The French Girl Page 9

  “No, Jean, it is not your first day of school,” Giselle replied, but later on I did see her make another sandwich and slip it into the refrigerator.

  I stood at the end of the road waiting for the bus to come. Giselle stood on the front porch in front of the red door, her arms folded across her chest, watching me. When I saw the long yellow bus come down the road, I suddenly felt my knees grow weak. I looked back at Giselle. She gave a big wave and blew me a kiss. I quickly turned away.

  ***

  Mrs. Darby greeted the buses and spotted me right away.

  “Good morning, Etoile. Do you remember the way to Mrs. Spenser’s classroom?”

  I was not sure.

  “I think so.”

  Mrs. Darby gestured to another girl about my age with white-blonde pulled back in a ponytail wearing an off-white Gunne Sax dress.

  “Winnie,” she said, “this is Etoile. Etoile, this is Winnie Wickham who is in your class. Winnie, would you mind showing Etoile the way to Mrs. Spenser’s class?”

  I remembered the girl’s name from the poster in the hall. She looked at me curiously for several seconds before breaking into a big smile.

  “Come on,” she said taking off. I raced through the throng of children to try and keep up with her.

  “What kind of name is that?” she asked me on the stairs.

  “French.”

  “I like it.”

  “What kind of name is yours?”

  “English. It’s really Winifred, but please don’t ever call me that or I’ll have to kill you.”

  She looked dead serious, but then she broke out in a wide grin, tilted her hair back and laughed.

  “In that case,” I said, “do not ever call me Toilette or I will have to kill you, too.”

  She grabbed me by the arm and dragged me up the stairs. Mrs. Spenser introduced me to the class again. I glanced around the room and my eyes paused at the boy with the bright red hair from the doctor’s office, Dale Batchelder. He was chewing on a pencil eraser when our eyes met. Before I could look away, he took the pencil out of his mouth and snapped it in half.

  ***

  School was very different here than in Cote Nouveau. Instead of the entire class sitting quietly and listening to Mrs. Gordon as she told us about things, Mrs. Spenser broke us into different groups and let us do a lot of work on our own. I was grateful that Winnie Wickham and I were in all of the same groups except for math.

  My math group was with two other students, a shy girl with braces named Lisa, and Dale Batchelder. Dale scowled when Mrs. Spenser led me to his table. I could not imagine what I had done to him to make him dislike me so.

  Mrs. Spenser came over and sat down with us to show us how to work some of the problems in our workbook. As she spoke, I could not help but study the creases of her hands again with the dark black lines running through them. I looked down at my own hands to see if the creases were a different color, but they were not.

  “Etoile? Did you understand that?”

  I stared at the problem for several seconds as I tried to make sense of it all.

  “I think so.”

  She laid her brown hand on my white arm and said, “Why don’t you try some problems on your own while I help the others?”

  Without even realizing what I was doing, I took my other hand and placed my fingertips on her skin and traced the creases to see if the dark color felt any different. She did not pull away. I suddenly realized what I was doing and quickly withdrew my hands to my lap. As soon as Mrs. Spenser left, Dale Batchelder leaned forward and said, “Are you going to kiss her, too?”

  My face flushed as the heat rose in my cheeks.

  I could not wait for math to be over with and was grateful when we switched to reading. Winnie was in my group and we soon realized that we had both read many of the same books.

  “I have read all of Anne of Green Gables,” Winnie announced.

  “I am starting them.”

  “And Little House on the Prarie.”

  “So have I,” I said.

  “Which do you like better, the show or the books?”

  “I used to like to watch the show at my Maman’s, but now I don’t think I’ll get to see it much.”

  Winnie twisted her ponytail and looked at me.

  “Why not?”

  “Jean says TV does little to stimulate the mind.”

  “Who’s Jean?”

  “She is… my cousin’s friend.”

  Winnie shook her head. “I really dig The Bionic Woman. Have you ever seen that?”

  “No.”

  “She has all these far out super powers. And, she’s the girlfriend of Steve Austin, The Six Million Dollar Man. She’s sort of like Wonder Woman, but different.”

  Again I shook my head.

  “You’ll have to come to my house,” Winnie announced.

  I rarely went to my schoolmates’ houses in Cote Nouveau but stayed close to Maman. Winnie let me try on her mood ring. We both watched as it turned a gold-amber color.

  “That says you are a little nervous.”

  I looked at the ring, amazed.

  “I guess I am a little nervous.”

  “See? They really work. Here, watch. Give it back to me.”

  Winnie slipped the ring back on her finger and we both leaned over and stared at it as the colors went from gold to a dark blue, the color of blueberries.

  “Isn’t that the grooviest thing? Blue means relaxed, happy. You should ask your mother…” Winnie paused… “I mean your cousin for one.”

  I did not say anything because I did not want to have to explain that I could not ask Giselle or Jean for things. They had already been very generous to me, though I did think it would be okay to mention that Winnie had let me try hers on.

  A few times, I looked up to see Dale Batchelder staring at me.

  “Do you know that boy, Dale?” I asked Winnie when we were at recess.

  “Yes. Why, do you like him?”

