The American Girl (24 page)

JULY 26, 2015

Draft Blog Entry

“You fucked me up,” shouts Raphael. “It was one simple thing. Keep him busy. That was all which I asked.” He slams his fist on the hood of his car, one eye still on the flow of new punters into the club, paranoid.

The scene regulars swarm in there, craving it the way addicts do. Shaking now I'm out, I bend double on the street and puke my guts out. There's not much to puke. I haven't eaten for days. Raphael turns from me, disgusted.

“You didn't tell me what you were doing,” I croak. “Anyway, whatever it was is totally wrong.” I puke again, like it was punctuation.

“Are you done? We need to go.” He pulls open the door, the anger coming off him in waves.

“It's not as if he caught you,” I say in my own defense, think
ing of the way we slipped out under Séverin's nose, the thick stack of bills stuffed in my bag on top of pills and powders that—it turned out—had been in there all night, anyway. “You got away with it.” I spit the last words.

“
We
got away with it,” he says. “Though that doesn't mean they won't come for us.”

In the car, on the road, Raphael twists a dial. A radio buzzes on, some tinny French channel crackling to life. He gives me a pill he says is for nausea and flat Coke to knock it back, lights two cigarettes, hands me one. My head lolls back on the leatherette seat and my eyes vaguely see the dusty road lit by headlights and the moon domineering over the sea. My ears half hear the crickets striking up their freaking constant song. Everything in this paradise depresses me now.
We got away with it. In it together.
Like Bonnie and goddamn Clyde. We're on the back roads again and Raphael's eyes are on the rearview mirror twice as often as the road.

I know I should run, but it's as if I've become Raphael's prisoner, trapped by my complicity in his life of crime. The new Quinn keeps drugs in her bag and acts as her boyfriend's decoy. The new Quinn has made a porno or two and eats pills like they were candy.

Raphael turns to me, scowling, says, “What was really so hard about talking to Séverin, keeping him busy for a few moments? You need . . . what is it you say? —” he taps the top of his head angrily “—a doctor to look inside the brain.”

“I don't need . . . what you were doing. You still haven't told
me,” I snap. It's hard to remember now what we were like before this.

“Why do you think I drive around like this all the time?” He taps his head again, as if the gesture will make me understand and regret my own stupidity. “Séverin is my boss. I work for him. Ever since Papa . . . my mother, she has sucked up every penny of what was left. That place is where my money comes from.”

Blood hurtles to a stop on the highway of my heart, remembering the money he made me draw out, realizing what he truly wanted me for all along. Cash. He'll probably want more of that, of everything. More films, more help stealing from other criminals, until I'm in so deep there's no way I can ever go back.

“Stop the car,” I say suddenly.

“Quoi?
”

“You heard me. Fucking stop. Right now.”

He does. I open the door and climb out in the dark and try not to freak when he gets out and follows me down the gutter that runs the length of the dusty road.

“Quinn. Quinn. Hey! Talk to me.” His voice sounds needy now, appeasing.

I turn around, pulling the crumpled photo out of my pocket and letting it fall in the dust. “I just want to go home.”

“Home where?”

“To the States. Where d'you think?”

Raphael's eyes widen. “You don't want to be with me? Baby, why?”

“Because you're not . . . you're not who I thought you were. I
mean, the drugs are bad enough. But you made films of us, of me, to sell.” Tears prick my eyes.

“No, baby, believe me, I would never do that to you. I love you so much I could never hurt you.” Slowly, calmly, he edges closer, like a Samaritan inching towards a jumper on a ledge or a mongoose creeping up on a snake.

“But Lolo said—”

“Lolo is just jealous,” he says with a shrug. “Why would you believe her over me?”

Because every word out of your mouth is a lie.

But now we are face-to-face, I remember why I liked him in the first place, that childlike openness to him—not just his face, his eyes, but radiating from him somehow. Calmness that makes you calm just to be near it.

“Why don't you trust me, my love?” He touches my cheek.

I push his hand away. “What do you do for Séverin? Do you hurt people?”

He wipes his nose, avoiding my eyes. “I just . . . deliver packages . . . That's it. And sometimes I look after people, stop them from being beaten. After Papa left us, we had nothing. And now Maman has lost her job. Oh, Quinn, I'm so ashamed of myself.” His eyes flood with tears.

“Don't lie. You're a drug dealer. I know you are.”

“No! Stop listening to Lolo. She's a bitch. Don't let her drive us apart.” He cries pitifully, wiping his face on his sleeve.

“Whatever. I still want to go home,” I say, looking away.

