Miracleville (3 page)

Mom says we shouldn't be afraid of Marco. “What harm can he do? The poor man has been confined to a wheelchair for nearly twenty years. We need to keep him in our prayers.”

Dad says Marco is living proof there's no such thing as miracles. “If Saint Anne really was capable of miracles, wouldn't she have healed Marco—a man who has lived in her town all his life—by now?”

We're heading downhill, but the creaking and the raspy breathing sounds seem to be following us.

Colette grabs my arm.

I don't want to look back, but I feel this urge to make sure Marco's not following us—even though I know he can't be.

When I turn around, I can see, even in the dim light, that Marco has inched his wheelchair to the very edge of the balcony. His knees press against the railing.

When he speaks, his voice is even raspier than his breathing. The words come out like a bullfrog's croak.

“You two,” he says, “are growing up.”

And for a moment, I wish we weren't.

Three

C
olette throws her shoulders back as we grab our milkshakes and head for our usual booth at McDonald's. I swear it's because she wants Maxim to notice her chest. Sometimes I can't believe we're related. If I was the one with grapefruit boobs, I'd never show them off like that.

Maxim is wearing a navy polo shirt with the collar popped up. He's sitting next to Iza and across from Josi-anne and Armand, but he looks up and smiles when he sees us coming. Maxim has powerful girl radar.

“Isn't he gorgeous?” Colette whispers.

“He's okay.”

“Ex-cuse me. I forgot it's against your religion to notice boys.”

“It's against my religion to be boy crazy. The way you are.”

“How are my curls? Not too frizzy?”

“They're fine. Calm down, will you?”

“Being calm's no fun.”

Josianne is practically sitting in Armand's lap. I still can't get used to the idea that those two are going out. Until last winter, we were all just a bunch of friends. Now Josianne and Armand are always looking for ways to get “private time.” I know sexual feelings are normal, but I'm not quite ready to deal with them. And I wish my friends weren't either. Not to mention my little sister.

Iza is telling Maxim about her job at Cyclorama, this huge white and gold multi-sided building on the other side of Rue Regina. A lot of tourists see the giant
Cyclorama
sign from the highway and figure it's a humungous indoor bike track. Only when they get closer do they see the smaller letters that say
of Jerusalem
. Inside is a giant panoramic painting that tells the story of Jesus' life, complete with sound effects like lambs bleating and swords scraping.

“This guy was embarrassed to admit he made a mistake, so he bought a ticket,” Iza is saying. “But I knew he'd rather be cycl—”

Colette doesn't let Iza finish her sentence. “Who
wouldn't
rather be cycling?” Colette says. I tug on her elbow, but she doesn't get the hint.

“Hey, An-ette!” (Anette is Iza's nickname for us— a combination of our two names.) Iza moves closer to Maxim to make room for one of us. I grab the spot, though it means I'm going to have to watch Armand and Josianne groping each other all night.

“So I heard you're gonna be in Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré all summer,” Colette says to Maxim. “That's so amazing.

Wow. All summer. Like I said, that's really great.” The girl doesn't breathe when she talks.

Maxim doesn't seem to mind Colette's exuberance. When he smiles, I notice his teeth are very white; one of the front ones is chipped. Though I'd never tell Colette, I think Maxim is kind of hot, in a boy-band sort of way.

“Do you use tooth whitener?” Colette asks him.

Maxim laughs, then looks down at the table, which makes me think he probably does.

Iza nudges Maxim. “That's Colette. She's special.” Iza must notice my back stiffen when she says that. “What I mean is…Colette's the kind of person who says what she thinks. It's refreshing, really. Like the time she asked our French teacher, Monsieur Leduc, why he smelled of beer at eight fifteen in the morning.”

Maxim slaps the table and laughs. “What'd he say?”

“He said he used beer for shampoo. Only, I told him it smelled more like he used beer for mouthwash.” Colette laughs so hard at the memory she snorts chocolate milkshake out her nose.

Everyone else laughs too, and my back relaxes. It's okay if I think Colette is a pain—I'm her sister. But I don't like other kids, even Iza, saying anything bad about her.

“Move over, lovebirds,” Colette tells Josianne and Armand, and they make room for her on their side of the booth.

“So you guys are working at the basilica parking lot, right?” I say to Armand and Maxim.

“Yup. It's a great gig,” Armand says.

Josianne gives Armand a dreamy look, as if working in a parking lot is as exciting as being a rock star.

“How's it going anyway—staying with your grandmother?” Armand asks Maxim.

Colette is bouncing in the booth. It's a small bounce that's coming from her hips, but it'll get bigger. It always does. “Who's your grandmother?”

“Hélène Dupuis. I bet in a town this size, you know her, right?”

Colette's not only bouncing now, she's reaching across the table for Maxim's hand. What's she thinking? Of course I know the answer. She isn't thinking. Colette is a very impulsive person. If I liked a guy, I'd never grab at him like that. I'd be more subtle. Or I'd wait for him to take my hand.

“Tante Hélène's your grandmother?” Colette asks.

I kick her under the table.

“Why'd you kick me?” she says.

Now I want to kill her. “It was an accident,” I say, glaring. But at least she's stopped grabbing for Maxim's hand. Besides, I'm sure she was about to blurt out how we all call Maxim's grandmother Crazy Tante Hélène.

