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Two Summers (Excerpt)
Two Summers (Excerpt)
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I step from the corridor onto the plane, inhaling sharply. The
cabin smells like stale coffee, and French and English conversations overlap. The flight attendants scowl at me, late, bedraggled
girl that I am. Everyone is either seated or struggling to stash
carry-ons in the overhead bins. Im glad I have just my trusty tote
bag, which I press close to my side as I head toward my row.
My stomach sinks. Im in a middle seat, squished between the
large man whod walked around me earlier, and the French mom
and daughter. I notice that the mom wears her hair in a neat brown
bob, like my mother does. And the daughters hair is dark blond
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like mine. Except the daughter is wearing two tidy, adorable braids,
and my hair is spilling out gracelessly from its topknot.
I try to get comfortable in the seat, crossing my legs, unzipping my hoodie while the flight attendants begin their safety
instructions. Then, from within my hoodie pocket comes the
mournful spiraling noise that means my phone has died.
I pull out the phone and stare at the blank screen, feeling a
drumbeat of curiosity. I wonder who was calling me before. Even
if the mystery caller left a voice mail, I wont be able to listen to it
until I get back to America in August.
The plane begins taxiing, slowly at first, then picking up
speed. If I crane my neck, I can see out a window onto the runway.
It seems the storm has passed; the night is calm, puddles reflecting the moonlight. Strange how quickly that shift happened.
Flight attendants and crew, the captain announces. Please
prepare for takeoff.
I settle back in my seat. The large man beside me nudges
my elbow, and the little French girl lets out a wail, a harbinger of
things to come. But I dont care. The plane is zooming now. I am
leaving it all behinddull upstate New York, Moms recent strangeness. My pointless pining for Hugh Tyson. My wistful watching
when Ruby effortlessly flirts with boys. And most of all, my
wanting to know Dad better.
The engines roar. The plane seems to move faster than time
can measure. As we lift off the ground, my hopes rise. I remember what Ruby said in the car, and I smile with sudden sureness.
This is my destinyto have the best summer ever.
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But the crowd is thinning. Time is passing. Feeling desperate, I reach into my tote bag and push aside my useless cell phone.
I snatch up the printout of Dads email with his address and
phone numbers. Should I call him? Are there payphones around
here? How do payphones even work? I feel drained from already
having done so much on my own, from being so bold and capable at the airport back home. I have reached Peak Maturity Level
in this game and I am out of new lives.
Ruby, I think like a prayer, fighting the mounting urge to cry.
I remember how, over winter break, she and I took the train to
New York City, two hours south of Hudsonville. When wed
emerged from the station into the whirl of traffic and noise and
fast-walking people, Id wanted to curl up and hide. But Ruby
had waved a gloved hand in the air, and a yellow taxi had slid to
a stop for us, as if by magic.
I draw in a deep, shaky breath. Maybe I have one final ounce
of capability left in me. Slowly, I walk toward the exit doors,
dragging my suitcase behind me, along with my uncertainty. Im
not sure Im doing remotely the right thing.
As I step out into the cool, blue-sky morning, I glance left
and right, still searching for Dad. The curbside here looks eerily
similar to the one back home, with its cabs and luggage carts
and harried travelers. I tentatively wave my hand toward the
oncoming traffic, half expecting Dad to materialize from somewhere and rescue me. Instead, a dented silver cab comes screeching
to a stop. I actually hailed a cab?
The gray-haired driver, a cigarette dangling from his lips,
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helps me cram my suitcase into the trunk. Then I climb disbelieving into the backseat, and we peel off.
Alors, the driver says, lighting his cigarette with one hand
and steering with the other. Where are you going, mademoiselle?
Im both surprised and relieved that he can tell Im American.
Um, I reply, unfolding the email printout. Thirteen Rue du
Pain, I read out loud. My stomach squeezes. Talk about bad
omens. Street of Pain?
The driver chuckles, swerving to avoid a guy on a moped. It
is pronounced pehn, he tells me in his heavily accented English.
In French, pain means bread.
Oh, I mumble, embarrassed. Of course. Like Au Bon Pain.
But what is the town? the driver demands, careening out
onto a highway. In Provence, we have many towns. Avignon,
Aix-en-Provence, Cassis...
Right. Um. Its called...Les Deux Chemins, I read out loud
again, certain that I am butchering the pronunciation. Again.
Trs bien, the driver says, exhaling smoke. Cest une belle
ville. A beautiful town. You will see.
But all I see, as we continue at breakneck pace down the
highway, are road signs and flat landscapes that could easily
double as anywhere in America. I peer out at the passing cars as
if I might catch sight of Dad on the opposite side of the highway,
on his way to the airport to get me. Then I give up. Its warm in
the cab, so I take off my hoodie and stuff it into my tote bag.
When I lift my gaze again, the scenery outside has changed.
Dramatically.
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both sides. I take a big bite. The jam is sweet and tart, speckled
with small seeds, and the croissant is the perfect blend of flaky
and buttery. At least the culinary aspects of my day have proven
successful.
Eloise is taking an art class for lyceeuh, for high school
studentsthis summer, Vivienne continues, stirring a spoon in
her cocoa. I cant tell if this is an explanation for Eloises stress
or just a way to fill the silence.
I nod, chewing. I do feel a small prickle of jealousy; Ive always
wanted to attend some sort of cool summer program. Mom,
though, ever practical, always encouraged me to get a job.
A job. Oh, I say to Vivienne, swallowing. I was supposed
toum, be my dads sort-of summer assistant? Do you know
where his studio is?
Vivienne nods, looking distracted. She gets up and crosses
over to the window. That is the studio, she tells me, pointing to
the red barn, her rings glinting in the sunlight. She takes out a
pack of cigarettes from her back pocket and unlatches the window.
I want to go check out this barn studio, but my head feels
heavy. Its all hitting me: the grueling trip, Dads absence, my
stunning but strange new surroundings. Its probably been
twenty-four hours since Ive sleptor has it been even longer? I
cant calculate now.
I start to ask Vivienne where the house phone is so I can call
Mom, and Dad, but my question is swallowed up by a big yawn.
Eh, bien, you need to rest, non? Vivienne says, turning to me
with a cigarette between her fingers. There is an empty guest
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Theres also a ceiling fan; I tug its cord to turn it on, and the
blades spin lazily, barely stirring the stale air.
I shut the door and flop onto the bed. The mattress is hard
and unforgiving, the pillow flat. I think of my room back home,
with its double bed and many pillows. I think of my airconditioning turned up high, my stacks of books on the
shelves, the colorful Renoir and Degas posters on the walls.
Id chafed against the familiarity before, but now I long for it.
Miss it.
I roll over and peer down at my Whitney Museum tote bag. I
wish I could take out my cell phone and scroll through Instagram.
I wish I could text Ruby. Id tell her about Eloise, and my best
friend would give excellent advice. Maybe Ill call Ruby right
after I call Mom. And Dad. Which Ill do soon. Ill just close my
eyes for a little bit first.
As my eyes drift shut, I hear the faint ringing of a phone
downstairs. It sounds like Vivienne answers it, and she begins
speaking in agitated French. Or maybe Im imagining it. Already,
my thoughts are melding together in that slumber-like way.
The phone downstairs makes me think of my cell phone
ringing before I got on the plane. I picture myself answering that
call, but now Im speaking in French, and lightning is flashing,
and there are sunflower fields, and someone is crying, and softly,
slowly, I switch over from the world of wakefulness into one
of dreams.
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