  “Like him? No, I do not like him at all. He keeps staring at me.”

  Winnie Wickham peeked over her shoulder to where Dale was standing with some other boys. Dale was wearing blue and brown plaid pants and a brown polyester shirt with a wide collar. Without giving me any warning, she walked straight up to him and said, “Why are you staring at the new girl?”

  Dale kicked the toes of his boots into the dirt beneath him. “I am not.”

  “She says you are.”

  Dale shrugged. Winnie walked back to me.

  “He says he isn’t.”

  “Why did you do that?” I asked aghast. “I could have asked him myself.”

  “Then why didn’t you?” she said striding off. I ran to catch up with her.

  “Because I did not want him to know I knew he was staring at me. I only wanted to know if you knew why he was staring at me.”

  “Oh.”

  We stopped before the entrance of the school and Winnie dug deep into her dress pocket and pulled out a Yardley Pot O’Gloss. “Want some?” she asked.

  I was not sure if Giselle would consider this makeup and if she would approve. Still, I could not resist the strong fruity scent as I dipped my finger in and wiped some of the pink gloss across my lips. Winnie did the same and made a smacking sound with her lips. I made the same sound and we both laughed until we saw Dale Batchelder staring at both of us from around the corner.

  “I think he likes you,” Winnie said. “My sister, Missie says boys that stare at you, like you. Of course, she is much older and wears halter tops, so the boys stare at her all the time.”

  “Your sister wears halter tops?” I asked.

  “She does when my mother isn’t around. She wears hot pants, too. Sometimes she sneaks out wearing them under her regular clothes. I know, because I saw her sneak in from a date wearing hot pants and a halter top. If my mother had seen her, she would have been grounded for a year. Mother says girls who wear halter tops want only one thing.”

  I was too embar
rassed to ask what that one thing was, but wondered if Anais had ever worn a halter top.

  ***

  Giselle was waiting for me as I got off the bus and began the long walk down the dirt driveway.

  “Hello, Cherie,” she said giving me a hug. “How was school?”

  “I met a girl named Winnie Wickham. She is very nice. She let me wear some of her Yardley lip gloss. I hope that was alright.”

  Giselle set me at arm’s distance and inspected me. “I think it looks very nice as long as it is clear. Perhaps we can get you some of your own next time we are in town.”

  “Really?”

  “As long as it is clear.”

  “She also let me try on her mood ring and it turned gold when I had it on. Winnie said that meant I was nervous. Then Winnie put it back on her finger and it turned blue which means you are happy.”

  “I know,” Giselle said. “But they are not always accurate. Mine is not.”

  “You…you have a mood ring, Giselle?”

  “Sure. Would you like to have it?”

  “Yes! Please!”

  I followed Giselle upstairs as she rummaged through a small jewelry box and took out the ring. I slipped it on and it immediately turned a bluish-green color.

  “Well, now you are almost relaxed,” Giselle said. “But they are not always accurate, you know.”

  “Winnie said that but they mostly are. She said it was groovy.”

  Giselle laughed. “Yes, they are groovy. You may keep that. I do not need a ring to know what mood I am in.”

  “Winnie is in many of my groups, but not math. Dale Batchelder is in my math group.”

  “Hmmm…”

  “Giselle, why does he not like me? I do not know him at all.”

  “I know, Cherie. His mother does not like me and she does not know me either.”

  “But why, Giselle? How can you not like someone when you do not know them?”

  “Come on,” Giselle said taking my hand. “You have had a long day. I think you should go into a hot tub and relax for a while before supper.”

  I made sure to take the mood ring off and set it carefully on the edge of the sink before soaking in an extra-long bath. I still could not get over the wonderful feeling of having my body almost completely immersed in warm water. I was just thinking that I never wanted to get out when I heard Giselle call for me. Reluctantly, I pulled the stopper and watched the whirlpool that formed near the drain as it swirled round and round in circles like a tiny tornado. The cool air nudged at my body.

  “You will start to grow fins and a tail if you stay in that water for so long,” Giselle said as she peeled potatoes over the sink. “You will look like Jean.” The sink was lined with newspaper that caught the peels as they went flying. Giselle’s hands were a blur of motion as she swiped at the sides of the small red potatoes.

  Jean sat at the table with a newspaper in her hands, a glass of untouched wine in front of her. She rifled through the paper several times.

  “Giselle, have you seen the Op Ed section?” she asked.

  Giselle picked up the edge of the paper in the sink and winked at me. “You want it back?” she asked.

  “I guess not.”

  “Jean does not have fins and a tail,” I said.

  “You have not seen her swim,” Giselle said in between the thwack, thwack, thwack of the peeler. “You will know what I mean when you see her swim.”

  “Do you like to swim, Etoile?” Jean asked lowering the paper.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I…I do not know how to swim.”

