The Casquette Girls (18 page)

Vomit
.

“Burgundy, right?” she asked as she flipped her hair and sashayed to the door. The question had been directed at me.

“Huh?”

“You live on Burgundy Street, right? Tomorrow. Seven a.m. sharp. Bring coffee.” Before committing to the exit, she turned back and winked at Gabe. He returned a small wave.

I was stunned.
Did Désirée Borges really just offer me a ride to school? Maybe she isn’t so bad after all?

Gabe leaned on the counter, posing, and turned to me. “Well, she seems like trouble.”

“
S
i
, she scares me.”

We both laughed, and then he looked me straight in the eyes. “She’s nothing that you can’t handle, Adele.” It felt genuine, like he had finally stopped performing.

“
Grazie, Gabriel.”

“
Prego
. Until we meet again.”

October 22
nd

Cleaning out my new room had turned into a constant treasure hunt, always ending with something beautiful and vintage as a reward. I had been excited when I first found the little brass clock hidden amongst the junk in the closet, but now, as I lay in the dark, the ticking noises felt like the prelude to my execution. I imagined myself smashing the alarm clock against the wall.

Breath
e
.

Most of the night had been spent like this – suffering the first-day jitters for the third time in one semester. It wasn’t humane. My mind time-warped to Paris and reminded me of how pathetic I had felt lying in my dorm room, terrified of the sun rising. I had been so jealous of my Romanian roommate, who lay peacefully asleep while my pulse raced. But Paris was different: over there, everyone had just cause to prejudge me; I was the foreigner invading their land of wealth and glamour. Feeling like a foreigner in my hometown was so much worse.

I rolled over. 5:12 a.m.

As soon as I groaned, the cute little alarm clock went flying into the fresh paint job.

“Shit!” I sat up. All three lamps snapped on.

I hope the clock isn’t broke
n
.

I looked over at the small pile of things I’d destroyed in the last week. This parlor trick – ability, whatever you call it – was out of control, and one more reason I had new-school anxiety.

Now that my nerves were fired up, I conceded to the day’s events, stood, and stretched, forcing my skin to embrace the chill in the air.

* * *

Legs shaved, skin moisturized, and hair tamed, I pressed the power button on the boom-box, not caring if it was too loud for six in the morning. I didn’t care if it woke my father; he had no reason to be out all night given the curfew. Plus, as far as I was concerned, having to go to Sacred Heart was entirely his fault.

“Add one more tally to the dead-body count,” came the DJ’s voice through the speaker. I turned to look at it as he continued: “The N.O.P.D. still doesn’t have anything to say about these recently reported crimes.”

He went on about the lack of aid from the federal government.
Ugh
. Listening to people rant about our demise wasn’t going to help my anxiety. The tuner knob spun until the voices of people shouting were drowned out by a boy band crooning about how beautiful I was. I walked to the full-length dressing mirror for a self-assessment.

I looked a little skinnier than usual, easily attributed to my meager diet of oatmeal, red beans ’n rice, and coffee. I hadn’t eaten a piece of meat or a vegetable since my transatlantic meal on the plane, if that even counted as real food. My loose waves fell several inches past my shoulders now, much longer than they had been at the beginning of summer – before the Storm, when life was normal. Back when Brooke and I were still planning out our entire junior and senior years.

I moved to the metal garment rack usually reserved for in-progress designs. Now there were just two hangers: on one hung layers of tulle covered in hand-stitched beading, and on the other were various layers of blue, white and gray. Three months ago I would have had trouble guessing which one was my Halloween costume.
We couldn’t buy milk or find someone to fix our wall, but Sacred Heart had managed to get me monogrammed uniform
s
.

I shimmied on the scratchy polyester skirt and buttoned up the collared shirt. My white bra easily showed through the thin, white cotton.

“That doesn’t seem very Catholic schoolgirl-like to me.”

Over went the navy-blue cardigan with A.L.M. embroidered over my heart.

I had never worn a uniform in my life. Even my boarding school in Paris didn’t require them, hence the multiple shopping sprees with
ma grand-mère
. On the bright side, the uniform should make it easier to blend in. Taking cues from an old Britney Spears video, I pulled on a pair of white knee socks and laced up the saddle Oxfords. I actually kind of liked the contrasting black and white leather shoes.

No amount of concealer dabbing was going to cover the dark circles under my eyes, nor had my prayers been answered about my battle wound miraculously fading overnight. Self-consciousness made my hand shake as I swept powder over the ugly pink line on my cheek. Two layers o
f black mascara. Light pink lip-gloss. Silver chain. I knotted my hair up into a messy bun on top of my head and started to feel more like myself.

Am I even allowed to wear jewelry?
I wondered as I tucked the
gris-gris
underneath my shirt. I picked up the box my mother had stealthily hidden in my suitcase and tried to suppress the angst that rose whenever I thought about her.
It’s an heirloom from your paternal side
, I reminded myself and popped the box open. The ring’s style was unlike anything I had ever seen: an opaline stone nested into a thick silver medallion, like a giant pearl in an oyster shell, encircled by an intricately engraved border.

Light caught the milky, iridescent stone as I slid the ring on my middle finger. The metal was warm against my skin. For a moment, I wondered what era it was from and suddenly found myself silently thanking my mother. Maybe it was the pop music (I never would have admitted it, if it was), or maybe it was residual effects from the warm bath, but I felt a bit better.
Maybe I would actually make friends? Maybe I would forget about Émil
e
…
I drew the navy-blue tie under my collar and snapped it into an X.

