“You’re quiet,” my dad says as we walk down the street toward our apartment.
“Hmm.” I nod. “Pondering that caramel au beurre salé I had on that crêpe—I think it’s the best I’ve ever tasted.”
Truth is, there is more on my mind than caramel tonight. Still, the crêpes are absolutely worthy of sustained contemplation. Every summer my parents and I hit up Le Sarrassin et le Froment—a crêperie that is always busy with tourists, but also always delicious and, conveniently, a stone’s throw from the apartment. Their savory buckwheat galettes have perfect crispy thinner-than-paper browned edges that I love. And the buttery dessert crêpes—topped with crème Chantilly or caramel or chocolate sauce and caramelized bananas or strawberries—are a moment of life’s perfection.
“Are you saying the caramel crêpes are even better than your papa’s? Because those are fighting words.” My mom looks from me to my father and grins.
“Absolutely. Sorry, Papa. You’ve been replaced.”
“The words every father dreads hearing,” my dad responds with a smile. “I knew this moment would come, but I thought it would be your wedding day.”
I roll my eyes. “Presumptuous much, Papa?”
My father smiles and strokes my hair, then takes my mom’s hand as he kisses her. I swear, his eyes glisten with tears.
Lately, I’ve noticed my parents are growing more sentimental around me. I asked my mom about this earlier in the summer, and she said it was because I’d be out of the house soon. And I guess this summer is a little taste of that. This is the first time in seventeen family Augusts in Paris that I haven’t been around all the time because I’ve been away exploring the city with a boy. As I’ve said before, my parents love me, but I’ve always believed that their love for me came after their love for each other. And they’ve always given me my freedom, so her answer kind of surprised me. But I suppose it makes sense, too. When I go to college, it will be the two of them again, as it was for all the years before me, but there will be a Khayyam-shaped empty space, too.
It must be a strange feeling to love a child and all the while be raising them to leave you. My mom told me that was always their parental mission—to give me the skills I need to be successful without them. That’s why they give me so much freedom and trust me implicitly. It was different for my mom when she was growing up—she had stricter Indian immigrant parents, but that experience influenced everything she is and does. My grandparents had to be hard-asses, though. Everyone always talks about America as this immigrants’ dream: Lady Liberty beckoning the huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Pretty words. Hollow words. My nani and nana didn’t always find it welcoming—not for brown Muslims, anyway. It’s not lost on me that my dad—an immigrant, too, but a white European guy—gets a completely different reception than desis with accents when passing through airport security.
My mom says Nani and Nana parented out of fear because of the world they lived in then. Sadly, that’s still the world we live in now.
Growing up in France, my dad’s childhood was practically the opposite of my mom’s. French parenting is strict when kids are little but morphs into something more laissez-faire. Like, my dad was not allowed to be a picky eater. He had to be seen and not heard a lot. But then he was backpacking throughout Europe with his friends starting at sixteen. There are so many things that are completely different about my parents, and yet here they are, decades later, devoted and inseparable. Maybe it’s not such a rare thing, but it feels that way to me.
“Seeing Alexandre again soon?” my mom nudges on our walk home.
“Tonight,” I mumble. Best to leave out the part about breaking and entering.
“Is it a date?” she asks. “Should we meet this young man?”
“Ugh. No. We’re hanging out. Maybe getting ice cream. That’s all. He’s not coming to the house with a wrist corsage and shiny polished shoes to court me like it’s a 1950s movie.”
Both my parents laugh. I catch them exchanging an inscrutable glance.
“I don’t think that’s exactly how it went back in the day,” my mom says.
“We’re solving a mystery, anyway,” I blurt.
“A murder or a heist?” my dad jokes.
“Neither.” I desperately need to get out of this conversation. My flirty texting might be improving, but my neutral parent banter needs serious work.
“Tell us,” my mom says as we continue our leisurely walk.
I sigh. Why do I do this to myself? I didn’t mean to tell them all of this, not yet, but now I can’t get out of it.
“You know how Alexandre is a Dumas?” My parents both nod. “Okay, duh, I told you that already. Anyway, I showed him the Delacroix that inspired my essay for, um . . .”
“The Art Institute Young Scholar Prize.” My mom interrupts matter-of-factly like I’ve simply forgotten. As if the biggest failure of my life could slip my mind. As if it’s not a gut punch every time I have to say the words.
I take a breath. “Yeah, that. Seeing that he is a Dumas and all, I filled him in on my so-called theory and how I wished there was a way I could, you know, redeem myself. Do it over. Turn back time or something.” My parents both nod again, and from the corner of my eye, I see these wistful looks on their faces. I have to keep my eyes on the ground because there’s a lump welling in my throat, and I can’t stand it.
