The Casquette Girls (38 page)

“What did you all end up doing last night?” I demanded. “Were you out with Dixie?”

The poor girl suddenly looked like she was going to cry. “No. Bethany called her mom, and she picked us all up.”

I knew she was lying, but I wasn’t sure whethe
r
sh
e
knew it. I tried to soften my approach. “You didn't go anywhere before Bethany’s mom came?”

She shook her head and mumbled something about getting to class. “I hope you’re chosen as my Big Sis, Adele.” And then, as if demonically possessed,
my hand ripped her scarf off as she walked past. Her fingers flew to her neck, but it was too late: I saw the marks.

Her eyes glimmered, wet and horrified.

“I'm so sorry…,” I whispered in disbelief at my own behavior.

In that moment, I knew she had no idea what had happened to her the night before. I tied the scarf back into a cutesy bow and grabbed my cell phone from my cardigan pocket as if I’d just received a text. “Hey, I just got a text from Annabelle. It turns out I am going to be your Big Sis. How awesome is that?” I forced a giant grin, trying to keep tears from welling.
This is all my fault.

“This year is gonna rock!” I said, half-trying to convince myself.

She nodded and forced her own smile.

* * *

I buttoned my school-issued blazer as I walked into the perfectly manicured garden. The sun shone, but the air was damp. When I thought about going home to my apprenticeship with my father and Isaac, a whole new wave of anxieties set in. They had both completely invaded my old routine. I missed my old life, back when I liked school and never worried about going home because the house was always empty. I missed Brooke. I missed sewing and my nerdy art-school friends and working with Jeanne and Sébastien. Central air and heat. Fresh produce. Sweet potato Hubig’s Pies. Thanks to the Storm, nothing was sacred anymore. I ripped the bun from my head and let my unwashed waves ripple down my back, feeling an immediate release of tension.

At least I knew Désirée was alive.

I forced my shoulders to relax and skipped down the remaining stairs, but when I lifted my head to open the front gate, I saw him. Directly ahead of me, leaning against an oak tree, was Émile.

I quickly looked for an escape route, but he had already seen me – he was waiting for me. With all the chaos, I had somehow managed to forget about him. I took a deep breath and walked straight over.

“Bonjour, Adele, est-ce que je t’ai manqué?”

Despite feeling his soft lips brush both of my cheeks
as I greeted him, I was still stunned to see him here, in the flesh. I had practically convinced myself that he was a figment of my imagination brought on by trauma.
Proceed with caution,
my conscious warned.

“Did you miss me?” he repeated in English, as if my language skills were the problem in this scenario.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, the last word not much more than a gasp.

“I’m sorry for just showing up. I was so excited to see you last night, but zhen you disappeared before I could get to you. I didn’t want to wait any longer. I miss you.” He stepped closer, repeating the last touching words in French. When he took my hand in his, instead of making my heart race as it had in France, an electric shock zapped us.

“Static,” I said, trying to pull my hand back, but he held on. I had fantasized about this moment ever since I’d left Paris, but now that it was here, it was nothing like I had dreamt. After all, I hadn’t heard a peep from him since I crossed the pond.

“You didn’t answer my question, Émile. Why are you
here
? In the States?”

He paused, and his usual confident expression turned puzzled. “Didn’t she tell you? I waz invited to come to New Orleans to assist your mother on her new assignment.”

“What?” I yanked my hand back.

“Adele, I am here with your mother – her grant from the government of France to restore some historic French exhibits damaged by za hurricane. Didn’t you know?”

“Of course I knew!” I crossed my arms. “I just didn’t know you were coming with her.”

I wondered if he could tell I was lying. During our many bouts of espresso drinking, I had complained a lot about my mother. He had always listened attentively, but
had alway
s
found a way to defend her
.
“She has a very stressful career at za museum. It’s just her artistic temperament. She’s just French.” Blah, blah, bla
h
.
Sometime
s
I had wanted to slap him for knowing more about my mother than I did.

“Is zhere somewhere we can go and talk? We have so much to catch up on. A coffee maybe?”

I shook my head, feeling like I might cry if I opened my mouth. My mother was in town, and she hadn’t even bothered to tell me.

“Can I at least walk you home?”

I couldn’t manage to get a ‘no’ out, so when I started walking, he stepped beside me by default. I choked out a question about his flight. Luckily, he liked the sound of his own voice.

Whose life is this? Am I really turning away one boy and avoiding another? How could things change this quickl
y
?
It felt like a year since I had been in Paris, since Émile was the only person able to comfort me. It was typical Émile to just rock into town and slip in with the cool kids. The cracks in the cement became blurry as I blinked away tears.
Glad to know art could get my mother back to town.

When we approached the last couple of blocks of the route, I stopped. My father woul
d
no
t
like Émile – he’d remind him too much of his own wilder, younger years. Luckily, Émile took the hint. He kissed my cheeks and smiled his stupid smile.

“
Demain
. Same time, same place. See, it’s just like before, in Paris.
À bientôt.”

Nothing
was like it was before.

* * *

“Are you going to avoid me forever?” Isaac asked.

Great.
Two in a row.

He was
sitting on my stoop, examining a thin silver object in his hands and obviously waiting for me. He looked exhausted.

