The Casquette Girls (2 page)

* * *

After he polished off a stack of waffles and I forced myself to choke back eggs smothered in plastic cheese, we headed back to the car.

“How about I drive for a while?” I asked.

“How about I drive and you study?”

“Why should I study? I’m not even technically enrolled in a school right now.”

“You are enrolled in a school right now, Adele…”

I unintentionally slammed the passenger door behind me.

“You are
technically
still enrolled in Notre-Dame International.”

As he pulled out of the deserted parking lot, he added in his best I-am-serious voice, “And if we get to New Orleans and find out you can’t get into a school, then you are going to be on the first plane back to Paris. Back to school. That was the deal.”

“I am
not
going back to Paris.
Non, je déteste Notre-Dame Internationa
l
!
”
I said in my most dramatic French accent, hoping he would still be able to understand the juvenile words. He had only himself to blame for my speaking French; he was the one who’d forced me to take private French lessons since I was five, a year after my mother skipped town – as if he thought my ability to speak her native language might bring her back. “I can’t believe you shipped me off there in the first place. I belong here, not with rich kids in boarding school. Not with her.” My eyes began to well. I knew my reaction would upset him, but just the thought of having to go back to Paris made me want to jump out of the moving car and run away.

The old Beamer filled up with awkward tension because he didn’t know what to do or say next – any sign of teenage-girl tears made my father uncomfortable. He always tried his best to be paternal, but it never really seemed natural for him, not even after all this time of just the two of us living together.

In my sixteen years, he had never once said anything bad about my mother to me, but I could tell he felt a tiny bit relieved that I’d fight to return to New Orleans with him instead of staying in Paris with her. He was simultaneously terrified and proud that I had inherited his rebellious streak rather than her need for refinement.

He patted my hand.
“Don’t get upset. You know school comes first.”

My father, Macalister Le Moyne, lived with a perpetually tired look. He had inherited a popular bar from his father at around the same time my mother left us, which had made him an artist-turned-business-owner and single parent all at once. Since then, he kept mostly nocturnal hours, waking at midday to give himself enough time to work in his metal shop on sculptures and furniture before going back to the bar. Now he was unshaven and a bit shaggier than usual, appearing to have aged a few years in the last couple of months, just like all the other displaced citizens of New Orleans.

The Storm had been peculiar not just because of the suddenness with which it had grown but because its target had been so unexpected. The day before it hit, the Storm was a routine Category 2 hurricane – not something to shrug off but something people knew how to handle –predicted to make landfall somewhere around Galveston, Texas. Eighteen hours prior to hitting land, for no reason scientists could explain, the hurricane changed course and headed straight for New Orleans.

Everyone trying to clear the city at such short notice caused total mayhem. We ended up evacuating to Miami with a few of Dad’s bartenders, never dreaming we’d be gone for more than a few days. But before the Storm left the Gulf of Mexico, it tipped the Saffir-Simpson scale, and once it hit land, like most folks upon arrival in New Orleans, it didn’t want to leave. We watched on in horror as it hovered. And hovered. And hovered. All we could do was stare at the television from afar and wait for our unwelcome houseguest to take a hint.

That was before the levees broke and turned the city into a fishbowl.

When reality kicked in and we were suddenly unable to return home for an undetermined period, my father decided that I would be better off in Paris with my mother rather than in Miami with a bunch of vagabonds looking for bar work. I wasn’t sure if he really believed that or if he’d just cracked under post-Storm pressure, either way, he shipped me off to France as soon as he managed to get in touch with her. As far as I knew, that was the first time they’d had contact in all those twelve years.

I refused to let my eyes get blurry as I looked out the window.
I’m not going back to live with her. I won’t let it happen. New Orleans is my home.

* * *

Thinking about going back to Paris made me immediately self-conscious. Up until eight weeks ago, I had always thought of myself as just a normal teenager – not the head-cheerleader type but not being shoved into lockers either. I did pretty well in school but was certainly not in the running for valedictorian. I had inherited my father's artistic tendencies, but (to my curatorial mother's
high-art
dismay) I channeled them mostly through designing clothes. Despite all of this, I had hardly tipped average by Paris-standards. During the last two months, I couldn’t have felt more plain, more uncultured, and more
passé
. My Parisian classmates were like ballerinas in three-inch heels, born to analyze
haute coutur
e
and recite Baudelaire, making my skinny jeans and DIY dresses seem childish and unsophisticated.

I sighed and attempted to push the French memories out of my consciousness: the sparkling Eiffel Tower, the macaroons from
Laduré
e
,
and most of all, Émile.

My stomach twisted.

I definitely didn’t want to think about Émile. Not the way he tilted his head when he looked at me. Not the way his slight smile always made me wonder what he was thinking. Not his Vespa, or his sexy French accent. I’d be kidding myself if I said a small part of me hadn’t wanted to stay in Paris because of him, which was pathetic; it’s not like anything ever really happened between us. It’s not like he was my boyfriend.

The car went over a bump, and I realized that trying not to think about Émile was actually making me think about Émile.
Ugh
.

Thirty minutes later, we detoured from I-10 onto Highway 90 to drive the scenic route along the Gulf of Mexico, or what
used
to be the scenic route. The damage to the Mississippi coastline was insurmountable. I didn’t know what to feel, only that nothing felt real.

