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She slumps back in her chair, I can’t tell if it’s in relief or defeat. “And what do I get out of this?”
For a brief second, I can picture us one day, having tea, me telling her all about what happened in Paris last summer, what will happen on this trip I’m about to take. One day. Just not yet.
“A different kind of daughter,” I say.
Twenty-eight
JULY
Home
I’ve bought my airplane ticket. I’ve paid for my French class, and even with both of those expenditures, I still have five hundred dollars saved by the end of a surprisingly busy and lucrative July Fourth weekend. Café Finlay closes on July 25, but unless things go disastrously in the next three weeks, I should have enough money saved by then.
Right after the Fourth of July, Melanie comes home. My parents told me she’d be back from camp for a week before heading off to a rafting trip in Colorado. By the time she gets back from that, I’ll be gone. And by the time I come back from Europe, it’ll be time for school. I wonder if the entire summer is going to pass, as the last six months have, as if our friendship never existed. When I see Melanie’s car in her driveway, I don’t say anything. Mom doesn’t either, which is how I know that she and Susan have discussed our falling-out.
French class comes to an end. During the last week, each of us has to give an oral presentation about something particularly French. I give mine on macarons, explaining their origins and how they’re made. I dress up in one of Babs’s chef aprons and wear a beret, and when I’m done, I hand out macarons that Babs made special for the class, along with Café Finlay postcards.
I am coming home from class in Mom’s car, which I’ve borrowed to lug all my presentation stuff, when I see Melanie in her driveway. She sees me too, and we look at each other for a moment. It’s like we’re asking each other, Are we both going to pretend the other doesn’t exist? That we don’t exist?
But we do exist. At least we used to. And so I wave to her. Then I walk toward the neutral territory of the sidewalk. Melanie does too. When she gets closer, her eyes widen. I look at my silly costume.
“French class,” I explain. “Here, do you want a macaron?” I pull out one of the extras that I was bringing home for Mom and Dad.
“Oh, thanks.” She takes a bite, and her eyes widen. I want to say, I know. But with all the months gone by, I don’t. Because maybe I don’t know. Not anymore.
“So French class?” she says. “We both did the summer-school thing this year, huh?”
“Right, you were in Portland. At a music program?”
Her eyes light up. “Yeah. It was intense. Not just playing, but composing and learning about different facets of the industry. We had these professionals come in to work with us. I composed an experimental piece that I’m going to produce at school next year.” Her whole face glows. “I think I’m going to major in music theory. What about you?”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure. I think I like languages.” In addition to Mandarin, this fall, I’ll take French, along with another Shakespeare class with Professor Glenny. Intro to Semiotics. And African Dance.
She looks up, hesitates for a second. “So, no Rehoboth Beach this summer?”
We’ve gone to the same summer house since I was five. But not this year. “Dad was invited to a conference in Hawaii, and he convinced Mom to go with him. As a personal favor to me, I think.”
“Because you’re going to Paris.”
“Right. I’m going to Paris.”
There’s a pause. In the background, I can hear the neighbor kids splashing around in the sprinklers. Just like Melanie and I used to.
“To find him.”
“I have to know. If something happened. I just need to find out.”
I brace myself for Melanie’s derision, for her to scoff or laugh at me. But she just considers what I’ve said. And when she says the next thing, it’s not snide so much as matter-of-fact: “Even if you find him. Even if he didn’t leave you on purpose, he can’t possibly live up to the person you’ve built him into.”
It’s not like the thought hasn’t occurred to me. I get that the chances of finding him are small, but the chances of finding him as I remember him are even smaller. But I just keep going back to what my dad always says, about how when you lose something, you have to visualize the last place you had it. And I found—and then lost—so many things in Paris.
“I know,” I tell Melanie. And it’s weird because I don’t feel defensive. I feel a little bit relieved because it almost seems like Melanie is worrying about me again. And also relieved because I’m not worrying about me. Not about this, anyhow. “I don’t know that it matters.”
Her eyes widen at that. Then she narrows them, looks me up and down. “You look different.”
I laugh. “No. I still look like me. It’s just this outfit.”
“It’s not the outfit,” Melanie says, almost harshly. “You just seem different.”