“That doesn’t really seem possible given you are at my house every afternoon…”

He stood to leave.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m just conf—
it’s just that…” I stopped and took a breath. “Do you ever just feel crazy?” I didn’t even know what I meant by the question, but I found myself standing directly in front of him with my hand on his chest. He looked at my hand, which I promptly removed.

“These days?
You have no idea.”

The hurt in his eyes was evident. I asked myself how
it would have felt if Nicco had turned his back on me after seeing flames rise from my hands, the way I had done to Isaac after he revealed so much of himself.

I would have been horrified. Humiliated.

Of course, Isaac hadn’t revealed
everything
. My legs became wobbly.

I sat next to his feet; he sat back down. The knot in my stomach pulled so tight, I couldn’t even sit up straight, so I rested my head on my knees, looking at him. A wave of brown hair fell over my face as the thoughts I’d been trying so desperately to ignore for the last few days infiltrated my head. I closed my eyes, and his sketchpad pages flashed through my mind.

Feathers.

Feathers.

Feathers.

He gently moved the hair from my face and tucked it b
ehind my ear. “The cut is gone,” he said, tracing the nearly invisible mark. Heat rushed to my cheeks as his fingers lingered. “It’s hardly noticeable.”

My lashes fluttered open.

The relief in his golden brown eyes over my lack of scarring gave me the answer, but I asked the question anyway.

“Did you do this to me?”

His gaze fell to the ground and then back to me.

“Yes.”

I jumped up. He rose up next to me. My defenses skyrocketed even though he just stood there passively.

“I’m so sorry, Adele. I didn’t know what I was doing. I still don’t know what I’m doing. I didn’t mean to…”

The whole world seemed to tilt as he spoke the words that proved he could turn himself into a bird.

“I think you should go now,” I said, despite hearing the desperation in his voice.

His head bobbed. If I wasn’t mistaken, there were tears in his eyes, but I couldn’t be sure because I was fighting my own.
What the hell had he been doing in my house that night? Had anything between us ever been true
?
My chest tightened.

“I’m really sorry, Adele. I never want any harm to come to you
, especially not on my account.”

My breathing became erratic. I looked at him one last time and slipped through the door, barely getting it shut before I collapsed on the other side in tears. Not just a few tears, chest-heaving, would-be-screaming-if-I-could-breathe tears.

“Isaac?” yelled my father from the back of the house. “Adele?”

The sound of my name sent me into a panic. I didn’t want to talk to him, to see him. I didn’t want to talk to anyone ever again. I couldn’t even remember what it felt like to trust someone.

My father entered the hallway, and I nearly knocked him over as I sprang to the staircase.

“Adele, what’s wrong?”

“Leave me alone!”

He ran up the stairs behind me, but I slammed my bedroom door, not caring whether he had seen the door fly closed by itself. I felt the bolt in the lock click as I flopped onto my bed.

“Adele, what happened? Come on, sweetheart, open the door,” he pleaded, jiggling the handle.

My chest burned like something had clawed it raw. Like some
on
e
had clawed it raw.

“Please, Adele. Please let me in. Did something happen at school? Is this about last night?”

And then all of a sudden my tears stopped.

My dry eyes confused me. With the amount of emotion pummeling through my body, I expected them to continue like an endless river.
Even my emotions are betraying me no
w
.

The thought made me feel like a melodramatic child. I jerked myself from the bed and approached the door. I knew I was causing my father pain, but I didn’t care.

I had never felt so alone, so confused.

And to top it off, it felt like electricity was running through my bloodstream, and that I had to focus on not spontaneously combusting.

My forehead fell against the wooden door as I mumbled, “Did you know she was in town?”

“What, sweetheart? I can’t hear you. Can you open the door,
s’il vous plaî
t
?
”
Resorting to French meant he was desperate.

“Did you know,” I repeated louder, articulating each word, “tha
t
sh
e
was in town?”

“Honey, you are not making any sense. Did I know who was in town?”

My jaw was clinched so tightly I was barely able to get the words out:
“
Brigitte Dupr
é
.”

Silence.

Even through the thick wooden door, I knew my father was trying to compose himself. I felt as if I had put a knife through his heart. Knowing that my mother had arrived back in town for the first time in twelve years, without making so much as a peep, was possibly even more painful for him to swallow than me. And the sick thing was that, in that moment, it made me feel a little better. Someone to share a little bit of my pain. My confusion.

“Your mother is in town? In
New Orleans
?” His voice cracked on the ‘O.’

“That’s the word on the street.”

“According to who?”

I opened the door a couple of inches and saw him quickly wipe his eyes. “I ran into her assistant on the way home from school.”

“What’s she doing here?”

“Apparently something for work,” I answered coldly. The words zapped a glimmer of hope from his eyes. “I’m going to take a nap, okay?”

He nodded. “I think I’ll close the bar tonight and stay here with you.”

“Don’t bother, Dad. I’m taking a nap, then meeting up with Désirée to study for midterms. Probably ’til late.”

“I don’t want you on the streets at night, Adele.”

“I know, Dad. We’re meeting at Vodou Pourvoyeur, so it’s just a couple blocks. She’ll drive me home afterwards.”

“All right,” he said, defeated. “I love you, Adele.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

Guilt set in before I had the door shut. I’d never seen my father cry before. I didn’t know what to make of it.