I sleep so late it’s no longer morning. Sylvie must have hit the flower markets, because the kitchen is smothered in plant life by the time I wander in, looking for food. Clouds of pink, crimson, blue, lavender, yellow, and green cover every surface. I smell roses, lilacs, carnations, and other flowers I don’t recognize. Underneath it all is the smell of roast chicken and lots of garlic.
Wrinkling my nose, I grab a pear and sink into the nearest chair. The fruit is tasteless so I give up on it after a few bites and sit, staring at a smattering of crumbs on the table, wondering where I’ll go when autumn comes. During the night I researched student exchange programs. One in Milan sounds promising. It’s for English speakers, so I don’t even need to speak Italian. I’ve already done the online application but need to fake some actual paper forms. I’ll use the same credit card I’d applied for in Zander’s name, like I did to pay for this program in Nice. But won’t that make it too easy to trace me? I don’t know. My head hurts. Maybe I’ll go back to bed. Say I’m sick. Rubbing my eyes, I head back to what used to be my bedroom.
My things are piled outside the door. Clothes are in one pile; shoes are lined up along the baseboards. Two of my stupid “happy tree” paintings lean against the wall. I stop, gasp, and feel like my world is about to implode.
Not yet. I don’t have anywhere else to go!
“Oh, Rosie, here you are,” Émile says, emerging from Ansel’s room. “I was cleaning out Ansel’s closet, trying to find his old books. I’d wondered where your suitcase was. What did you do with it?”
Blinking in shock, I try to answer. “I, um, well—” Too late, I finally remember I’d left it down in the shop after returning from the Wizard’s Church.
Émile regards me for a moment with a thoughtful expression, looking a little sad. Finally, he shrugs.
“No matter, you can help me put your things back. Then we must prepare for our dinner tonight.”
Several times I find myself simply staring at the object I’m trying to put away. My mind won’t focus on anything. We finally finish and head to the kitchen.
“Who is coming for dinner?” I manage to ask. It’s silly, almost. I know who’s coming, but I want to hear it again.
“Our friends, Phil and Valerie, and their son. I’m sure you’ll enjoy seeing them again,” Émile says with a slight grin. I grimace in return. At least Gavin won’t try to kiss me in front of the group. I hope.
“Also,” Émile adds, looking up from the roast chicken he was basting, “Ansel will be here. This dinner is in his honor. To celebrate his homecoming.”
“Oh,” I say, trying but failing to smile. Instead I turn away and finger the petals of a pale pink rose. “That’s nice.”
“That’s why we’ll eat in the shop tonight. Sylvie is they’re making everything ready for us. You can help me bring down some chairs.” Émile turns back to his chicken.
So we’re having a party. I shred petals and drop them onto the counter. A party with everyone I don’t want to see.
It’s time to say goodbye. I tried, but my plan didn’t work.
It kind of feels like my heart melted and is sloshing around in my shoes. I follow Émile and help him carry down metal folding chairs to Sylvie’s little shop. We move shelves, clear space in the middle of the floor, set up a long folding table. Sylvie is busy in the back rooms, and doesn’t emerge. I don’t mind. I don’t speak, except to ask when the guests will arrive. I’m told I have about an hour.
Once chairs and table are in place, I say I need to shower to get ready for the party. I grab my suitcase from where I’d stashed it, behind the rack of bright skirts, and let it bump against each step as I return to the upper floor.
Ansel’s bedroom feels different. It even looks different somehow. It’s cold and sterile. The colors are no longer bright. It’s the room of a stranger, a place where I don’t belong. I pack quickly and quietly. I don’t yet have a new family, but at least I have a temporary sanctuary until I can find one. I pat the key to the Wizards’ church in my pocket to be sure it’s there. And then I turn to say goodbye to the room I love.
Fat Cat grunts at my feet, wanting me to let him out. I gather the purring feline in my arms and bury my face in his soft fur.
“I’ll miss you, cat.”
I ease the door closed behind me and pull the suitcase down the hall. I’ll have to borrow Sylvie’s phone again until I can get my own. I’ll send it back to her as soon as I can. The kitchen is empty, so I grab the phone, shove it into my pocket and stuff the charger into my suitcase. I look around the kitchen once more, wanting to remember, but it hurts too much. Blinking, I whirl around and rush to the front room, wanting to escape quickly before anyone comes back upstairs.
I’m too late.
Gavin and his parents are here in the front room, sitting on the little couch. I yelp when I see them. Valerie wears a sweet grin, Phil fake-smiles in my direction, and Gavin just stares at me with his weird eyes. My face bursts into flames. Then, someone clears her throat, and I turn toward Mrs. Thackeray. She’s actually holding Marguerite’s portrait, the ancient witch! Why did she bring it with her? To gloat? The old lady nods a greeting at me with a smug smirk on her face. I have the sudden urge to grab Marguerite from her and run.