I cough and continue. “The thing is, Delacroix did give Dumas a sketch that the family still has. And Alexandre showed me this letter from Dumas to his son where he wrote: Cherchez la femme, trouvez le trésor.”
“Wait. Hold on.” My dad stops abruptly. His eyes widen, and he and my mother exchange looks. “That is truly incredible.”
“For real. Then there’s this letter between Delacroix and Dumas referencing a mysterious raven-tressed woman. We’re trying to figure out if all these pieces are connected. Maybe there is an actual treasure, and maybe it’s a Delacroix painting. And somehow this mystery woman is the key to finding it. Then, well, maybe I could write a whole new essay that could win the prize . . .” And thus rewrite my entire future, I think. “But if this is all really real—this woman, these letters—how come no one else has found her? Made the connection? All these clues have been lying there waiting to be found.” I look to my mom.
My mom shakes her head. “I think you probably already know the answer to that. It’s a story we’ve seen over and over. For too long women’s contributions have been disregarded. Forgotten. Barely footnotes in the stories and histories of men with power. And that’s something you could help rectify. It would be truly amazing if you could connect these bits and pieces and find this woman. And a missing painting!” I can tell how excited my mom is when she starts gesticulating as she speaks—right now she’s at peak academic giddiness. “If you figure this out, it could mean a lot more than an award. Art history and literary journals would eat it up.”
I give my mom a little side hug and mouth a thank-you. I know it’s her job, but it still feels good to know she believes in me.
“And I’m sorry for giving you a hard time about your intentions with Alexandre.”
I step aside, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“I mean Papa and I were thinking that you were spending time with him because you felt a . . . connection. Not because of his connections.”
My face flames with anger. “I’m not using him or anything. How could you say that?” I snap.
Now it’s my parents who look confused. Excellent. I’ve stepped in figurative crap again and have another mess to clean up. Not sure why I feel defensive anyway. I mean, I do actually like Alexandre.
“Mon chat, we don’t think that,” my dad says. “That’s not who you are. We were surprised that you two shared an academic interest, that’s all.”
I shrug. “Alexandre goes to the École du Louvre. Maybe he will want to write a paper, too, if we find something interesting, especially because Alexandre Dumas is his actual ancestor.” I start walking again with my shoulders drawn to my ears. My parents hurry after me.
My mom touches my shoulder. “Khayyam, it’s critical that you not let him take credit for your work. It’s like I was saying—you have to make sure your voice, your contribution, isn’t silenced. It might be the twenty-first century, but as women of color, we still have to fight for our worth. All marginalized folks do. It’s more important than ever. If you’ve hit on something, the findings are part of your intellectual property, too.”
“Mom, Alexandre wouldn’t do that,” I say, anger edging into my voice again.
My dad jumps in. “All the same, perhaps you should bring him around so we can discuss it with him.”
“Mom. Papa. You’re making a huge deal out of nothing. We’re having fun. Besides, girl saves herself from academic purgatory isn’t exactly Le Monde headline worthy.”
My mom takes my hand in hers, her voice softening. “Beta, don’t sell yourself short. I know how much losing that contest stung you. But please don’t ever think you’re a failure. I wish you could see yourself as we do—bright, brilliant, hardworking.”
I wish I could imagine myself like that, but it doesn’t feel real. Since my catastrophic failure, I don’t hear their words. All I hear are the judge’s: a dilettante, not a future art historian. I don’t feel brilliant or bright at all. I feel like a light bulb that sparks and pops right before it fades out.
I walk up the wide, winding staircase to our apartment alone.
My parents went for a stroll along the Seine. I swear to God, as I watched them walk off hand in hand, the golden light of Parisian summer afternoons illuminated their path.
My phone beeps as I reach our landing.
It’s another text from Zaid:
Miss you 
I slip the phone back into my purse and reach for my keys with shaky fingers. Part of me knows that Zaid is texting me again because he’s jealous, so I’m not sure why I’m both annoyed and nervous.
Lately I think Zaid is at war with himself. The lovable, charming nerd versus the dude bordering on bro. And it’s been pretty clear which part is winning. Almost inexplicably, I still want to be in his life. Also, it’s hardly fair for me to call out other people for their internal contradictions.
Here we are, playing games. I put out a little trap, and he took the bait. He still has feelings for me. I still have feelings for him, too, even if they aren’t the clearest or smartest feelings I’ve ever had. But Alexandre is creeping into my thoughts. And into my heart. And into an abandoned old building with me tonight.
Alexandre is here, in Paris. Present.
Zaid is thousands of miles away. And we’re not even together anymore.
I need to be present, too. But the past still has its claws in me.