He falls on his knees in the road. “Listen, baby, I can see
you're homesick. Tomorrow, I'll help you book a ticket home. I will get some money together and pay you back as soon as I can. I'd do anything for you, believe me. You'll be safe, I promise.”

R
APHAEL IS SINGING
along to French hip-hop under his breath. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, not able to make sense of the things he said, the things I think might be true. I want to believe him because I don't know who else to trust.

In the alley behind the seedy apartment I woke up in, he pulls out a pack of American Spirit, asks me if I want one. “You know, there's so much I want to show you here, that will help you understand me.” He says the words quietly, tentatively even. “Don't you want to know who I really am?”

I take a cigarette with a shaking hand and smoke it, the hit making me heady. I shrug.

The silence spools out between us, unknowable as any moment when we face up to our aloneness in the universe. Raphael says nothing more. Tin cans and assorted trash crumple under the vintage chassis. Shrill street talk and hip-hop are as one. The engine stills.

Raphael's hand brushes my knee, just enough to make me look around at him. “Remember,” he says. “I love you.” He smiles his charming smile.

Lies
, I think.

“Don't you love me?” He looks sad.

My hand moves to the door handle. Grinning to hide my fear, I say, “'Course I do.” The lies falling from my lips once more.

“Don't be frightened,” he says. “If they come for us now, because you didn't distract him enough, or even if the police found out, I wouldn't speak of you. Would you tell anyone about me?” His eyes flick anxiously upwards in the direction of the scummy apartment where we will sleep among other lowlifes too stoned to care what we've done.

“Your secret's safe,” I say slowly, hating myself more with every word.

AUGUST 9, 2015

W
hen I first came in, Quinn didn't see me. She was sitting on a narrow metal bunk in a small cubicle that held nothing else but a metal john with no lid and a crappy folding chair. The Plexiglas screen dividing us blocked sound from the cell, but I could tell she was muttering low and crazy as a drunk at a bus station. I stared for a moment, thrown by this picture of her. What if she'd really cracked? Then I went to the side of the glass and pushed the intercom button. I tried to think of something light and cheering to say, but all I could think of was
How's the food?

Better to say nothing at all. She turned to face me, her eyes looking stung. Even through the heavy-duty glass, I could feel the awkward vibe between us. Well, awkward didn't cover it. She got up and started to pace the cell.

When she finally spoke, the words were darts, sharp and carefully aimed at my head. “They told me you got close to me to use me.”

The darts hit their mark and burned there. “It wasn't as clear-cut as that . . .” I said, lost for a way of explaining it better. However I really felt, though, there was no denying the truth of what she said. “They told me everything you said was a lie, too, so maybe we're even.”

“Well, they're wrong,” Quinn shot back, kicking the bunk.

A long silence rolled out between us, gray and uncertain as the coast road that wrapped around this town like a noose. I felt sick and hurt and from the looks I stole at her I was pretty sure she did, too. After a while, I looked at my watch. Four
P.M.
My flight left in two hours and this visit was a waste of time and emotion. I should be in a taxi by now, headed to my terminal, putting my ticket and passport in a place I'd be able to find them later. I should be waving goodbye.

As if she'd read my mind, Quinn came closer, her palms pressing on the thick glass. “I know this is weird, but I liked . . . having family . . . I mean, I know it was fake, but . . .”

“Yeah,” I said, “me, too.” And I meant it. “I wish there was something I could do, but it's—”

“Yeah, yeah, out of your hands.” Her hands dropped from the glass. “My dad said he was coming, but in the end he just sent a lawyer instead.” She rolled her eyes. “Like, thanks for your support, Dad, I guess.”

“Well, maybe even if he can't help you himself —” I fidgeted with the half-empty cigarette packet in my pocket “—it's good that he knows how to help you.” I gave her a lame smile that tried and failed to be reassuring.

“Whatever that means.” She kicked the metal chair. It flew
into the cement wall with a crash, knocking a chunk loose. The thought flashed through my head that she could be the person they said she was. I'd met killers before, seen them flit between sentimentality and rage. “Fuck it! Fuck you all. Fuck you all!” she screamed.

The guard materialized behind me and I realized he must have been hovering just out of sight the whole time, maybe listening, too.

“I guess I better go,” I said, turning to him.

“Wait.” The voice she spoke in was Quinn again, soft and intent through the intercom's crackle. “Please . . . come here. Just for a minute.”

I did as she said, a ticklish feeling in my bones, as if I was crossing some unseen line and those four short steps foreshadowed more than I could know.

She waited until I was a hairbreadth from the cell to speak again. “I didn't do it.” Her eyes held mine.