Every single one of the behemoth antebellum homes that had lined the beach was gone. The humungous casino barges previously anchored in the Gulf had been slammed onto the other side of the highway and shattered. The souvenir shop with the monstrous shark-mouth entrance, where Dad had taken me and Brooke to buy rubber rafts when we were kids, was gone. The mom-and-pop places, the national franchises, the historic landmarks – all gone.

Waves crashed over an enormous pair of golden arches lying in the sand near the tide. I felt like I was floating outside of my body and peering down at the beach from some transcendental reality.
Was I really ready to handle the havoc wreaked by the Storm at hom
e
?

“The media’s been so focused on Louisiana, we didn’t hear much about the damage in Mississippi,” my father said, attempting to hide his own shock.

“How bad do you think it is in New Orleans?”

“I don’t know, but you should prepare yourself for the worst.”

Soon there was too much destruction blocking the highway to drive at a decent speed. Getting frustrated, my father threw the car into reverse until he had enough room to whip it around, and we went back to the interstate. The desire for the truth about the condition of the city became unbearable.

* * *

“Rollers…,” my father said, taking his foot off of the accelerator. We hadn’t passed another moving car since Alabama but now approached some kind of roadblock.

“An army tank? Really?” I muttered. The combat vehicle was parked among five police cars with flashing lights. We slowed to a halt, and my father rolled down his window.

“Evening, officer.”

“Evening, sir,” said a stocky African-American man of the law. He leaned in the window and took a good look at us. “Where y’all headed tonight?”

“Just heading home. Haven’t been back since the Storm.”

“You got some ID? We’re only letting residents of the city back in.”

My father fished his license out of his wallet and handed it over.

“And what about you, young lady?”

“She’s my
daughter
,” my father said, trying not to sound too perturbed. “She doesn’t even drive yet.”

“It’s okay, Dad.” I leaned over him and handed the cop my passport.

After carefully examining the documents with a flashlight, he gave them back. “Thank you, Mr. Le Moyne. You can never be too careful in times like this. Are you aware of the mandatory curfew?”

“Yes, sir, nine p.m. lockdown.”

It was nearly impossible for me to imagine a citywide curfew in New Orleans, or anywhere, really. It was supposedly meant to keep people safe while the infrastructure was so poor and crime was so high. I wondered if they were really enforcing it.

“If I can offer some unsolicited advice,” the cop said
, “go straight home, and lock all the doors behind you. Assuming you have doors to lock.”

“Thank you, officer. We’ll do just that.”

The cops moved the wooden barricades to let us pass, and we drove into the sunset, careful to not go over the speed limit while still within view of the fuzz.

“The bridges going over Lake Pontchartrain are out, so we are going to have to take the long route,” my father said. I plugged my phone into the old tape-deck console and put on a special New Orleans mix I had made for Émile in an attempt at cultural exchange. We both settled deeper into our seats.

The familiar tunes made my desire to be home grow more and more intense. I cranked the handle to open my window, letting the humidity roll in, along with that unexplainable presence – the
je ne sais quoi
of the city. The muggy air hit my face, making me smile with nervous anticipation as I watched the cypress trees go by. They had once been tall enough to hide the swampy marshes behind them, but now they were mostly snapped in half like twigs. A brassy version of “When the Saints Come Marching In” came on.

My father turned up the volume and sped across the Louisiana
State line, and the foliage whipped past my window until they were nothing but a blur.

I had probably heard the song a thousand times in my life – it was an unofficial anthem of our city – but I don’t think I’d ever paid attention to the lyrics until then.

It felt like we were marching in.

* * *

The back way, through the Rigolets, was oddly serene. When I looked out towards the horizon of the lagoon, it seemed like any other day – birds swooped in and out of frame, and the setting sun made the muddy tributaries sparkle. But once we crossed the parish line, the residential neighborhood looked more like a war zone. My father and I simultaneously reached for the power button to turn off the music, for there was suddenly an overwhelming need for reverence, as if we were passing a funeral procession.

The closer we got to our final destination, the slower we had to drive.

The streets in New Orleans had already been some of the worst in the country before the Storm, but now there were potholes that could swallow a small car. The massive roots of two-hundred-year-old oak trees had torn through the sidewalks like rippling waves, and the fallen trees now lay lifelessly against houses. Overturned SUVs, boats, broken glass and mountains of unidentifiable debris caused the roads to appear as if they hadn’t been driven on for decades. Nothing seemed to have escaped the fury of the Storm.

I stared hard out the windshield, trying to figure out what was out of place, and then horror struck me: I was looking at a house that the Storm had moved to the opposite side of the street, as if some omnipotent giant's finger had slid it like a toy. By some miracle it was still standing, but it appeared so fragile that the weight of a resting bird might have caused the whole thing to collapse. We bumped in our seats as the car went over the crumbled slab smeared across the road behind it.

“Looks like the electricity is still out,” my father said, slowing to a halt at an inactive stoplight.

Observing the desolate intersection, I wished I hadn't watched
The Night of the Living Dead
only a week before (another attempt at cultural exchange with Émile). The approaching twilight sky and the thin mist rolling in made me feel sympathetic towards those post-apocalyptic zombie victims. Concerned that an arm of the living dead might reach in for my face, I quickly cranked up my window and pushed the lock button on the door.

My overactive imagination stopped bombarding me as we approached the Lower Ninth Ward. Other than the occasional cop car silently patrolling the streets, there wasn’t a soul around. We had known the neighborhood would be bad – it had been getting the most press due to the levee breaches – but nothing could have prepared us for the reality of the destruction. The streets looked as if they had been bombed out.