One Paris Summer (Blink) (14 page)

“How long have you played?” he asked once we were on the sidewalk, headed back to my father’s apartment building.

“Since I was in kindergarten. My grandmother played. I used to listen to her when I was little, so unlike most kids, I couldn’t wait to take lessons. I have an upright at home. Nothing like yours.” I turned to look at him. “Does your mother play much?”

“Not as much as she used to. But when she does . . .” His soft smile lifted the corners of his lips. “It’s beautiful.”

“And you don’t want to play?”

His grin turned playful. “We all have a unique set of strengths and weaknesses. After several years, it became apparent to me that playing the piano wasn’t one of my gifts. My last recital ended in disaster. I forgot all the music and started playing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.’ ” He laughed. “My mother was horrified.”

“How old were you?”

His eyebrows lifted, and he gave me a mischievous look. “Thirteen.”

“
What?
” I couldn’t help giggling.

He gave me an ornery grin. “It was an effective way to stop taking piano.”

My eyes widened. “You did it on purpose.”

“I’ll never confess.” His shoulder lifted into a lazy shrug. “Do you plan to study music at uni?”

“Yes.”

“Since your father lives here now, do you plan to study in Paris?”

That nearly stopped me in my tracks. I’d never
seriously
considered the possibility—daydreamed, sure, but not as a serious goal. “That would be amazing, but no. I’m not that good.”

“You should consider it. You’re better than you think you are.”

I was sure he was just being kind. But then his mother was a piano teacher, so he was used to hearing the good, the bad, and the ugly. Still, only the best of the best could study in Paris.

The rest of the way we swapped tales about our years of lessons and the songs we’d played. After Mathieu admitted he’d been learning the
Warsaw Concerto
before he quit, I called him on his earlier statement about not being good.

He paused for a moment. “Music is art. I was technically proficient, yet something was missing. I didn’t enjoy it, and you could hear it in the music. But you . . .” An embarrassed look
crossed his face. “My mother gets the same expression when she plays.”

We had reached my front door and both stopped, standing there in silence. I wasn’t sure how to respond to his statement, but I wasn’t ready to say good-bye yet. There was a tenuous connection growing between us again. His arm softly brushed mine and my skin tingled.

Without Camille in the equation, Mathieu was the kind of guy I’d kill to date—cute, funny, and thoughtful. But my stepsister was very much a part of the equation. And that ruined everything. Still, I couldn’t make myself go inside.

Finally, he asked, “What will you tell your brother tomorrow?”

“The same thing I told him today.”

“And he’ll believe you?”

It was my turn to shrug. “I guess we’ll find out.” When he looked worried, I added, “I won’t tell them what you did, Mathieu. I’ll make him believe me.”

He frowned, looking down at his feet. “I’m sorry . . . Camille . . .”

I sighed. “Yeah. Camille.”

The mention of her was enough to break the spell. I said good-bye and went upstairs, fully expecting Eric to give me the third degree. But he was absorbed in playing a video game with Dane. Apparently they’d made up. Camille was sitting on the sofa, reading a book. She looked up at me with a gleam in her eyes. “What have
you
been up to?”

“Just walking around. I figure I should see as much as I can.” Then I added, “Who knows when I’ll ever be back?” I figured she’d like that.

She smiled, then looked over her shoulder and asked the boys something in French.

I went back into the hall and snuck my sheet music out of the bag and onto the piano. Could I get away with this again tomorrow? If their disinterest today was any indication, it might work.

Eric walked out of the living room and cast a glance toward me. “You don’t have time to practice. We’re meeting Camille’s friends at the Rodin museum.”

“Do French teenagers
really
spend this much time at museums? Don’t they ever hang out at the pool?”

“Have you seen any pools around here?”

I hadn’t, but I almost said that there had to be one somewhere because Mathieu’s brother swam in the mornings. But I bit my tongue. I wouldn’t betray his confidence.

“When are we going to see the Eiffel Tower?”

Camille walked up behind Eric, grimacing as if she’d taken a bite from a sour apple. “Going to museums is bad enough. There’s no way we’re doing something as touristy as the Eiffel Tower.” She released an exaggerated sigh. “But my mother says I must play tour guide, so my friends feel sorry for me and come.”

Eric gave her an exasperated look. “We don’t need a babysitter or a tour guide. I don’t expect you to take me anywhere.”

I didn’t hide my surprise. So Eric was tired of her crap too.

“Speak for yourself,” Dane said. “I like it when she plays tour guide.”

Camille gave him a sweet smile, and I noticed Eric gave them a glare before he headed to his room.

I followed and stood in his doorway. “I think I’m going to stay here for the afternoon.”

He picked up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. “No. You’re going.”

“Since when do you care what I do?”

“You’re my little sister. Of course I care.”

I released a short laugh. “Try again.”

He looked up and his jaw tightened. “What happened yesterday was messed up. I told Julien if he ever tried anything like that again, I’d beat the crap out of him.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “You don’t have to do that on my account.”

“Yes.
I do
.”

“Well . . . thanks. But I think it’s our new sister we have to worry about.”

He frowned. “I know. But I talked to her too. She says she’ll leave you alone.”

That surprised me. On both counts. “And you believe her?”

“I’d like to.”

“Since when did you become so optimistic?”

“Since when did you start wandering off on your own?”

Instead of answering, I went into Camille’s room and pulled some money out of my suitcase. Camille hovered in the doorway, but I ignored her.

When I stood to leave, she blocked my exit.

“What do you want, Camille? Normal people just spit it out.”

A strange look crossed her face—a combination of worry and fear. “Why didn’t you tell my mother about the catacombs? Or what happened in the subway?”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Are you admitting guilt?”

