The smell of sweet onions frying in butter filled the air in the kitchen. Though Francine had just finished breakfast, it still made her mouth water. Instead, she concentrated on chopping celery for Mama’s mustard sauce, using her favorite cutting board—made by Uncle Leroy—and Mama’s best knife, honed to a deadly edge once a week by Papa.
Mama peeled mushrooms next to Francine, humming softly under her breath, a soft counterpoint to the dripping rain outside. The cornbread was already finished and resting on the counter. They’d both start deveining shrimp next. The family was gathering at their house for this week’s Sunday dinner.
It was just the pair of them. Mama liked to joke that while Papa was good at eating food, he was worse than useless in a kitchen.
Francine didn’t want to bring anything into this cozy place that might ruin it. But she had to know.
“Mama, do I have any cousins I haven’t met yet?” she asked.
“There’s your Aunt Justine, who married that Yankee up in Montana, of all places. I don’t think you’ve met her kids.”
Mama shuddered.
“She sends us Christmas cards every year with pictures of all of them standing in the snow.”
“No, I meant here,” Francine said.
“Why?” Mama asked.
Francine looked up at the flat note in Mama’s voice. It sounded like a warning, but Francine wanted answers.
“Last night while I was playing, some people came in to listen. They just looked familiar, I guess.”
Mama sighed.
“Papa told me they’d stopped by. Now, don’t you go looking for trouble. You stay away from those people, you hear me?”
“But Mama—”
“No. You will walk away if any of them ever comes up to you, Francine Adelaide Guiscard. Have I made myself clear?”
Francine swallowed around the lump in her throat.
“Yes, Mama,” she said quietly.
She didn’t understand. Mama rarely raised her voice or got angry, and never over something as small as this.
Mama sighed.
“I worry about you,” she said, turning back to her mushrooms. “You’re just like your papa. Headstrong and more stubborn than Mississippi mud. Hotter than Tabasco with that temper, too.”
“I’ll be fine, Mama,” Francine assured her.
“I know you will be. I still worry. Now, are you ready for the shrimp?”
Francine let the topic drop, though she didn’t stop thinking about it. She could take care of herself. She’d been doing that at the academy for years.
But no matter what warnings Mama or Papa gave her, she wasn’t going to stop looking for her lost cousins.
* * *
Francine stared at the letter in her hand, the rest of the mail lying forgotten on the floor under the mail slot. She ran her fingers over the embossed symbol of the Louisiana Music College, then across the stark black signature at the bottom. Sunshine streamed through the windows behind her, but she could no longer feel its heat. The words ran together and Francine struggled to read the letter a second time:
Dear Ms. Guiscard,
I saw you perform last week at Slim’s. I’d hoped to talk with you afterward but missed my opportunity. I learned from your uncle that you are a high school senior at Oak River Academy. I sincerely hope that you’ll keep our school in mind when you’re looking to further your education. We have more than one music scholarship that you could apply for.
Please don’t hesitate to call if you have any questions.
Sincerely,
Frank Kitridge
Dean, Jazz Music Program
“Mama! Papa!” Francine shouted. When they both came running from the kitchen, she handed them the letter with a shaking hand.
“Is it real?”
Mama nodded while Papa took the envelope from Francine’s hand and looked at it, holding it up to the sunlight and peering through it. He gave the letter the same treatment.
“Seems like,” he said gruffly. “Has a fancy watermark and everything on the paper.”
“Oh, darling,” Mama said, pulling Francine in for a big hug. “I’m so proud of you!”
Francine’s arms shook and she held onto her mama for a long moment, drinking in the comfort. She looked up, thinking that her papa would join in. But he stood apart, his arms over his chest.
“Papa?”
“You shouldn’t be thinking about going to some music school. You need to learn a trade, get a real job.”
“Charles,” Mama scolded.
“We sent you to that fancy academy to have a better life. Not to end up playing in bars, trolling for tips.”
“I know, Papa, but this could be a chance to do something else with my music.”
