By now, Mom’s sculptures have been lifted out of their crates, released from blankets and bubble wrap, and positioned strategically around the gallery. Interviews have been published. Invitations have been sent to art collectors and celebrities. Preparations are complete for tonight’s opening.
After Mom’s show has been launched, she won’t have to hang around so much. She’s promised the gallery owners that she’ll pop in a few times over the next couple of weeks, and of course she wants to see visitors’ reactions to her work, but she’ll be free to venture outside Paris. We can see a little bit more of the country while we’re on this side of the pond.
On the one hand, I want to see more: Chateaux! The wild white horses and Gypsy camps of Camargue! Euro-Disney! And, of course, I want to go to Lourdes.
On the other hand, I want to spend time in Paris with a certain French waiter. My days with Hervé are numbered, I know. At the end of the month, Mom and I will head back to Michigan, back to my old life. I’m hoping that we’ll keep in touch via e-mail, but it won’t be quite the same as sitting next to him, close enough to breathe in his cologne.
I load up my backpack with the remaining copies of my comic and then go to the lobby to meet Hervé. Mom follows me down to see me off. He’s standing near the reception desk. His jeans are faded to a pale indigo, and he’s wearing a black T-shirt. A pair of Ray-Bans are on top of his head. Ooh, la la.
“The opening is at eight,” Mom reminds me. She leans forward and whispers, “Why don’t you invite him to the party?”
I’m not sure that I want Hervé to see me in the same room as all of those broken bodies. For now, I just want to enjoy being treated normally.
Hervé leads me to his scooter. “You can ride on the back? Yes?”
I nod.
“Where do you want to go?”
“How about someplace not too touristy? Take me to your favorite places.”
He gets all serious for a moment, then nods. “D’accord. On y va.”
I put on the helmet he offers me and then he helps me straddle the seat. I prop my feet on the running board and wrap my arms around his waist, grabbing my weak arm with my right hand. I can feel the hard muscles of his stomach through his shirt.
“Ready?”
“Oui!” I shout. The engine revs.
“Hang on tight!” he shouts back.
I lean against him, so that my boobs are smooshed against his back. I’m glad he can’t see my face. It’s embarrassing to be so close, and I’m sure that I’m blushing. But he nods, as if I’m doing the right thing, and pulls away from the curb.
I have never been on a scooter before. It feels dangerous and free all at once. The wind puffs out my shirt and whips my hair. We fly past grey stone buildings and an old woman in heels walking her Pomeranian. We zip by bakeries and tobacco stands and bookstores and a girl covered by a veil. Finally, Hervé pulls over in front of a music store. I can hear a song floating out the door.
“Rai,” Hervé says. “North African pop.”
“My mom’s boyfriend, Raoul, has a radio show. He would love this.”
I follow Hervé into the store, which is sort of dark and cramped. At the entrance there’s a table covered in flyers advertising bands and shows and some D-I-Y comics and zines. Young people, some of them with dreadlocks or funky braids, hunker over bins of CDs, looking for treasure.
Hervé steps up to the counter and says something to the clerk, a cocoa-skinned guy with a gold nose ring. Then he motions to my backpack.
I lift it off my shoulders, unzip it, and hand over the comics.
“He says you can put them on that table.” Hervé starts to clear a space, but he accidentally knocks a stack of vampire comics onto the floor. They flutter and scatter, and suddenly Hervé is looking all flustered.
I know the feeling. I lower myself to my knees and reach for the pamphlets nearest me. Hervé and I reach for the one under the table at the same time, our fingers touching. Our eyes are on the comic, our fingers. We stay like that for a moment, half-hidden under the table, and then Hervé’s fingers slide forward until they are covering mine, and suddenly the only thing that I can feel is the skin and heat of his palm. I look up in surprise. We are both breathing harder now. He leans toward me. At first I think that maybe he is going to kiss me, but there’s no room under the table to maneuver, and there are people walking around behind us, coming to help gather the comics that Hervé knocked over. Instead, he moves his hand away from my hand and reaches for a strand of hair that’s fallen in my face and hooks it behind my ear.
“Merci,” he whispers. Then he pulls me to my feet.
I try to act as if nothing has happened. The store clerk helps us clear a little space, and I plonk down my stack of Gadget Girl. I feel a surge of excitement, but I’m not sure if it’s because of la distribution or the moment we just had under the table.
Hervé takes a long look at me as if he wants to say something important, then gestures to the bins. “Do you know French music?”
“Not at all,” I say, a little relieved to be getting back to normal conversation. “Pick something out for me.”
He smiles, making me go all gooey. “Okay. Something special for la mademoiselle.”
He selects a couple of CDs for me and helps me choose some for Raoul.
I manage to find Chatmonchy and Kyary Pamyu Pamyu in the import section and buy them for Hervé.
While he’s thumbing through the jewel cases, I keep my eye on the table. A couple of people go out the door, passing by without a glance, but finally, one girl comes in, pauses at the table, and picks up a copy.
I nudge Hervé. When he notices the girl tucking the comic into her bag, he grins at me. He seems almost as happy as I am.
It’s a start, but I’m thinking of what else I can do. I don’t want to be in newspapers and magazines like my Mom, my face plastered everywhere, but there are other ways to get the word out about my creation. I remember that chalk artist we came across our first day in Paris. I could write the URL to my website in colored chalk on the sidewalk, or even draw Gadget Girl.
I dig into my backpack again and pull out my electronic dictionary. I set it down and tap on the keys with one finger.
“Hey, Hervé. Do you know where we can find la craie?
I explain my idea, and we’re off to a stationery shop.
Later, our fingers all dusty with pastels, we go to a park and settle on a bench. A little girl jumps rope nearby and pigeons peck around our feet.
“This is where I come to think,” Hervé says.
I’m flattered that he brought me to his special place. For a moment, I pretend that I’m the only other person who knows about it. “What do you think about?” I ask him.
“Many things.” He stretches his arms out, across the back of the bench, as if to encompass the world. “I think about the work I will do one day, the countries I will visit. He looks at me and grins. “Sometimes I think about girls.”
I look away for a moment, then take a big breath. “Can I ask you something?”
“Oui.”
“Why aren’t you freaked out by me? Most boys are.”
“Freaked out?”
“You know, my hand…” Not to mention my limp.
Hervé shrugs. “No one is perfect,” he says. “My aunt has MS for many years. Her body changed, but we remember what a good heart she has. When I see you, first time, I think you are very beautiful.”
His words make me feel dizzy. Even though I’m sitting on the bench, I feel as if I’m twirling around. “Merci,” I say, in my tiniest voice. “Hey, would you like to go to my mother’s show tonight?”