Eternal Spring A Young Adult Short Story Collection (25 page)

The group leaders inform us we have until ten-thirty to
explore on our own. Whoops and cheers bounce against the tiling and swoop up to
the curved overhead, echoing and intensifying. Stacy gives me a quick,
one-armed hug and grins. I smile back, sharing the thrill of the unknown and
unapproved. “Come on,” she says. “I’ll race you to the top.”

Laughing, she starts up the stairway of one of the deepest
Metro stations in the city. I pause to take a breath, and that’s my error. Mark
takes hold of my elbow; I flinch despite the barrier my spring jacket provides.
He tugs me out of the path of the rest of the group, and I move away from the
stampede as much for my own safety as from his pressure.

As soon as I’m clear I wrench my arm out of his grasp. “Let
go of me.”

“Hold on.” He reaches for me again, catching my sleeve. “I
need you to do something for me.”

“Why would I do anything for you?”

His lips twitch in a slithery smile. “You don’t want me
telling Stacy how you threw yourself at me today, do you?”

“I threw myself —”

“It would really suck to have her thinking she can’t trust
you, wouldn’t it?”

“You asshole. You really think —”

From midway up the steps, Stacy shouts, “Hey you guys! Come
on!” There is still laughter in her voice; she believes Mark’s smile. She will
believe him over me.

My throat aches as I face him and force out the question.
“What do you want?”

He smiles wider, slimier. “You’re going to tell Stacy - come
on, up we go - you’re going to tell Stacy that you want to go to the champagne
place just you two. Girlfriend shit.”

“And why am I doing this?” Before he answers, the
realization dawns. “This whole thing was a set up. That disgusting come-on at
the museum… just so you could get me to agree to this plan.” I feel the wrinkles
of disbelief forming on my face. “You really are an idiot.”

If he had only asked, I would have agreed. But he’s too
self-absorbed to realize that, to even consider Stacy might want to spend an
evening without him.

“I’m not an idiot.” He lowers his voice as we close the
distance to where Stacy waits. “I’m smarter than you give me credit for.”

“What’s going on?” Stacy asks. Her eyebrows draw together,
her gaze darts from Mark to
me and back
again.

Mark jogs the last few steps toward her. “Rachel needs a
favor.”

My jaw drops, but Stacy hasn’t taken her eyes off her guy.
My gut reaction is lost to her. By the time she turns to me, I have control of
my expression.

“Really, what do you need, Rach?” she asks.

“We’ll tell you upstairs,” Mark says. “Come on, let’s get
going.”

Trailing the crowd of MacArthur kids, we hustle up the
remaining steps and into the twilight over Montmartre.

“Oh, my God, this is amazing.” Stacy hits street level
moments before I do. She bounces on the balls of her feet and dances a small
circle before Mark rushes her from behind and catches her up in a spiraling
hug. Her laughter cuts through the clear air, draws smiles from passersby and
classmates streaming past. She wraps her legs around Mark’s waist and he walks
a few steps with her before one of the chaperones cautions them on behavior.
But not even Mark putting her down dims Stacy’s enthusiasm. “Come on, Rachel!
Let’s go.”

I swallow down the combination of anger and unease and walk
with Stacy and Mark toward where the basketball crew has gathered at the corner
beyond the station entrance. On the surface, spending the evening
just me and Stacy knocking around Montmartre and hitting a
champagne bar
sounds ideal. The fact Mark orchestrated it makes me more
than a little suspicious.

Someone is running, the sound of feet hitting pavement
muffled by the green leafy trees and putter of cars easing past. “Rachel!” It’s
not a shout so much as someone singing out my name.

I turn but do not slow, keeping pace with Stacy until we
reach the rest while Bowie approaches at a jog.

“Hey Bowie,” one of the jocks calls. “ ‘s up man?”

“ ’s up?” Bowie responds. He and the jock share a fist bump,
but nothing more, and his attention falls on me. “Bunch of us
are
headed over to Place du Tertre to see if any of the
artists are still hanging around. Want to come with?” He stands at the edge of
the group, not quite a part, not quite separate.

“Umm…I…” I’m caught. I’m committed, as it were, to staying
with Stacy, but a tug in my chest and a thread of anticipation in my gut make
me want to abandon that plan. Why am I suddenly so attuned to Bowie Theissen
and his brown eyes and big, easy smile? “I…”

He grins and holds up his hands, palms out. “Say no more. I
can see you’ve hit the point where you’re afraid you can no longer resist me so
you’re safer keeping your distance. I understand.” His words bubble beneath his
laughter. “We’ll see you around.”

