TO FORGET … At the bottom it read, I’M A SLUT . He shared it with his 743 friends. At least he got in trouble. But so did she. And at the time, it smashed her to an unprecedented low.
“Turn here,” he says. “Stupid guy.”
“Thanks.” She froze it away months ago. It took awhile, though.
A glint catches her eye across the courtyard to her left. At a stall crowded with gleaming silver candlesticks, bowls, and frames, a man in dark glasses and a fedora hat holds up and examines an ornate flask. It’s exquisite and she’s now dying for a slug from her own. He looks at her, expressionless, then smiles.
It’s Kurt.
Summer stumbles on a crack in the sidewalk and almost pulls Moony down.
“Sorry!” she says. Whoa, what is he doing here?
“What?” says Moony. He turns toward the stall.
Kurt raises a gloved hand. He’s looking at her like at a lavish layer cake.
Moony’s eyes widen.
She nods at Kurt, but turns away. She’s with another friend now. Could he have followed her? He’s as hot as she remembers, but she will not think about him.
“Do you know that guy?” Moony’s eyebrows are low and a scar between them is squeezed into a new shape.
“That’s—I think I met him once. Let’s just move on.” And she drags him the other direction.
FOURTEEN
Late the Saturday morning of the Thanksgiving weekend, Summer sits at her desk organizing her notes and assignments. She has a major French exam on the following Tuesday. Perfect. She texts Moony. She’s been wondering how to see him again.
Can we schedule French tutoring?
Sure. Next week?
ASAP. Test Tues. Today?
I’ve got a football game this p.m.
He means soccer. She knows he’s not playing. Maybe he can miss it. She calls him.
“Hey. You’re going to a game this afternoon?” She’ll talk him out of it.
“Have to. I’m manager.”
“Oh.” He’s so involved . “Well. Could we study tomorrow then?”
“Sure.”
“How about four o’clock?”
There’s a pause. Moony says, “Want to come watch the game today?”
“Is the hog’s ass pork?” she says.
“What?”
“It’s a rhetorical question. It means, ‘yes,’” she says. “In Arkansas.”
He laughs. What a great sound. A hum starts in her, warm gold notes in triplicate from violin strings, a cello, and a sax. Like the opening notes of Kentucky’s “Looking for Grace . ”
Summer waits for Moony on the same corner where she saw the hooker, flanking one of the ubiquitous six-story limestone buildings with black wrought-iron balconies. She repeatedly zips and unzips the navy wool jacket she took from Mom’s closet as she scans the street for her ride. She also pulled her hair back and swiped on some pink lip-gloss for the first time in months. Her stomach aches even though she’s psyched. Probably because she’s psyched.
For some reason, she thinks of an illustration of Pandora from her seventh grade unit on Greek mythology. A wispy girl with pouting lips in a white silky dress, trying to close the lid of the box she’s just opened. At the time, she thought Pandora should have been prosecuted on criminal charges, like a huge oil company, for letting all that shit out into the world. Her twelve-year-old self couldn’t get past the idea of how nice life might have been if Pandora had just minded her own flipping business.
A big American minivan with diplomatic plates stops and the side door opens automatically. Summer smiles when she sees Moony and slides in next to him. In the front is team captain Josh, the jock she met the day she met Moony, and Josh’s mom. In France, no one can get a license until they’re eighteen.
Josh turns around to look at her. “Truce?” he asks.
“Peace,” she says.
But it’s forty-five minutes of excruciating small talk with Josh and his mom out to the burbs and their game with a French team. They park at a gated club in Garches, with sweeping lawns and fields. The day is overcast.
Outside the van, Summer
“Turn here,” he says. “Stupid guy.”
“Thanks.” She froze it away months ago. It took awhile, though.
A glint catches her eye across the courtyard to her left. At a stall crowded with gleaming silver candlesticks, bowls, and frames, a man in dark glasses and a fedora hat holds up and examines an ornate flask. It’s exquisite and she’s now dying for a slug from her own. He looks at her, expressionless, then smiles.
It’s Kurt.
Summer stumbles on a crack in the sidewalk and almost pulls Moony down.
“Sorry!” she says. Whoa, what is he doing here?
“What?” says Moony. He turns toward the stall.
Kurt raises a gloved hand. He’s looking at her like at a lavish layer cake.
Moony’s eyes widen.
She nods at Kurt, but turns away. She’s with another friend now. Could he have followed her? He’s as hot as she remembers, but she will not think about him.
“Do you know that guy?” Moony’s eyebrows are low and a scar between them is squeezed into a new shape.
“That’s—I think I met him once. Let’s just move on.” And she drags him the other direction.
FOURTEEN
Late the Saturday morning of the Thanksgiving weekend, Summer sits at her desk organizing her notes and assignments. She has a major French exam on the following Tuesday. Perfect. She texts Moony. She’s been wondering how to see him again.
Can we schedule French tutoring?
Sure. Next week?
ASAP. Test Tues. Today?
I’ve got a football game this p.m.
He means soccer. She knows he’s not playing. Maybe he can miss it. She calls him.
“Hey. You’re going to a game this afternoon?” She’ll talk him out of it.
“Have to. I’m manager.”
“Oh.” He’s so involved . “Well. Could we study tomorrow then?”
“Sure.”
“How about four o’clock?”
There’s a pause. Moony says, “Want to come watch the game today?”
“Is the hog’s ass pork?” she says.
“What?”
“It’s a rhetorical question. It means, ‘yes,’” she says. “In Arkansas.”
He laughs. What a great sound. A hum starts in her, warm gold notes in triplicate from violin strings, a cello, and a sax. Like the opening notes of Kentucky’s “Looking for Grace . ”
Summer waits for Moony on the same corner where she saw the hooker, flanking one of the ubiquitous six-story limestone buildings with black wrought-iron balconies. She repeatedly zips and unzips the navy wool jacket she took from Mom’s closet as she scans the street for her ride. She also pulled her hair back and swiped on some pink lip-gloss for the first time in months. Her stomach aches even though she’s psyched. Probably because she’s psyched.
For some reason, she thinks of an illustration of Pandora from her seventh grade unit on Greek mythology. A wispy girl with pouting lips in a white silky dress, trying to close the lid of the box she’s just opened. At the time, she thought Pandora should have been prosecuted on criminal charges, like a huge oil company, for letting all that shit out into the world. Her twelve-year-old self couldn’t get past the idea of how nice life might have been if Pandora had just minded her own flipping business.
A big American minivan with diplomatic plates stops and the side door opens automatically. Summer smiles when she sees Moony and slides in next to him. In the front is team captain Josh, the jock she met the day she met Moony, and Josh’s mom. In France, no one can get a license until they’re eighteen.
Josh turns around to look at her. “Truce?” he asks.
“Peace,” she says.
But it’s forty-five minutes of excruciating small talk with Josh and his mom out to the burbs and their game with a French team. They park at a gated club in Garches, with sweeping lawns and fields. The day is overcast.
Outside the van, Summer
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