hair back and swiped on some pink lip-gloss for the first time in months. Her stomach aches even though she’s psyched. Probably because she’s psyched.

For some reason, she thinks of an illustration of Pandora from her seventh grade unit on Greek mythology. A wispy girl with pouting lips in a white silky dress, trying to close the lid of the box she’s just opened. At the time, she thought Pandora should have been prosecuted on criminal charges, like a huge oil company, for letting all that shit out into the world. Her twelve-year-old self couldn’t get past the idea of how nice life might have been if Pandora had just minded her own flipping business.

A big American minivan with diplomatic plates stops and the side door opens automatically. Summer smiles when she sees Moony and slides in next to him. In the front is team captain Josh, the jock she met the day she met Moony, and Josh’s mom. In France, no one can get a license until they’re eighteen.

Josh turns around to look at her. “Truce?” he asks.

“Peace,” she says.

But it’s forty-five minutes of excruciating small talk with Josh and his mom out to the burbs and their game with a French team. They park at a gated club in Garches, with sweeping lawns and fields. The day is overcast.

Outside the van, Summer gulps in fresh, cold air, then sees Moony limping toward her from the other side. “What’s up with the cane?” she demands.

“Security blanket. No big deal.”

She’s not sure what he means, but she helps Josh carry a duffel bag of soccer balls and a case of blue sports drinks to their field. Gold leaves from towering trees flutter to the ground as she stands on the sidelines while the team warms up. The game is thinly attended.

Moony talks to the coach, clipboard in hand. He likes clipboards.

The guys gather and at one point Josh glances over at Summer and says something. Everyone turns around. There’s laughter and Moony looks down sheepishly. Perturbed, she looks away.

The whistle blows and the game starts. Moony spreads a bright yellow rain poncho on the damp ground and he and Summer sit. It’s like they’re perched on a giant egg yolk.

As he adjusts his bad leg, his hair swings off his right ear. A clear plastic hearing aid nestles inside.

“What did Josh say that was so funny?” she asks, trying not to stare at his ear.

“Called you my girlfriend.”

“Poll results are in. He’s a jerk.”

“He thinks you’re hot.” He looks at her out from under his dark eyebrows in a way that she knows he thinks so, too. His brown irises have chlorophyll-like flecks of green.

“Dysfunctional way of showing it,” she says, but is surprised. She wishes she could just enjoy the new attention, but it’s hard to forget old defenses.

“He’s got good taste. Speaking of”—Moony pulls a package from his jacket pocket—“Gummy bear?”

“Thanks.” Summer takes a red and a white one. She should have brought her flask. Being with Moony is awesome, but these other people are annoying, ADD jocks on steroids.