“No, I’m just asking why you didn’t mention it.”

I put my hand on my hip. “Look, I’ve said this once and I’ll say it again. I don’t want to be here. I’m no threat to you. As soon as this summer is over, I hope we don’t see each other again for a very long time. I just want you to leave me alone.”

Something wavered in her eyes. “Fine.” Then she turned around and left.

I still didn’t trust her, but I was going to hope for the best.

CAMILLE’S FRIENDS MET
us at the museum—Marine, Julien, Thomas, and Mathieu. It felt odd seeing Mathieu after our morning together. Part of me wanted to talk to him, but doing so might draw Camille’s attention. So I respected the ten feet of personal space he seemed to be maintaining.

Julien swallowed and took a step toward me. “Sophie . . .” He gave Eric a quick glance, then looked back at me. “I am sorry for throwing that bone at you and getting you in trouble.”

“I . . .” For some reason I cast a glance to Mathieu, who was looking out at the street with a grim expression, before looking back at Julien. “Thank you.”

Everyone seemed to relax after that.

Musée Rodin
was full of sculptures, many of which were naked women, but today Dane behaved himself. Perhaps it was because Camille stuck to his side as if their clothes were attached together by Velcro. Marine looked a little lost without her bestie, but she started to follow Eric around like a lost puppy. And Eric didn’t seem to mind one bit.

Thomas and Mathieu hung together, and to my surprise, they seemed to be ignoring Julien.

After we made our way through the inside exhibit, we headed outside, on a path that led to a bronze statue I actually recognized from last year’s art class. The statue of a man sitting with his elbow on his knee, his chin on his hand, was surrounded by about fifteen people.

“It’s
The Thinker
,” I said. “It’s famous.”

“Which explains the crowd,” Eric said behind me.

Thomas and Mathieu walked around me to get closer to the statue. Several of the people who had been surrounding it took photos and then moved on. Thomas looked over his shoulder and handed me his phone. “Sophie, take a photo of me in front of it.”

I took it, shocked that he was talking to me in front of Camille. I glanced at her to see if Thomas had risked it because she was distracted, but she was not only watching, she was actually smiling. Of course, that could have been because Dane was now holding her hand.

Thomas stood in front of the statue and assumed
The Thinker
’s pose. He squatted and tried to recreate the statue’s position, giving a mock pensive look. I snapped several photos, then he stood and grinned. “Your turn.”

I looked around at Camille’s friends, wondering if they were setting me up for some kind of prank. But Dane and Camille had walked several feet away and were deep in a private conversation. Eric and Marine were chatting, and my brother seemed pleased with his new shadow. I couldn’t say I blamed him. She was pretty. She just wasn’t good at choosing her friends. Then again, perhaps they had that in common.

Mathieu stood to the side, watching. He wasn’t frowning like he had been yesterday, but he wasn’t happy either.

Thomas grabbed my wrist and pulled me closer, moving me to the side of the pedestal. “Now sit,” he said, smiling when I did just that.

I adopted the statue’s position as best I could, thankful I’d worn capris instead of a skirt. Thomas held up his phone and took several photos. Then he handed the phone to Mathieu and said something to him in French.

Mathieu took the phone with the hint of a scowl. “If you don’t want to be rude to Sophie, then you need to speak in English.”

Thomas didn’t look happy with the reprimand, but murmured, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I understand.” And I did. It would be like someone expecting me to speak German all the time when I could barely ask how to find a bathroom.

I squatted again, and Thomas squatted next to me, both of us resting our chins on our hands. Mathieu held up the phone for barely a moment before holding it out to his friend.

“Your turn, Mathieu,” I said, reaching for him and pulling him down next to me. “Would you take our photo, Thomas?”

Thomas’s smile wavered, but then he arranged us into matching poses and took our photo.

We wandered through the garden, stopping at
Les Trois Ombres
next. The title meant the three shades, and it featured three figures in a huddle, hunched over and reaching their hands together. Thomas, Mathieu, and I recreated it, with me in the middle, all three of us laughing. Eric took the photos, watching both boys as though he didn’t quite trust them.

I was thankful Mathieu seemed more relaxed, but he was still ignoring me for the most part, which hurt my feelings more than I cared to admit. I had thought we were at least becoming friends. Given Camille’s previous disapproval, I could understand his reticence, but now I wasn’t sure what to think.

Next we reenacted
The Burghers of Calais
, which included six men in a group, all with attitudes that made it look like they’d had a disagreement. I made Eric and Marine join us this time. Marine’s face lit up with excitement, but then she glanced at Camille for permission.

Camille gave her a slight nod and Marine grabbed Julien. “We need one more,” she said in English.

Dane took the photos this time, but we had a hard time setting it up because we kept breaking into laughter when we tried to hold the statues’ facial expressions of outrage and disdain.

When we continued down the path, Eric gave me a huge smile, which I returned. This was the most fun I’d had all summer.

We came to the Gates of Hell next—not the literal gates, but bronze gates with bas relief figures in contorted poses, some of which were very suggestive. As if in unison, we moved on.

Next was a statue of a man and woman, both naked and in an embrace. The man had his hand around the woman’s back and was bending the woman backward, his mouth nuzzling her ear. Thomas shot me a grin. “Sophie?”

Eric stepped between us. “Don’t even think about going near my sister.”

Thomas laughed, and he and Mathieu reenacted it instead, arguing over which one of them was the woman. They finally agreed to take turns, and we all burst into laughter when Thomas licked Mathieu’s ear. Mathieu jerked out of his hold and fell on his butt as he scrubbed his earlobe with the palm of his hand.

After I took photos, Dane called out, “Our turn.”