And he jogs off, back to where a cluster of choir kids waits
for him beneath an old-fashioned street lamp. They shuffle into motion before
he’s quite arrived, but he turns back to
me and waves
before losing himself in that crowd.

“Who was that?” Stacy stands shoulder to shoulder with me,
leaning her head close to keep her voice soft.

I’m not sure how to answer. Saying his name suddenly feels
like exposing a seedling to the light before its time. “Nobody,” I say.

“Not
‘nobody.’
You were sitting
next to him at dinner.”

“Just one of the guys from show choir,” I say. I can feel my
forehead wrinkling, so I must be looking at her like she’s insane. “Don’t you
remember seeing him at concerts?”

“Well duh, Rachel, I know he’s in choir with you. Not that I
go to concerts or anything.” She slips her arm through mine and turns me toward
the basketball crew. “I just wanted to know his name. He’s kinda cute.”

Yes, Bowie is kinda cute. Did he somehow get cuter when I
wasn’t looking? “Relax. You have Mark,” I state.

She sighs, smiles. “I do have Mark, don’t I?”

I follow her gaze to where Mark is horsing around at the
front edge of the group, pretending to jump onto his buddy’s shoulders. That
curl of guilt knocks against the wall of my stomach. “Listen,” I say, “about
Mark…”

“Yeah, he said you wanted a favor from him. So spill it.”

Again my tongue is caught at the back of my throat, tangled
with words. I look to Mark, find his cold glare on me. I don’t know what his
endgame is, but I know my option is to go along with his plan or spend the
evening with the whole crew, and by extension, with him.

“I, uh — What would you say if we let the guys go off
and do their thing and just you and me go to the champagne bar?”

She releases my arm, pivots so we stand face to face.

“And that’s what you asked Mark? Or did he put you up to
this?”

Moments like this make me wonder if hidden way deep inside
Stacy carries a seed of distrust in Mark. But then something happens to make me
realize I’m crazy.

She purses her lips, eyes bright. “He did this, didn’t he?
This was his idea because he thinks you and me should spend more time together
wasn’t it? And he wants you to pretend it was your idea.”

Now the words make it all the way to my lips but no further.
Stacy darts away from me, runs straight for Mark and throws her arms around
him. She squeals and tells him how wonderful he is; I fold my arms and grit my
teeth. In a flash she’s grabbed my arm again and is turning me away from the
guys, waving to Mark over her shoulder.

“He’s so sweet to think of this, isn’t he?” She sighs, a
little squeal revealing contentment. “Okay, according to the waiter we have to
head toward the basilica. He said you can see it from nearly every road so it’s
easy to find.”

While I push down the irritation, she leads me across a
narrow cobbled street, points up the hill to where one of the basilica’s white
stone domes glows against the darkening sky.

“Mark was just saying at dinner how I should probably spend
more time with you, that this trip is a good time to…you know.”

The silence between us fills with the memory of all the ugly
words we exchanged, of the jealousy and hurt that surfaced and has yet to fully
heal. I never felt as alone as I did when Stacy and I weren’t speaking, never
cried so hard or felt so wrenched apart. Plenty of friendships fade away, you
know? But the ones that are torn to pieces, those are the ones that make you
grieve.

“I know you’re still not crazy about him,” Stacy says
softly, “but he’s a good guy, he really is. Think about it. How many guys do we
know who would give up the first free night in Paris with their girlfriend so
she could hang with her best friend?”

Every bite of dinner churns in my stomach, rolling in the
acid of Stacy’s delusions. We pass a bakery whose ovens are still venting
savory aromas into the air, and I swallow down the threat of nausea.

“I wish you two could really learn to be friends.”

The memory of Mark’s tongue shoving into my mouth washes
over me and pushes me to the limit of my endurance.

“Ooooh.” Stacy swings me to the right, stopping in front of
a shop window where a headless mannequin is draped in a scrap of sheer fabric
in which Stacy would look great and I would look like a hooker. “How much is
that in American?” she asks.

I read the little price placard, do quick and rough
calculations. “About a hundred and twenty bucks.”

She pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth. This is her
thoughtful pose. “I might need to get Mark to bring me back here tomorrow. We
have free time until when?”

“I don’t know. Stacy, listen for a sec.” I don’t know what
Mark is up to, but I can’t stand my friend thinking he’s so wonderful any more.

“I’m listening,” she assures me. She turns away from the
window, turning me with her.

Newly conscious of the drop in temperature accompanying the
gathering night, I fold my jacket closed across my chest rather than bother
with the zipper “Remember this morning when we were at the museum and you were
looking at the diamonds and stuff?”

“Like I could forget the diamonds?”

Dumb question, I guess. “Yeah, well you remember when I left
you to go look at the fluorescing exhibit?” I shuffle sideways a little to make
room for a trio of women coming at us from the other direction.

Stacy’s laughter makes them smile as they pass. “Yes, you
wanted me to go with you,” she says to me, untwining her arm and giving me a
good-natured, low-effort shove. “As if I was going to leave the diamonds,
hello.”

The hill grows steeper. At the top of the cobbled street the
white stone of Sacre Coeur basilica glows brighter than the emerging stars. The
shock of white against the dark sky is otherworldly; to me, spooky, and not at
all comforting.

“So what?” Stacy says, burying her hands in the pockets of
her jacket. “You’re going to tell me you saw something cool and didn’t come get
me?”

What I saw… fluorescent lighting shadowing Mark’s face like
a cartoon villain. I wouldn’t call it cool.

“Rach?” she prompts.

I can’t figure a way to make the words gentle, so I blurt,
“Mark kissed me. At the museum. He kissed me.”
I’m surprised
by the scratch in my throat, the burn of unexpected tears
.

We stop on the sidewalk, in front of a little shop, dark for
the night, with a hanging basket reaching out from beside the front door,
greenery trailing halfway to the ground. Stacy’s eyes are wide, her jaw slack.
There is a blankness in her gaze, a lack of comprehension, I think.

“He caught me by the fluorescing exhibit and kissed me.”

“I heard you,” she croaks out.

I rush on. “He told me not to tell you, but then—”

Her voice is firm and shaky at the same time. “You lying
bitch.”

“No, Stacy, I’m not lying. I wouldn’t lie about this.”

“Yes, you would.” She nods swiftly. The motion reveals the
glitter of tears in her eyes. “Just like before. You lied to me before and I
let it go. Not again.”

“Stacy, listen to me. I don’t know what he’s up to. He did
it on purpose. He did it so I—”

Her shove this time is not gentle. It is filled with the
strength of anger and pain and I stumble backward. My heel teeters over the
edge of the low curb, and I backpedal into the road, trying to capture my balance.

“Stay away from me,” she hisses. She swipes at her eyes and
turns away.

“Stacy, stop. Listen to me.”

She turns to walk backward. “Stay away from me!” And then
she’s trudging up the hill, head bent, hands deep in the pockets of her jacket.

I stand in the street, slowly growing aware of the ache in
my ankle and my knee and my heart. Tears of frustration burn down my cheeks. I
should have known Stacy wouldn’t believe me. Mark knew it, of that I was
certain. Mark knew if I told her what happened she would call me a liar.

So why did he do it?

I should go after Stacy, but I know this drill already. She
won’t talk to me, won’t listen to me. And really, get right down to it? We’re
rooming together — along with a couple of French club girls — so
it’s not like I won’t have an opportunity to speak to her. Right now, she needs
to … whatever. Calm down, maybe. Curse me while I’m not there to hear it. Or
plan the curses to hurl at me when I am there to hear it.

The only way she’s going to believe me is if Mark admits the
truth to her. So I need to find the son of a bitch.

I return to the sidewalk and head back down the hill. The
ache in my knee and ankle from my stumble off the curb slows me, but downhill
is better than up. I don’t know where Mark and the guys went, but I have a
pretty good idea. I just have to figure out how to get there.

At a tobacconist I review a tourist map of the area,
locating the Abbesses station, deciphering where I stand. I figure if I
continue down the hill, cross past the station and walk in a few blocks on the
other side, I should be able to spot the windmill marking the Moulin Rouge.
It’s only a guess, but it’s the best guess I’ve got as to where a bunch of guys
would head off to on their own. Not that they’re the type to take in a can-can
show, but there must be a bar nearby where they’ll be able to get a drink and
whistle at girls and otherwise be annoying.