  Jean cocked her head to the side, a gesture I’d grown used to whenever something took her by surprise. “But surely having grown up on the coast…”

  “Oh Jean,” Giselle said as she scooped up the peeled potatoes, put them in a big plastic bag and dribbled olive oil, salt, and other seasonings over them, “Cote Nouveau is not like your beloved New Hampshire Seacoast with sandy beaches and beautiful houses. Cote Nouveau is a fishing village. The water is filthy and contaminated by the fuel from the diesel boats and the dumping of fish guts and God only knows what else, back into the ocean. There are no beaches, just fishing piers and processing plants.”

  “But where do they learn to swim?” Jean asked.

  “They do not,” Giselle said.

  “But all those fishermen…”

  “Most fishermen from Cote Nouveau never learn to swim,” Giselle said.

  “But what if they go overboard? Wouldn’t they…” Jean stopped mid-sentence as Giselle abruptly slammed the oven door and gave her a sharp glance. A silence immediately filled the small kitchen, broken only by a hissing sound from the oil coating on the potatoes as they met the heat from the oven.

  Giselle came over to me and put her hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

  “I am sorry, Cherie,” Giselle said. “Jean did not know about your Papa.”

  “No,” Jean said rising from her chair. “I’m the one who should be sorry,” she said as she tossed the paper down and walked out the front door. I went quietly into the living room and saw them both standing on the porch. The windows were wide open and I had to strain a bit to hear what they were saying.

  “Relax, Jean,” I heard Giselle say as she stood behind her touching her on the shoulders. Jean stared out towards the road, her arms folded squarely across her chest. “Most people do not realize about the Cote Nouveau fishermen…”

  “I always say the wrong thing.”

  “Give it time, Jean.”

  “It all comes so naturally to you, Giselle.”

  “Not really.”

  “You always know what to say to her. You even speak her language.”

  “Her language is English, Jean, and you speak that, too. Better than me.”

  “But you have so much in common with her.”

  “Do you really think so? I do not.”

  “You even look like her.”

  “We are not in competition here, Jean. You will find your common ground with her. Just give it time.”

  “How?”

  “You are a very smart woman. You will figure it out.”

  I ran back into the kitchen so they would not know I had been listening.

  As we sat down to eat, Jean looked at me even more intently than she usually did.

  “Voila!” Giselle announced as she brought the dish over and scooped some out onto our plates. “Roasted red potatoes and chicken in a balsamic marinade.”

  “How was school today?” Jean asked.

  “I met a very nice girl named Winnie Wickham.”

  “Wickham,” Jean said tilting her head. “I don’t think I know the Wickham’s.”

  “Dale Batchelder is also in my class.”

  “Ahhh,” Jean said as she met Giselle’s glance.

  “He does not like me.”

  “I am not so sure it is you he does not like,” Giselle said.

  “What do you mean, Giselle?”

  Jean cleared her throat loudly as Giselle dished more potatoes onto her plate. “Thank you, that’s plenty,” Jean said, nodding. “So, Etoile, what books have you read recently?”

  “I just finished Little Lord Fauntleroy.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “I liked it better in French.”

  “I see. Have you finished Anne of Green Gables?”

  “I just started it.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yes, very much. I feel like Anne Shirley when she arrives at her new home.”

  Jean smiled. “You and Anne are quite brave and adventurous.”

  I took a bite of the chicken. It was very tangy and tender.

  “Did you know there were other books in the series?” Jean asked.

  “Yes.”

  “If you’d like, I can look in the University library to see if they have any.”

  “The school has them.”

  Jean made a small “hmmm” sound and went back to eating. Later on, Giselle washed dishes and han
ded them to Jean who dried, then handed them to me to be put away. I went to take a plate from Jean’s hands but she held on to it and tilted her head.

  “Etoile?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you ever like to learn how to swim?”

  Giselle stopped washing for a moment and looked at us. Jean raised her eyebrows and waited for my response.

  “But where? I did not think there was an ocean…”

  “The university pool has just been repaired. I swim there several times a week. I used to be on the university’s swim team while I was a student and then coached it for a while. I could pick you up after school and bring you to the pool with me someday.”

  “But I do not even own a swim suit.”

  “Giselle?” Jean asked. “Can we find her a suit?”

  “Of course, Jean, but this pool, it is deep?”

  I had never been in a deep pool before. In fact, the only pool I had ever been in was when we lived in the old house by the coast and our neighbors bought a small, plastic pool for the local children. There were so many of us in it at a time, there was no chance of anyone drowning, let alone trying to swim.

  “It is deep, but I would be with her the entire time.”

  “Oh Jean,” Giselle began to protest, “maybe we should wait until the town pool opens. It has a shallow end.”

  “It won’t be open for weeks, Giselle. I said I’ll be there with her.”

  “I know, but…”

  “Giselle, didn’t you just say…”

  “Yes, but…”

  “I would like that,” I announced though I was not sure why I even said it.

  “Fine. Giselle will get you a bathing suit and I will pick you up someday after school and teach you how to tread water.”

  “But I thought you were going to teach me how to swim?”

  “I will, but you must learn how to tread water first. Then you will learn how to swim.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Three days later, I waited anxiously outside the front of my school for Jean to pick me up. That morning, Giselle had packed my new bathing suit which I was not overly fond of because of the purple flowers on it. I almost missed the bus because of her lengthy lectures.