“What, writing songs for other people?” Papa said dismissively.
“I thought you liked my music,” Francine said, stung.
“Of course, baby girl,” Papa said quickly. “And I love playing with you. But life on the road is no life.”
Francine shook her head. There were other things she could do if she could get into a college like this. Maybe become a studio musician, or teach.
“Now, Charles,” Mama said harshly. “You apologize to your daughter for being an old stick-in-the-mud. You should be happy other people recognize her talent.”
Papa stuck out his chin mulishly.
“Too many have already noticed her talent.”
“You mean my lost cousins,” Francine said hotly.
“You stay away from them,” Papa said, glaring at Francine.
“I’ll talk with them if I want,” Francine said, glaring right back. She hadn’t found them yet; it hadn’t even been a week. But she would.
“You will walk away from them,” Mama said with quiet steel in her voice.
“I am seventeen years old,” Francine said. “I will do what I want.”
“Not in my house, young lady,” Papa said, his tone flat and mean. “And right now, you need to go to your room. Or you’ll learn you aren’t too big to be laid over my knee and spanked.”
For a long moment Francine and her papa stared at each other, both smoldering in anger.
Mama sighed and said quietly, “Both of you. Behave.”
“Your room. Now,” Papa said.
“Fine,” Francine said. She snatched the letter out of his hand.
“It’s not fair!” she complained as she stomped down the hall to her room.
“Not fair at all!” she added as she slammed the door shut.
For a second, Francine was afraid that both Papa and Mama would storm in after her, yelling at her for such behavior. She threw herself onto her bed, telling herself that she didn’t care. They were wrong about everything.
However, Francine couldn’t hold onto her anger. She found herself crying into her pillow.
How could Papa be so hateful? Why didn’t he understand?
Francine loved making music. It was the only time she felt alive. Life on the road would be tough—she’d heard Papa and Uncle Rene’s stories about it often enough. She knew that.
But the rewards were sure to be as great.
Finally, Francine finished crying. She carefully smoothed out the letter, putting it on her desk, determined to apply for those scholarships.
Then, defiantly, Francine got out her fiddle and started playing.
She’d show them.
* * *
Francine took down the oldest photo album from the shelf in the living room. The house was quiet. Golden dust motes danced in the corner, shimmering in the afternoon sunlight. Mama and Papa both napped in the heat of the day, the air hot and heavy despite the constantly blowing AC.
As quietly as she could, Francine took the album to her room and closed the door. It had been over a month since the gig at Slim’s, but she still hadn’t found her lost cousins. She hoped the old pictures would give her a clue because she couldn’t talk with Mama, Papa, or any of her relations about it; every time she tried, they just ended up either fighting or not talking to her.
The smell of musty paper greeted Francine as she opened the album. She flipped through the first few pages, then went back and looked through them again.
It was as she’d remembered. There weren’t any pictures of Papa from when he’d been a boy, though there was at least one or two of everyone else.
Where exactly had Papa grown up? He knew those lost cousins, Francine was certain. He’d never denied them as family, either.
But there were no pictures of them.
The earliest pictures of Papa were of him as a young man, probably from when he’d first met Uncle Rene, when Uncle Rene and his family had claimed Papa as their own.
Francine was just going to have to get answers somewhere else. She turned to stare out the window of her room. The first line of trees stood just across the yard. Though it was hot as blazes outside, they promised shade and escape. She couldn’t smell the woods, but she knew the scent by heart: baked bark and earth, a little sweet mulch, the heavy undertones of the nearby open water.
No one would notice if Francine slipped out for a while. Besides, no one had told her to stay in. They’d just assumed she’d nap like they were.
Heart pounding, Francine opened the window slowly, silently. She wouldn’t be long, she promised herself. Then she slipped into the liquid heat of the afternoon, closing the window behind her.
Francine walked quickly to the woods, ducking under the promised shade. Only then did she take a deep breath, smelling the heated leaves and a trace of smoke from one of the cabins deeper in the trees.
No matter how cautious Papa had told her to be, Francine wasn’t worried: The woods always protected her.