The glass between us seemed to drop away. “I believe you,” I said.

Quinn smiled wryly. “You don't really. And if you do, you're the only one.” She bit her cracked bottom lip.

“They will believe you. It takes time to build a case—” I began.

“Don't leave me.” She pressed her hand to the glass, the pads of her fingers flattening into pale circles.

“Quinn—” I laid my hand over hers.

The door behind me swung open. In reflection, I saw two gendarmes flanking a guy in a suit and sunglasses.

“
Pardon, madame.
I think your interview is over?” It was the
younger of the gendarmes who said it. Didier. Palely mirrored between Quinn and me in the layers of glass, he looked almost apologetic.

Quinn held my gaze, refusing to look beyond me to whatever was hurtling towards her next.

I turned to the gendarmes. “Would you mind if I stayed?” I addressed my words to Didier, sensing a sympathetic audience.

He shrugged and looked at the guy in the suit.

“I'd like a moment with my client.” Brisk. American. This was the lawyer her dad sent.

“Quinn, this is the best . . .” I couldn't finish my treacherous sentence. I ran outside.

The flint of my pink Bic lighter had seen better days. Minutes of strumming the wheel and not even sparks would come out. I tossed it at the bin, trying for a rim shot, but the lighter just bounced off the metal lip, landing inches away, a visual representation of the current state of my karma. I leaned back on the wall of the gendarmerie with a disgusted sigh, the sun in my eyes, an unlit Gauloise hanging from my bottom lip. Italian leather squeaked a few feet away from me, footsteps bearing down from the parking lot.
Oh, great,
I thought,
the guilt-trip police.

“Recording the next episode?” Valentin's voice dripped contempt. “Or just taking photos for Facebook?”

“It's a free country, bud.” My cigarette hung limply. My soul hung limply. I didn't even want to look at him.

“What does that mean actually?” he said coolly. “A world in
which you sell tickets to other people's misery, like some giant freak show?”

“It means . . .” I threw the cigarette at the bin and it didn't even bounce off the rim this time. “If I want to stay here and help Quinn, then I will.”

Valentin took off his shades and looked into my eyes for a moment. He frowned a little, as if he was trying to decide whether or not to arrest me. “Okay,” he began in a gentler tone, “but . . .” He stopped himself midsentence and pointed to the sad, fallen cigarette and lighter. “Just stop littering while you are here.”

AUGUST 9, 2015

I
wasn't drinking to get drunk. It was a valid coping mechanism. Besides, where could I go except the bar? I didn't know what to do, where to look next. All I knew was, I couldn't leave Quinn, not after she said I was the only one who believed in her.

Ever since whiskey number four, the barman had been giving me that look, like,
Will I have to call someone to get rid of her?
As long as he kept topping up my drink, I didn't care. I took small sips, trying to pace myself. Against my better judgment, my eyes kept flicking back to the wall-mounted TV, a flickering magic lantern show of familiar clips and punchy sound bites about the American girl. I didn't need the sound on. Quinn's predicament was televisual wallpaper, constant and irritating and there to stay.

My whiskey glass was empty. I looked up for the barman, struggling to contort my numb lips into a charming smile.
I was sloppy drunk and he shouldn't serve me. He should just get someone to roll me home . . . or somewhere. I looked up and down the bar for him and finally saw him sitting at one of the tables, eyes fixed on the TV. I waved and grinned at him, but he didn't see me. Whatever was on was clearly pretty fascinating.

When I squinted up at the TV, all I saw was the same old #AmericanGirl news story, punctuated with clips of me yelling because I had my ass stuck in a cave tunnel and a smiling family photo of Noémie, Émilie, and Raphael, captioned
Time is running out for the Blavettes
. Then the picture changed to something I hadn't seen before, new footage of microphones and flashing camera lights, a man in a suit holding his hand up to the camera. Behind his head hung the worn sign of the gendarmerie. From beneath it emerged Quinn, blinking in the false dawn of photographers' flashes.

My vision finally cleared enough to see the caption running across the bottom of the screen.
Suspect in Blavette case released from questioning, ordered not to leave country.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. I wondered what had happened. Maybe the lawyer had found a loophole, or maybe the physical evidence had come back inconclusive. Watching the faces of the crowd as she passed by, her hand shielding her face, I suspected her troubles were just beginning, though. She may have been free for the moment, but in the eyes of the world she was still a criminal.

The clip ended with a limo driving up and the smooth lawyer folding Quinn into a leather seat behind dark glass.

Then the item ended and the barman approached with a sigh.
“Encore?”

I shook my head. “I need to make a phone call.”