Émile rushes in and places a tray of drinks onto the coffee table. “Rosie, can you help?” he asks. “Our guests are a bit early. Sylvie has already left to pick up Ansel.” And with that, he hurries again into the kitchen, not noticing my suitcase. The doorbell rings. “Please get that,” Émile calls from the kitchen.
Everyone turns their eyes to me. Gavin stares at my suitcase. Phil looks perplexed as usual, Valerie’s smile starts to slip a bit, and Mrs. Thackeray pins me in her gaze like a cobra. Forget this. Forget them. I’m still leaving. Grabbing the handle of my suitcase, I go to answer the door.
I’m drowning. A whirlwind, a hurricane, a tsunami crash into me and engulf me all at once. I feel all the oxygen leave my body. It’s her. She found me.
“Rosemary! Oh, it’s really you! How could you do this to me?” Mom shrieks, while her long arms grab me and I’m caught. She holds on tight. Her voice breaks. I feel her sobbing against me. She’s crying, and has been for a while, from the looks of her puffy eyes and runny makeup. How did she find me?
Zander is here, too. He stands behind Mom, his tall frame wobbly and ill at ease, as usual, his blond hair tangled and dangling down over his forehead. His eyes are bloodshot and baggy and his face is gray. Mom tries to squeeze every last molecule of air out of my lungs.
“Who is it?” Sylvie calls from hallway outside the apartment. She hurries up, and then a wondering expression spreads over her face. “Your mother, Rosie?” she asks, dark eyes wide. She doesn’t wait for an answer, but calls, “Émile, come, come, look who’s here!” She gestures for Mom and Zander to enter and shoos them inside, while Émile comes in, looking suddenly even more harried and distressed.
The tiny front room is full of people all talking at once. Mom keeps one arm around me, holding tight to my shoulder. “Well, Rosemary,” she says, sniffing and practically digging her nails into my skin, “you haven’t said anything! I’m sure you’re surprised to see us.” Her ragged voice is hard-edged, laced with fury. She throws a significant look at Zander, who gives a slight shake of his head. “Get your things. You and I are going to have a nice, long talk.”
She dissolves into tears again. Sylvie hands her a tissue, invites her and Zander to join us for dinner. Zander accepts. He tells Mom we can wait a bit and I can leave after dinner so I can say my goodbyes. I still don’t think anyone has noticed my suitcase, now sitting forlorn and forgotten by the front door.
Ansel is waiting downstairs. Sylvie shoos us all down the hall and to the back staircase, and we all squeeze through the door and troop down in one big, noisy group.
They found me. How? Then, as I squirm under my mother’s hand, still gripping my shoulder, I feel like a bucket of ice water was dumped over my head. Jada. She must have told her.
Everyone spills into the shop and keeps talking. Ansel is there at the head of the table, smiling, laughing, while his machine whirs and breathes for him. Sylvie and Émile introduce everyone. I pull away from Mom and go to sit at the little chair behind the cash register, partly hidden from the group. Mom lets me go but keeps her red eyes fixed on me. Zander wanders and stares at paintings on the wall. Chatter whirls around me for two, three long, long, long minutes. Sylvie’s voice rises above the others.
“You mean you did not know that Rosie was in France? Mais, c’est impossible!”
Émile’s voice rumbles after Sylvie’s, softer, calmer. Trying to soothe. Oh, Émile! My eyes fill with angry tears. They spill down my face, and I don’t bother to wipe them away.
I only wanted to get away from my mother. I wanted to so badly that I lied, I stole, and I went to another country! I did everything I could to carve myself a place within this new family. Things obviously didn’t go like I’d planned, but at least I was on my own.
Then, Mom showed up. She found me because my best friend betrayed me. My only friend . . . wait! I think of someone with auburn hair and an easy smile. Nicole! She told me to visit her in London. I’ll send her a text. If I have her address, I can figure out how to get there. Maybe I can find a way to slip out while everyone is talking.
I hit send and bite my lip while I swipe away tears. Voices rise and fall like waves lapping against the pebble-strewn beaches of Nice while I stare at the phone, waiting, praying. It beeps. I read the words that appear.
Doesn’t she have Sylvie’s number? Maybe she was just being polite. She’s a supermodel, Ro. She doesn’t actually want to be your friend.
The voices die away. When I peer around the cash register, Gavin’s bright copper head swivels in my direction. He holds up a small white card in his hand with an expression of amusement on his face. It’s one of Mom’s “Childhood Apraxia of Speech” info cards. She likes to hand them out. Valerie has one, too. She says, “Ah,” as she reads it.
Hashtag humiliated times infinity. I’ll go to London anyway. I hear they have work for sideshow freaks.
Mrs. Thackeray speaks.
“Please listen, all of you. I have something very important to say,” she announces. “You probably do not know that I am the owner of this building.” Sylvie and Émile gasp. Ansel’s eyes widen. The corners of the old lady’s mouth curve upward in a tiny smile.