It didn’t take long for Francine to walk to Uncle Rene’s. He lived alone in a small cottage, right on the main road. At one point, the house had probably been cute, but Uncle Rene had never painted it. The carved wood curlicues around the windows were gray and peeling. Moss covered the roof and crept up along the foundation. It looked like a bachelor pad, that kind of place where young bucks stopped by and shot the breeze with the older men.
No one was visiting, and the front porch swing sat empty.
When Francine knocked, Uncle Rene called out from the back, “Come on in if you’re a friend!”
Francine let herself in, saying, “What if I’m a swamp witch come here to steal your spices?”
Uncle Rene appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping his big hands on a dishtowel. His bright red and yellow apron said, “Kiss the Cook,” which Francine did, on both cheeks. He wore his usual green hat, cocked to the side.
“Then it’s lucky I have myrtle wreath hung over the door, now isn’t it?”
Uncle Rene peered at Francine.
“You look like someone’s stolen your favorite fiddle. Come on back to the kitchen. You eaten yet? I have some crawfish pie just frying up.”
It wouldn’t have mattered to Francine if she’d eaten or not—she’d never turn down Uncle Rene’s food.
“You must have known I was coming.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Uncle Rene said with a smile.
Francine made herself comfortable on the old white stepstool in the corner as she watched Uncle Rene flip over the first slice of pie, then put in a second. Francine fidgeted on her seat. On one hand, she didn’t want Uncle Rene angry with her, particularly not with the promise of fried pie. However, she still had to know.
“Do I have any cousins I haven’t met?”
“What you talking about, darling?” Uncle Rene said after a pause, lifting the corner of one of the slices, checking to see if it was ready.
Francine explained about the others she’d seen at her first gig.
Uncle Rene merely listened, nodding.
Then only the sound of the sputtering oil filled the kitchen.
Francine shivered and felt cold despite sitting in a boiling hot kitchen, dread filling her gut while her uncle flipped the pie pieces again, weighing them down now with a meat iron.
Finally, Uncle Rene nodded, as if he’d come to a decision.
“I’ll tell you something about them. But you have to promise me you won’t talk about them again, not with your Papa or your Mama. Not ever.”
“I promise,” Francine said, eyes wide. It wasn’t going to be a difficult promise to keep. Every time she brought them up, she got in trouble.
“Let’s finish up in here first. Then we’ll go out back and talk.”
Francine nodded solemnly.
Out back meant private stuff.
Usually, when Francine came over, she sat out front with everyone else. She’d only been out back a few times that she could recall. Mostly when people came over, they sat out front or in Uncle Rene’s tiny kitchen.
While Uncle Rene served up the slices of pie, Francine made lemonade in his pale green pitcher, then helped Uncle Rene carry it out back.
The heat struck Francine as she walked outside, even though the kitchen had been hot as well.
Uncle Rene had a mist fan that he started up, blowing moist air on both of them.
The garden smelled of fresh earth and pungent herbs. Colored bottles hung from the trees. Waist-high iron rods stuck out of the earth, each with a piece of shiny glass, porcelain, or painted clay balanced on top. Kudzu came down over the wall and covered the trees on the far side, a gentle carpet of green.
Francine remembered the first time she’d been back here as a child. Lights were strung up on poles, circling the chairs. Fireflies had blinked beyond the circle, next to the trees, calling to her.
Uncle Rene had told her that only inside the circle of lights was safe.
Francine believed him: The shadows had danced to their own tune in his garden.
Now, in the soft summer afternoon, Francine still stayed inside the circle of lights. The trees watched them, drowsing in the heat of the day.
Uncle Rene’s pie was as heavenly as any Francine had eaten: The outside was crisp; the inside, soft and tasty. She’d had crawfish pie at the school cafeteria once. She couldn’t believe the academy kids thought it was better than the food she brought for lunches. Uncle Rene’s piecrust melted on her tongue, and the filling was spicy enough that she had to quench it with a swig of cool lemonade.