Crazy Tante Hélène calls herself an herbalist. She has long white hair and she lives down by the 138 in a rundown house with a lawn that looks like it's never been mowed. Everyone else in town hates dandelions— but not Crazy Tante Hélène. Her front yard looks like a dandelion farm. She prescribes dandelion tea for people with nervous conditions. I know, because Mom bought some for Colette after the adhd medication she was taking gave her insomnia and made her stop eating.

“Staying with my gramma's okay. Only this morning, when I told her I had a sore throat, she made me drink tea with garlic.” Maxim gags at the memory.

Colette giggles. “I've heard of Earl Grey, I've heard of Sleepytime, but garlic tea? No way! That is so gross!”

“Did it help?” Iza asks.

“Now that you mention it—my throat feels fine.”

Colette leans across the table, chest-first. “Here, lemme see if you smell like garlic. No, you smell really good.” Her cheeks are flushed. So are mine—just from watching Colette. I don't understand how she can be so bold. Colette doesn't have a shy bone in her body. When it comes to boys, all two hundred and six of my bones are shy. “Hey, wanna see my imitations of the pilgrims who come to our shop?” she asks Maxim.

“Sure.” Maxim is eyeing Colette the way a bee eyes a freshly opened flower, circling before he makes a landing, and there isn't anything I can do to stop it.

“Colette's really good at imitations,” Armand says.

“Yeah, really good,” Josianne adds.

Iza taps my leg under the table. We both hate the way Josianne agrees with whatever Armand says. She never used to be like that.

I think about giving Colette another kick, but I know she'll say something if I do. I just hope she won't go too far with those imitations. What if she starts groping imaginary penises again? My ears heat up just thinking about it.

A McDonald's employee—a middle-aged woman wearing a hairnet—is collecting trash. “You kids done with those trays?” she asks. The pin on her blouse says
Evelyne
.

“Yes, we are, Evelyne.” Maxim looks right at her when he hands her our trays. “That's a nice name. And hey, thanks a lot.”

Evelyne blushes.

It's Colette's idea to walk Maxim to his grandmother's when we leave McDonald's. There's a rusty watering can on Tante Hélène's front porch. Her kitchen light is on. Maybe she's making dandelion tea. I hope her kettle's in better shape than her watering can.

“I hope I'll see you again soon,” Maxim says when we leave him at the porch.

“Who do you mean?” Colette asks. “Me? Or her?”

I don't know whether to laugh or feel embarrassed.

“I mean both of you, of course.” Then Maxim turns to Colette, and I catch him peeking at her cleavage. Even in the dark, I can see that Colette's whole face is glowing.

“I'm guessing you don't go to church on Sundays.”

“Of course I do,” Colette says.

Now I really want to laugh. Colette hasn't gone to church since Mom forced her to at Easter.

Four

D
ad whistles. “My, you girls look pretty!”

The three of us are leaving for church. Mom's wearing her best dress; it's white with black polka dots and tight at the waist. Colette and I are wearing pleated skirts. Mine is sky blue; hers, which she's hiked way up over her knees, is the color of red wine. I've got on my white blouse with the frilly collar; Colette's wearing a low-cut pale pink tank top.

There's a
No T-shirts
sign inside the basilica, but I've never seen anyone get kicked out for wearing a T-shirt or tank top. I guess these days churches need all the customers they can get.

I caught Mom eyeing Colette's tank top and short skirt when we came downstairs, but she must've decided not to say anything. She's probably just happy Colette is feeling religious. I don't want to burst Mom's bubble and tell her Colette's more interested in Maxim than in Jesus.

“You girls look so pretty,” Dad says again, “I'm tempted to come along.”

“Do you mean it?” Mom asks, watching Dad's face. Even after so many years together, I think Mom still hopes Dad'll suddenly see the light.

Dad is right though. Mom looks prettier than usual. She's piled her hair on top of her head and is even wearing eye shadow (made from all natural ingredients, of course).

Dad strokes Mom's cheek. “Not really,” he says. I saw him glancing at the newspaper before, and I bet he's looking forward to plopping down on the couch with the paper and our cat, Eeyore. They are, as Dad's always saying, the only two guys in a house full of women.

“Have a good time, Thérèse. Enjoy the company of both your angels.” Dad gives Mom a peck on the lips, pulls on one of Colette's curls and tweaks my nose. It's how he always says goodbye to us.

“We'll tell the Lord and good Saint Anne hi from you,” I tell him.

Dad laughs. “Those two are too busy to bother with an old sinner like me.”

Marco Leblanc is already outside, lifting weights on his balcony. We hear him groan as he presses the weights to his chest. Mom waves when we pass him, but he doesn't bother waving back.

Because the sidewalk is so narrow and there isn't much traffic this far along Avenue Royale, the three of us walk side-by-side on the street. Mom loops one arm through mine, the other through Colette's. “I'm so glad, Colette, that you're coming to Mass,” Mom says. “This feels like a fresh beginning.”

Mom doesn't notice Colette wink at me. “My girls”— now Mom is speaking more to herself than to us—“are growing up.”

I can't help shivering. That's exactly what Marco said the other night.

It takes twenty minutes to walk to the basilica. It's quicker when we aren't wearing high heels. On the way, we talk about the store (it's nearly time to change the window display), the weather (not a cloud in the sky), and our plans to have a picnic supper at the canyon (if the weather stays good).