I loathe her.
“It once belonged to my grandmother, a famous actress whose portrait I hold in my hands.” She pauses and gazes around the room, like we’re all supposed to applaud, or something. “This building is mine. I plan to hand the ownership over to my son Thomas when I return to England next month.” Mrs. Thackeray clears her throat, a wet, gravelly sound that turns my stomach. Then, she looks around at everyone. The shop is silent, except for a couple of coughs and a long wheezing breath from Gavin, who must have caught a cold.
“You needn’t worry,” Mrs. Thackeray continues. “Tommy will take good care of things. However,” she pauses to dab her face again, “his plans do change things, a bit.”
“Change things? How?” Sylvie says in a trembling voice.
“You see, we looked at my grandmother’s records, and these flats were not supposed to be two-level homes. Only single-level flats. Tenants who are using two floors will have their rent adjusted accordingly. If they do not wish to pay more, they will need to move out of the extra rooms they have been using.”
“But, we have a contract,” Émile says. His face is so distressed, my heart breaks for him.
“All contracts were intended for single-level flats,” Mrs. Thackeray repeats, speaking slowly, condescendingly, as if speaking to a small child. She sits primly in her chair with her stupid poufy hat on her head, and I hate her more than ever.
“Forgive me. We really shouldn’t discuss business at dinner,” Mrs. Thackeray says. “I only brought this up because I know Rosemary is quite interested in my grandmother’s flat. The empty one next to yours, you know. She’s been sneaking in there quite often, I believe. And there is a matter of grave concern. She must return all the stolen property or I will press charges today.” She looks at me with a gleam of triumph in her faded eyes.
All heads swivel in my direction.
Gavin hurries over to me and presses a piece of paper into my hand, keeping his back to the group so they can’t see what he’s doing. He doesn’t say anything at first, because he’s coughing again, but finally he chokes out a harsh whisper. “Just read it, okay?” He moves away and goes off to hack by himself in a corner.
“What does she mean, Rosemary?” Mom asks, practically shouting to be heard over all the other voices that talk at once.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. There is nothing I can say. Nothing I want to say. I know I should give it up. Confess. Why should I keep pretending? My plan is ruined.
But as I look around the room at faces in front of me, something hard and angry starts to form itself inside my heart. First, I look at my mother, always the one in charge, so full of smothering, overwhelming concern; then at Mrs. T., regally self-righteous and accusing; at Valerie, sweetly confused; at Phil, vaguely embarrassed. Then, there’s Gavin. What is he, exactly? I glance down at the paper he’d pressed into my hand.
Meet me in the empty apartment. I just want to help. Trust me, okay????
Trust him? Can I? I glance around the room for him. He’s by the back stairs. His eyes find mine.
He’s not mocking me. He’s for real. I finally see it, and I know he reads it in my face. He turns and vanishes.
I stand up and face Mrs. Thackeray.
“You can’t prove anything,” I say. My words come out perfectly clear. They’re sharp, like bits of broken glass. Everyone understands. A little thrill runs through me.
Mrs. Thackeray’s eyebrows almost disappear into her white hair.
“I beg your pardon?” she asks. Her voice ends in a surprised squeak.
Once again, everyone starts talking at the same time. Mom gets up and heads in my direction, but Zander holds onto her arm. She whirls back to him, annoyed, and says something that sounds angry. Phil leaves the shop. Valerie stares at me. When I meet her gaze she glances away. Sylvie has tears in her eyes. So does Ansel. Émile whispers to him, his head bent down to his son. His face is strained. Mrs. Thackeray stares at me. Her face is hard. I stare back. My legs shake. I’m terrified, but I won’t let her win.
“We should go,” Valerie says, shouting to be heard. “Thanks for inviting us, but . . .” her voice trails off and her face flushes pink when she realizes nobody is paying her any attention. Phil rushes back inside, shoving his way through the shell curtain.
“Where’s Gavin?” he asks, his face crinkled with worry. “He isn’t here.”
“Allow me to say something,” Mrs. Thackeray calls. She raises a hand, and the talk dies down.
“I’ve had the empty flat sprayed for rodents. Rosemary should not enter it for a few days,” she says.
“But she told you she didn’t . . .” Émile splutters. “This is crazy,” he adds, looking at the ceiling. The old lady and I continue our staring contest, but when Phil speaks his words spark a sudden feeling of dread inside me.
“I think that’s why Gavin coughed so much when we got here,” he says. He darts his eyes around, still looking for his son. “He has asthma. I’m afraid the chemicals they used might bring on an attack. We should leave. He didn’t bring his inhaler tonight.”
“But where is he?” Valerie says.
And my dread turns to panic. I know where Gavin went. He went there, fully expecting me to follow. If something happens to him, it’s my fault.