After they’d both finished their slices and had put the dishes to the side, Uncle Rene finally started to speak.
“I’m sure that in that fancy school of yours they’ve taught you about Louisiana Creoles, right?”
“People descended from the French, Spanish, and slaves who stayed here,” Francine said.
Uncle Rene nodded.
“Very, very simply put, yes. However, it wasn’t just the French, Spanish, African, and American people who got mixed when they came over to the new land. Others came with them. Your mama and I told you stories about the others when you were young—about the elves, the dwarves, the goblins and the fairies. They all came as well, with the French, Spanish, and African people, and mixed with the native spirits already here.”
“What are you saying?” Francine asked, shivering suddenly despite the heat.
“There are other types of Louisiana Creoles,” Uncle Rene said. He looked out across the garden at the trees. There was no wind, and the garden lay quiet and still.
“Those others you saw, they were tall, weren’t they? Dark hair. Couldn’t keep your eyes off ’em.”
Francine nodded slowly.
“And they seemed familiar. Like family.”
“Yes,” Francine said.
“We knew they’d come calling when you were born with their mark. Knew you were like them.”
“Mark?”
“Your birthmark, on your shoulder.”
Francine thought for a moment, taking a sip of cool lemonade.
“The kids at school called it a ’swamp stamp,’“ she said, her feelings about it all mixed up.
“They’re only a little wrong,” Uncle Rene said, staring out across the yard.
“It means you belong here, in these woods. They’re part of you, in your blood. Like they’re in your papa’s.”
“But who are my lost cousins?” Francine said, wanting Uncle Rene to spell it out.
Uncle Rene turned and smiled at Francine, his shark smile, the one he used when he was playing cards in the back room at Slim’s.
“Not who, darling. What.”
“Uncle Rene, are you really saying there’s some kind of other in our family?” Francine asked derisively.
This had been the uncle who’d sworn up and down on a stack of Sundays that there was a half-gator boy just down the road.
Now he was claiming she had Féerie blood in her veins?
“What do you think?” Uncle Rene said, gesturing toward the trees at the far end of the garden. “Can you hear them talking?”
Francine wanted to deny what her uncle was saying. It was hard enough being from the country side of the parish and going to school on the other side. However, Francine couldn’t deny there was something special about these trees. It was why most people were never invited into Uncle Rene’s backyard. The trees didn’t allow it. The kudzu in the corner covered more than just branches and trunks: It gave Francine the impression of a curtain hung over a door.
Something magical and dangerous lived beyond those leaves.
“It’s why your papa had only you,” Uncle Rene said quietly. “Though your mama wanted more children, she agreed to just one. They knew you were mixed. Your papa knew you’d be torn, wanting those woods and something more, like he was. He didn’t want to bring another child into the world only to have her hurt that way.”
“So why doesn’t Papa want me to meet my cousins?” Francine said. “Why did Mama tell me to walk away if they came calling?”
“Do you think those trees are safe?” Uncle Rene challenged.
Francine looked out again, lips pressed together hard as she thought. The trees weren’t cruel, that much she knew. But they weren’t innocent either. They had their own thoughts and deeds; different than the puny humans they towered above.
They fascinated Francine as much as they made her uneasy.
“So my lost cousins—”
“Are just as foreign, frightening, strange, and fascinating as those trees.”
“Huh,” Francine said. She wanted to go take a closer look, but she wasn’t about to leave the safe circle of lights. She knew once she stepped outside and went under those branches, there would be no going back.
“I know that look,” Uncle Rene admonished. “You have their scent now, and you’re curious as a cat with a hot radiator.”
“Yeah,” Francine admitted.
“Will you at least trust me when I say that you’re not ready yet? That you should run when they come calling again? Because they will.”
Slowly, Francine nodded.
“I do trust you. For now,” she added.
“And will you tell me when they do?”
“Maybe,” Francine said slyly. “Depends on what you bribe me with.”
“Cornbread waffles,” Uncle Rene said with a grin. “With bacon, grits, and bread pudding.”