I
WAS CHAIN-SMOKING
in the lobby when the elegant limo pulled up—for me this time. The driver's door opened and a man in a crisp chauffeur's uniform got out.

“Mademoiselle Swift?” He bowed very slightly in my direction.

“Guess that's still me.” I grabbed the handle of my bag and started towards him.

“Excusez-moi?
”
He took off his shades. He was tanned and young and looked untouched by life's vicissitudes.

“Quinn did send you, didn't she?” I asked, momentarily paranoid.

“Oui.”
He nodded, flashing a row of bright white teeth. He began hauling my bag into the factory-fresh well of the trunk.

About ten minutes later, the limo idled outside Mas d'Or. Between baroque twists of wrought iron, I saw the tastefully floodlit palace in its regal glory. It looked even classier at night. As the gates inched open, the dark glass obscuring the front of the limo lightened and a voice rang from a speaker hidden near my seat.

“Nous sommes arrivés.”

The limo swung into the driveway and my fetching chauffeur slipped out and carried my case inside. In the purple evening, soft with bats and moonlight and lovesick moths, the whole scene seemed like a fairy tale. The butler ushered me through
the gleaming foyer, into the refined sitting room where Stella and Quinn sat sipping Shirley Temples. Stella rose to greet me rather more stiffly than the last time.

“Miss Perkins that was,” she said crisply. “Or should I say Miss Swift?”

I smiled awkwardly, craning around to the foyer to catch sight of my bag disappearing upstairs. “You sure it's okay for me to stay here?”

“Of course,” Quinn said, smiling and getting up. “Thank you for coming.” She gave me a hug.

The way Stella averted her eyes you would have thought we were in the throes of a satanic orgy. She stood, coolly smoothing her linen dress. “I've a dinner to attend. Any objections if I leave you two to it?”

Quinn shook her head.

In the doorway, Stella turned her sleek head and looked austerely at us. I watched the butler fold her into her pashmina. She looked as expensively elegant as a crystal wine stem. As soon as the front door closed behind her, Quinn collapsed back into the overstuffed chair, her legs folding under her. I followed suit.

“I don't think Stella likes me,” I said wryly.

“No,” Quinn replied in a quiet voice. “It's not that. She just didn't really want me to bring you here. And she can be quite . . .”

“The bitch?”

“Determined,” Quinn said, even laughed. “I had to talk her around a bit.”

“So how'd you end up here after . . . ?” I didn't want to say
the hoosegow
.

“Well . . .” Quinn unfolded and refolded her legs beneath herself. She looked ganglier than I remembered, as if someone had stretched her out cartoon-style and pinged her back in a rubbery heap. “Dad's lawyer fixed it up for me. Stella rents out a lot of properties here, so he contacted her to see if she knew any place I could hide out while I have to . . . you know . . . stay put. He was keen for me to be somewhere with gates and cameras, somewhere the press wouldn't find me. Stella said I could stay here, which was nice considering I don't actually remember her.”

“No?” I looked around the obnoxiously tasteful living room, a shiver going down my spine—the same vibe I got from the place before. “So you went to all this trouble to hide from the press and then you invited me over?”

“I thought you invited yourself,” Quinn said.

“Yes, you're right. I guess I just wanted to say sorry, offer help if I could. You must blame me for all this, a little bit at least?” I couldn't meet her eyes, so I stared awkwardly at the log fire crackling away in its vainglorious marble hearth.

She said nothing. Her eyes followed mine to the fire, the golden flames glittering. Eventually she said, “I remembered some things . . . while I was locked up.”

She had my attention. I turned to her. “What sort of things?”

“I think I was mixed up in some pretty bad stuff.” She twisted a length of hair around her finger and stuck it in her mouth. “It's kind of hazy . . . the details. I remember a dark place. Pain.” She chewed hard on her hair.

“Jesus, Quinn. Are you sure that's, like . . . a real memory?”

“What, as opposed to a fake recovered one?” Her eyes flashed angrily.

“Have you told the police . . . your lawyer?”

She took another length of hair, wound it meticulously around her finger and began chewing that. “I need to know what really happened first.” She dropped the hair and hugged her arms around her knees. “I'm not psychic. I mean, I'm still a suspect, I know. I have half a memory, if that. I just have . . . this feeling.” She turned to me, fixing me with those green eyes, full of fire and mystery. “When you came to see me, things started coming back, as if being with you . . . I think you're the one who can help me remember the truth.”

I thought about my encounter with Séverin, the warning Valentin had given me at the club. “That could be really fucking dangerous, Quinn.”

“I know,” she said, looking back at the fire again. “But being locked up is worse.”