The next time Raoul comes over, he whips up a fabulous veal marsala. We stuff ourselves, and then he asks if he can take my mother and me out for a cup of organically brewed Guatemala Antigua at the anarchist café. Oh, and for a bit of folk music, too—a local singer/songwriter with an acoustic guitar is headlining tonight. Raoul is always on the listen for something new.
“It’s warm tonight. We can put the top down on my convertible.” I’d love to ride in his car, but I’m not really in the mood to go out tonight.
“You kids go ahead,” I say. “I’ve still got homework. Just don’t keep Mom out too late.”
We all load the dishwasher together, and then I shoo them out the door. I work on a paper for English class, then watch TV for a little while and check my e-mail. There’s a message from a girl named Brandy who lives in Alaska. I sent a copy of Gadget Girl to her as a trade for her comic, Moose! I read about it in Broken Pencil, a magazine that reviews zines. There’s also some fan mail from Zack in Tallahassee, author of Gator Gothic. Happily, the Gadget Girl website has had ten more hits since I last checked two nights ago. I answer my messages and go to bed feeling all warm and happy.
In the morning I find a copy of the latest Gadget Girl on the table, alongside the newspaper.
“Good morning,” Mom says. She’s at the counter slicing fruit. She sees me noticing the comic. “We picked that up last night at the café. Raoul is a big fan.”
“No kidding?”
She’s got her eyes on her me, as if she’s waiting for more of a reaction. “In this issue, Gadget Girl uses a macchinetta. Not too many people know what that is, do they?”
I shrug. “You always talk about it during your presentations. Maybe someone was influenced by you.”
“Someone in your art class, do you think?”
“Yeah, sure. Why not?”
I open it up and pretend it’s for the first time. I’m not ready to come clean to Mom about my role in this. She’d probably make a big deal out of it and pressure me to go public.
“It’s pretty good,” Mom says, still watching me. “Nice contrast. Great story line, too.”
“Thanks,” I say, under my breath.
The next day, between third and fourth periods, Whitney finds me in the hallway and grabs my arm.
“You’ll never guess who’s become a fan of Gadget Girl!”
I ponder. “Luke Parker?” Some kids call him Alien because a) he’s a little spacey and b) he claims to have seen a U.F.O. land in his backyard. Not only is he a walking encyclopedia when it comes to things extraterrestrial, but also he’s a huge comic-book fan.
“No!”
Before I can hazard another guess, Whitney blurts out, “Chad Renquist!”
“Really?” Art class aside, I never would have pegged him for the manga-reading type. I wonder where he got it. I wonder if he liked it. I wonder if he’s figured out that I had a crush on him. How embarrassing would that be?
“He had a copy of the latest issue in study hall today. I heard him talking with his friends. They’ve noticed a certain similarity between Chaz Whittaker and you-know-who.”
I take a look around, make sure no one’s listening in on our conversation, then lower my voice. “Did they have any idea who the artist might be?”
“Yeah, they did.” Whitney laughs merrily, adjusting the lace bed jacket that she’s wearing over her tank top. “They think it’s your mom.”
“My mom?” Oh, no! I can’t decide which part of that bothers me the most—the idea that my mother is getting credit for my work, or the notion that my thirty-eight-year-old mother would have found her muse in Chad Renquist. I’m going to have to do something about this, but what? Have my mother issue a statement? Sign my name to the next edition? This is too much to think about now, with a trip to Paris coming up and all. I’ll deal with it when I get back.
“Must have been the macchinetta,” I say. “That was a big mistake.”
When I get home from school, I find Mom at the kitchen table with a stack of books and our portable CD player.
A female voice says, “Voulez-vous une chambre?”
“What’s this?” I ask, going over for a better look.
“I was thinking you could learn a few phrases,” she says. “It’ll make you feel more independent.”
At school, we study foreign languages. We only have three choices—French, Spanish, or German. I’m taking Spanish as an elective. Someday it’ll be spoken more widely in the States than English, so it’s best to be prepared. Plus, I can practice with Raoul. I’ve also been studying Japanese with books and tapes on my own. It’s pretty easy to pronounce, because the same phonetic sounds appear in English. But French. It sounds like the words are scraping at the back of your throat.
“You should at least be able to order by yourself when we go out to eat.”
“Un Big Mac, s’il vous plait,” I say, with my best fake French accent.
Mom frowns. “Seriously. Have a seat. I’ve made some flash cards.”
Mom was an exchange student in Avignon in college and later studied art history at the Sorbonne. One of her big sculptural influences, Isamu Noguchi, who’s American-Japanese like me, lived in Paris for a while. I’ve heard her speak French before with her friends on the phone, and she sounds like a native to me. I figure I’ll let her do all the talking once we get over there.
Nevertheless, I sit down at the table and have a look at the flash cards. She’s drawn pictures of food on one side, and their names in French on the other.
“Steak and french fries,” I say, picking up the first card.
“Steak frites,” Mom says, and I try to repeat it.
“Yum. Ice cream.” I pretend to lick the next card.
Mom shakes her head. “La glace.”