When I went back to the mirror, I waved my hand just to make sure the reflection belonged to me, and then texted a photo to Brooke so she could get a good laugh upon waking – maybe it would get her to call me back. I hadn’t heard from her since our initial call, which felt strange since there was no longer an ocean and several time zones between us. She was probably mad at me for not moving to L.A., or she had adjusted to her new life and was out living it up every day. Or she had already forgotten about me…

I tossed my notebook, Kafka, and some pens into a black canvas tote bag and felt unusually light not being weighed down with art supplies. My keys flew from across the room and fell gently into my palm. That was it. There was nothing else I could procrastinate with. The day was officially starting. I slipped out the front door to hold up my end of the carpool deal. Coffee.

* * *

I beat the sunrise, although I wasn’t so sure it was a race I wanted to win. A glance at my watch assured me the sun would soon make an appearance.

S
mall flames flickering in the gas lamps on houses led the way through the low-hanging fog, not that I needed them. I could do the walk to Café Orléans in my sleep. Regardless, it felt strange to be out in the semi-dark after being cooped up every night since we had been back in the city. The silence contributed to freaking me out – no bars closing up, no drunken idiots yelling, no sounds of garbage trucks disposing last night’s glut. My usual sense of familiarity with the route was lost.

Chills invaded my body like a virus, giving me the sense that I wasn’t alone. I pulled my cardigan closed and hustled down the last two blocks. By the time I fumbled the keys into the lock and shoved the door closed, paranoia had engulfed me.

Chill out
.
You’re just nervous about schoo
l
.

I dropped my stuff on the floor and went straight to the giant wall of beans. While I contemplated which type to brew, the gas lamp’s soft light flooding in through the window flickered, as if temporarily obstructed. A quick glance showed nothing suspicious outside.

I focused back on the task at hand and carefully lifted the jar of dark-roasted Kenyan beans, but another break in the light made my heart freeze.

I walked to the large bay window and scanned the street in both directions.
No one, not even a rat.

With one look at the door, the brass deadbolt snapped into the locked position. I hurried through the process of measuring, grinding and filtering the beans, and then the machine hummed on, leaving me with nothing to do but wait for the coffee to drip.

I glanced out the window repeatedly.

It wasn’t until the first rays of morning sun peeked underneath the door and the delicious scent of freshly brewed dark roast filled the air that the knot in my stomach began to untangle.

6:42 a.m. Perfect. Plenty of time before seven.
Wait, what if she doesn’t turn up? What if she had only offered the ride to score brownie points with Gabe
? I really didn’t want to have to wake up my father to get a ride. I didn’t want to start the day begging him to reconsider.

Quickly, I glugged sugar-free vanilla syrup into one of the cups, as if getting Désirée’s coffee order correct might give me some kind of good juju, and then proceeded out the front door. Between my bag and the two warm cups, my hands were full. I willed my keys out of my cardigan pocket and into the lock.

“
Voil
à
!
”
The door locked, and the keys dropped back into my sweater
.“
Merci beaucoup
.”

Each click of my heels made by the brand-new saddle Oxfords seemed to echo louder and louder down the desolate street. My pace quickened as the thought of Désirée arriving early and leaving without me chewed at my nerves.

One block later, I suddenly wasn’t so sure if the clicking on the pavement was coming from my shoes alone.

I glanced behind me.

No one.

But as I continued to walk, the sounds seemed a little sharp for my flats. I stopped short to convince myself it was in my head, but the staccato click lasted an extra step.

I started walking again. Faster.

The second set of steps followed suit, no longer trying to hide under the cover of my loud shoes. I contemplated breaking into a run but worried it would make me appear more victimlike.

The rising sun forced me to squint.

Lost in my escalating hysteria, I turned the corner sharply and smacked right into a tall, hooded figure. I fell backwards, but before I hit the ground, his arm swept underneath my back. My arms reflexively shot around his shoulders as he aggressively yanked me into his chest to keep me from falling.

I tried to regain my balance and back away, but his arms enclosed me, trapping me in the awkward embrace. “Let me g—”

“Shhh
!” he hissed.

All I could see was the blinding dawn over his shoulder. Again, I tried to break away, but his hand slipped tightly over my mouth. That’s when I realized he was listening.

Like a hunter.

The sharp clicking of heels against cement was still approaching.

My heart pounded with fear, but his intense interest in the person following me brought an unexplainable sense of relief.

I craned my neck sideways and caught the silhouette of a woman with a hooded cloak passing us on the other side of the street.

She turned back and flashed a twisted smile, like she meant to taunt him, and a low growl came from the back of his throat. Just when I thought he might drop me and go after her, his grip tightened once more. His fingers dug into my ribcage, making me wince.

The sounds of her clicking heels faded into total silence, leaving just him and me. My fingers clutched the back of his leather jacket so tightly I began to shake.

I couldn’t breathe. He didn’t stir.

I forced myself to suck in air, and felt my lungs push against his chest. The breath brought in a vaguely familiar scent: leather and soap. His head shifted inward towards me.

“
Scusa
,” he whispered. His soft words ricocheted off my neck. “Are you okay?”

All I could do was nod. He retracted from around me, but his cold fingers paused at the back of my neck. Chills radiated throughout my entire body as Niccolò’s face showed from underneath the hood.