Then he leaned over closer.
“One other thing you should know: If you go with them, you’ll leave all cooking behind.”
Francine turned to stare at Uncle Rene. “Really?”
“Southern gentleman’s word.”
“Then why bother?”
“Exactly,” Uncle Rene said. “We got it good here.”
Despite the rest of her last year of school looming, Francine agreed.
“Yeah, we do.”
* * *
Sniggers greeted Francine as she pushed open the door of the high school. She told herself she was a senior, only a few more months left. The perennial smell of wax and whiteboard markers made her nauseated. She braced herself as she walked around the corner, spying her locker easily.
Someone had “decorated” it for her—purple and gold glitter proudly proclaimed her “Zydeco Queen.”
Francine’s breath suddenly grew short. Darkness edged her vision. She hated this—this torture, this constant reminder of how different she was from the rest of them. She spun and raced for the girl’s bathroom, barely making it to a stall to vomit up her breakfast.
Pale and shaking, Francine finally made her way back to her locker. Her first impulse was to scrub the words off, but she stopped herself. They would just do something worse.
Francine tried to think of how to get revenge. She considered asking her cousins for help. They would come running. Aunt Lavine’s eldest boy had a truck; they could all hitch a ride into the city, then find Billy and put him down, hard. They wouldn’t touch Laura—she was a girl. Francine would have to find some other way of getting to her.
But hurting Billy that way would get her cousins in trouble. And Billy had brothers. Francine didn’t want to start a feud.
As lunch ended, Mrs. Beaumont, Principal Martin’s secretary, came into the cafeteria, calling Francine’s name. Francine hurried over to her, worried that Billy and the others had already escalated their attacks.
“Would you come with me?” Mrs. Beaumont asked Francine, leading her to her locker. Principal Martin stood there, along with Billy, Laura, Karyn, and a few of Billy’s other buddies. They were all looking down or away, anywhere but at Francine as she walked up.
“Is this your locker?” Principal Martin asked, his eyes pale and watery behind his thick glasses.
“Yes, sir,” Francine said, drawing herself up, thankful again for her height. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked sternly at the principal, holding herself to hide her fear. Would he blame her for this?
“Did you do this?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you ask these gentlemen to do it for you?”
Francine gave an unladylike snort.
“No.”
At Mrs. Beaumont’s look, Francine added, “No, sir. Ma’am. I wouldn’t ask these gentleman for a drop of water even if we were standing in the middle of the Mississippi.”
Principal Martin and Mrs. Beaumont exchanged a look.
“I attended some interesting workshops this summer,” the principal said. “While this academy has always had a ’No Bullying’ policy, it hasn’t always been enforced.”
He paused, cleared his throat, staring hard at Billy.
“From now on, this academy has a zero-tolerance policy regarding bullying. Billy McGyvner, you are suspended for the rest of the week.”
“What?”
Billy’s head snapped up and he stared in outrage at the principal.
“Furthermore, if I hear of any more of this behavior, I’ll be advising the staff not to write you any recommendation letters, which will make it difficult, if not impossible, to get into the colleges you’re applying for.”
Francine couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was this year finally going to be tolerable? Was the staff finally going to do something?
“And you, Francine Guiscard. If I hear of any sort of retaliation, I’ll advise the teachers to do the same. Which means no Louisiana Music College for you.”
Francine gulped, surprised that he knew about the offer or her plans. She nodded.
“In addition, I want you to start seeing the school counselor, Mrs. Delacroix, once a week.”
“What? Why? I’m not crazy,” Francine protested.
Billy sniggered.
“I’m not suggesting you are,” Principal Martin said, glancing at Billy, who abruptly schooled his expression into something more innocent.
“But you’ve been under intolerable stress,” he said to Francine, while still looking at Billy. “It would be good for you to talk with someone. Plus, that way you’ll have a regular dialogue with the staff and an easy avenue for airing grievances.”
Francine barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. She knew the stilted phrases came straight from whatever workshop Principal Martin had attended.
