May
People say springtime in Paris is magical.
They’re right.
The city has been my home for the past two weeks, and a part of me wishes I could stay here forever. Mom’s apartment is in an area referred to as “Old Paris.” The neighborhood is gorgeous—narrow, winding roads, old buildings, cute shops and bakeries at every corner. It’s also known as the city’s gay district, and her upstairs and downstairs neighbors are both gay couples, who’ve already taken us out for dinner twice since I got here.
The apartment only has one bedroom, but the pullout couch in the living room is pretty comfortable. I love waking up to the sunlight streaming in from the French doors of the small balcony overlooking the building’s inner courtyard. The faint traces of oil paint lingering in the room remind me of my childhood, back when my mother spent hours working in her studio. Over the years, she painted less and less, and she’s admitted on more than one occasion that the loss of her art was one of the reasons she divorced my father.
She felt like she’d lost touch with who she was. That being a housewife in small-town Massachusetts wasn’t what she’d been destined for. A few months after I turned sixteen, she sat me down and posed a serious question—would I rather have a mother who was miserable but close by, or happy and far away?
I told her I wanted her to be happy.
She’s happy in Paris, there’s no denying that. She laughs all the time, her smiles actually reach her eyes, and the dozens of bright canvases overflowing from the corner nook she’s using as her studio prove that she’s doing what she loves again.
“Morning!” Mom waltzes out of her bedroom and greets me in a voice that contains the joyous trill of a Disney princess.
“Morning,” I say groggily.
The room has an open floor plan, so I can see her every move as she wanders over to the kitchen counter. “Coffee?” she calls out.
“Yes, please.”
I sit up and stretch, yawning as I grab my phone from the coffee table to check the time. Mom doesn’t keep clocks in the house because she claims time weighs the mind down, but my OCD doesn’t allow me to ever relax unless I know what time it is.
Nine-thirty. I have no idea what she has planned for us today, but I hope it doesn’t involve too much walking because my feet are still sore from yesterday’s five-hour visit to the Louvre.
I’m about to set down the phone when it rings in my hand, and I’m annoyed to see Ramona’s name on the screen. It’s two-thirty in the morning in Massachusetts—doesn’t she have anything better to do than keep harassing me? You know, like sleeping.
Gritting my teeth, I drop the cell phone on the bed and let it ring.
Mom eyes me from the counter. “Which one? The boyfriend or the best friend?”
“Ramona,” I mutter. “Who, by the way, I don’t care to discuss, seeing as she’s no longer my best friend, same way Logan isn’t my boyfriend.”
“And yet they keep calling and texting, which means they both still care about you.”
Yeah, well, I don’t care that they care. Ignoring Logan is a lot easier than ignoring Ramona, though. I knew him for a whopping total of eight days. I’ve known her for thirteen years.
It’s almost pathetic the way everything went down. You’d think a decade-plus long friendship would end with a bang, but my showdown with Ramona was nothing more than a whimpering fizzle. Ramona had woken up, seen my face, and realized that Logan had forwarded me her message. Then she’d snapped into damage control mode, but none of her usual tricks had worked on me.
The Forgive Me hug? The crocodile tears? She may as well have been tugging on the emotional heartstrings of a robot. I just stood there like a statue until she’d finally grasped that I wasn’t buying the shit she was trying to sell. And the next day, I moved back home, telling my dad that the dorm was too loud and I needed somewhere quiet to study for exams.
I haven’t seen Ramona since.
“Why don’t you hear her out?” Mom’s tone is cautious. “I know you said she didn’t have a good explanation before, but maybe that’s changed.”
An explanation? Gee, how does one explain the betrayal of their closest friend?
Oddly enough, Ramona hadn’t even offered an excuse. No I was jealous, no I was drunk and wasn’t thinking. All she’d done was sit on the edge of the bed and whisper, “I don’t know why I did it, Gracie.”
Well, it wasn’t good enough for me then, and it sure as hell isn’t good enough now.
“I already told you, I’m not interested in hearing her out. Not yet anyway.” I slide off the pullout and walk to the counter, reaching for the ceramic mug she hands me. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to talk to her again.”
“Aw, sweetie. Are you really going to throw away so many years of friendship over a boy?”
“It’s not about Logan. It’s about the fact that she knew I was hurting. She knew I was humiliated over what happened with him, and instead of supporting me, she waited until I was asleep and then propositioned him. It’s pretty clear she doesn’t give a crap about me or my feelings.”
Mom sighs. “I can’t deny that Ramona has always been a bit…self-absorbed.”
I snort. “A bit?”
“But she’s also been your biggest supporter,” Mom reminds me. “She’s always been there for you when you needed her. Remember when that nasty girl was bullying you in fifth grade? What was her name again—Brenda? Brynn?”
“Bryndan.”
“Bryndan? Lord, what is the matter with parents these days?” Mom shakes her head in amazement. “Anyway, remember when Bryn—nope, I can’t even say it, it’s that stupid. When that girl was bullying you? Ramona was like a pit bull, snarling and spitting and ready to protect you to her dying breath.”
It’s my turn to sigh. “I know you’re trying to be helpful, but can we please not talk about Ramona anymore?”
“Okay, let’s talk about the boy then. Because I think you should call him back, too.”
“Agree to disagree.”
“Sweetie, he obviously feels bad about what happened, otherwise he wouldn’t be trying to contact you. And…well, you were going to, ah…give him your flower—”
I do a literal spit take. Coffee drizzles down my chin and neck, and I quickly grab a napkin to wipe it away before it stains my pajama top. “Oh my God. Mom. Don’t ever say that again. I beg of you.”
“I was trying to be parental,” she says primly.
“There’s parental, and then there’s Victorian England.”
“All right. You were going to fuck him—”
“That’s not parental either!” A gale of laughter flies out, and it takes a second before I’m able to speak without giggling. “Again, I know you’re trying to help, but Logan’s off the table too. Yes, I was considering having sex with him. No, it didn’t happen. And that’s all she wrote.”
Distress clouds her expression. “Fine, I won’t bug you about it anymore. But with that said, I refuse to let you spend the rest of the summer sulking.”
“I haven’t been sulking,” I protest.
“Not on the outside. But I can see right through you, Grace Elizabeth Ivers. I know when you’re smiling for real, and when you’re smiling for show, and so far you’ve given me two weeks of show smiles.” She straightens up, a determined set to her shoulders. “I think it’s time we make you smile for real. I wanted us to go down to the canal today and walk along the river, but you know what? Emergency itinerary change.” She claps her hands. “We need to do something drastic.”
Crap. The last time she used the word “drastic” in conjunction with an outing, we went to a salon in Boston and she dyed her hair pink.
“Like what?” I ask warily.
“We’re paying a visit to Claudette.”
“Who’s Claudette?”
“My hairdresser.”
Oh God. I’m going to have pink hair. I just know it.
Mom beams at me. “Trust me, there’s nothing like a good makeover to cheer a girl right up.” She grabs the mug from my hand and sets it on the counter. “Get dressed while I make the appointment. We are going to have so much fun today!”