She decided she would never tell the counselor anything. She wasn’t a snitch.
Then she glanced at Billy and her heart sank.
Billy’s glare was pure hatred. He was never going to forgive her for this, even though she wasn’t the one who started it, wasn’t the one responsible for his punishment. He was going to make her life hell, even worse than it had been.
And there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.
* * *
The week dragged on. Francine flinched every time she saw Laura or Karyn, certain they were plotting revenge with Billy. The next week was worse, once Billy returned. His friends all acted like he was a hero and being unjustly punished.
Francine, in return, spent a very uncomfortable thirty minutes with Mrs. Delacroix, replying to all her probing questions with, “yes,” “no,” or “I don’t know.”
The following Friday, Mrs. Beaumont pulled Francine out of her chemistry class. Mama sat in the stiff-backed visitor’s chair in the principal’s office. Principal Martin sat behind his desk, his thin, nervous fingers folded together but still twitching. The lights had been turned off and the shades drawn against the afternoon sunlight.
Francine sat down on the edge of her seat, too scared to sit back. It wasn’t the first time she’d been brought in here, but it was the first time she didn’t know what she’d done.
“You’ve been accused of cheating,” Principal Martin told Francine bluntly.
“I’ve never—”
“That’s what I told him,” Mama interrupted.
“Parents don’t always know what happens at school,” Principal Martin said mildly. He steepled his fingers for a moment, stilling their action.
“Did you know that Francine has been bullied almost every day since she started attending the academy?”
Francine looked down at her feet. The principal was making it sound like she always needed rescuing or something. She gave as good as she got.
“I knew she was fighting—”
“She’s been a victim, and now that the pressure is off, she’s falling into bad habits.”
“I’m doing what?” Francine asked, confused.
“I’ve never cheated. Not once.”
Her grades were good because she worked hard.
“Francine,” Mama warned.
“Whatever the case may be, now you’ve been accused of cheating.” Principal Martin pulled out two papers.
Francine recognized them. They were the first papers required for history that week.
“As you can tell, they’re practically identical.”
One was Francine’s. Joseph, a fellow band member, had written the other. As far as Francine knew, he wasn’t friends with Billy or any of the others.
“I didn’t cheat,” Francine said exasperated. “I don’t know how he copied my paper. But I didn’t cheat.”
“Why isn’t this young man in here?” Mama asked reasonably.
“He turned in his paper before Francine.”
“But he’s in my class!”
“According to Mr. Frazier, he still turned it in before you did.”
“Mama, I didn’t cheat,” Francine said earnestly, facing her mother. “I swear to you, I didn’t.”
“What do we have to do to prove she didn’t?” Mama said, reaching out and taking Francine’s hand.
“Mr. Frazier has assigned you another paper. Due Monday,” Principal Martin said. “If you can produce original work with this one, we’ll assume the other was some type of error.”
“Will you pull Joseph in here and accuse him of cheating if I write you a good paper?” Francine demanded.
“She’ll write you a good paper. I’ll make sure of it,” Mama replied, glaring at Francine.
Francine sat back in her chair, folding her shaking arms over her chest, while Mama and Principal Martin talked about her assignment. She was too angry to pay attention. None of this had been her fault. It was all so unfair. And, as always, she was powerless to do anything about it.
* * *
Francine stared at the red C at the top of her paper. She knew Mr. Frazier would be mean and give her a bad grade, no matter how good a paper she did for him to prove she hadn’t been cheating.
Billy McGyvner had something on Mr. Frazier, and Francine would never find out what.
Joseph, the tall, reed-thin boy who swallowed too much when he was nervous could no longer meet Francine’s eye. He had a new oboe that he showed off in class the next week, much fancier than what his shoes and hand-me-down coat said he could afford.
But that was history. This was English. Francine had always done well in English. She wrote A papers. What she had in her hand was an A paper. Why had Mrs. Anthony given her a C?
Mrs. Anthony continued to hand out papers to students, calling their names alphabetically. Francine could barely hear her through the sound of rushing blood in her head.
Had Billy gotten to Mrs. Anthony as well? Was there no teacher Francine could trust to be fair?
When Mrs. Anthony finished handing out papers, she gave the next assignment. Francine copied it down, word for word, to make sure she didn’t mess up again. The bell rang just as Mrs. Anthony finished, and Francine made her way to the teacher’s desk.
“I don’t understand why you gave me a C on this,” Francine said, anger giving her the courage to just ask.
“It wasn’t up to your usual quality,” Mrs. Anthony said gently. “You didn’t form one of your references correctly, your point wasn’t clear in the second paragraph, and your conclusion wasn’t formed accurately.”
Francine just stared at her teacher. Her last paper, which had received an A, had two references incorrectly done and a number of other concerns. She didn’t understand why she was suddenly handing in C-quality work.
“It’s because of Mr. Frazier’s accusations, isn’t it?”
“Now Francine, you know I don’t believe you’d ever cheat. But your work has been slipping.”
The look Mrs. Anthony gave Francine was one of sincere concern. It took Francine only a moment to put it together.
Francine wasn’t slipping. She was doing the same level of work she’d been doing. But because of the accusation of cheating, the other teachers now looked at her differently.
For a moment Francine’s vision wavered. She felt as if she were underwater, everything blurry and moving at slow speed. She was drowning with no way to swim against the current.
“You should go to the nurse,” Francine finally heard as she came back.
“I’m fine,” Francine assured Mrs. Anthony. “No, really,” Francine added when Mrs. Anthony just stared. “And the next paper, you’ll see. It’ll be perfect.”
Mrs. Anthony beamed at her. “If anyone can do it, I know you can.”
Francine walked out of the classroom, barely able to pay attention to where she was going. She didn’t know how she was going to create a perfect paper. She already worked harder than everyone else. But she had to try. Billy and his pals weren’t going to win.
* * *
Mrs. Delacroix’s office smelled like old gardenia perfume. The furniture was all brown and beige, as dull as the rest of the school. The only spot of color was the orange lamp on the side table, seemingly out of place, with a pile of bright parade beads curled up around the base.
The counselor had a pinched mouth and gray eyes the same color as storm clouds. Her voice, though, was gentle, as she asked Francine, “Why are you so hated, child?”
Francine shrugged. That was her standard response to most of Mrs. Delacroix’s questions.
“I see I’m talking to myself again today,” the counselor said with unexpected humor.
“I keep thinking it isn’t because you’re not from these parts, but because you’re too much from here.”
Francine shrugged again. The way things were going, she’d never be able to leave here, either.
“These boys and girls, their parents have filled their heads with stories about how while it’s good here, it’s gotta be better somewhere else. And it may be, for some of them. But most of them are stuck. They’re always going to be looking outside, and away. You show them the things they’ve been told they don’t want. Family and roots and belonging here.”
“So?” Francine asked. It wasn’t as if she was ever going to change.
Mrs. Delacroix fiddled with a pencil, running her fingers along it, then tapping it on the end.
Francine recognized the gesture—the counselor wanted to light up a cigarette but smoking wasn’t allowed in the school.
“Talk about wanting to leave as well,” Mrs. Delacroix finally said. “Let ’em know you’re stuck, too. It’s the only thing you’ll ever have in common with them.”
“I don’t want to have anything in common with them,” Francine said, scowling. “Besides, it won’t work. They already know about the music college.”
Mrs. Delacroix tilted her head to the side, peering at Francine. “As hard as they push, you push right back, don’t you?”
“So? If I don’t push back, they’ll run all over me.”
“Sometimes you need to make a peace,” Mrs. Delacroix said softly. “Find a way to bridge that gap between y’all.”
Francine pressed her lips together and looked out the window. How could she find a peace when no one wanted it? She stopped listening to Mrs. Delacroix until the phone in her office shrilly rang.
When the counselor put down the phone, she had tears in her eyes.
“It’s your mama,” she said softly.