The Night Gwen Stacy Died by Sarah Bruni Page A

second. Then she said, “Say you were in trouble.
     Say you needed to say, ‘I demand to be released. I’m a citizen of the United States
     of America and I want to speak to a lawyer.’ What if you needed to say something like
     that?” asked Andrea.
    Sheila knew the verb
to want
, but not
to demand
. She knew
to leave
, but not
to release
. The limits of her skills in the language were considerable, the gaps in her knowledge
     more gaping than she’d realized.
    Sheila exhaled and clutched at her glass of water. “I guess I couldn’t say it,” she
     said. It felt awful to admit to it.
    Andrea shrugged. “Yeah,” she said, “Or you could just say it in English.”
     
    The following Monday Sheila walked though the halls like a ghost. She spent the entire
     lunch period locked in the last stall of the girls’ bathroom so as not to have to
     face Anthony. Following French class, Sheila lingered and approached Ms. Lawrence’s
     desk. Ms. Lawrence was busy erasing the day’s lesson and chalk dust filled the air
     between them. Sheila cleared her throat.
    “Miss Gower,” Ms. Lawrence said, straightening up, “what can I do for you?”
    Ms. Lawrence’s English voice was slightly higher, more nasal, than her French voice,
     and immediately it put Sheila on edge. In English, she sounded more like any other
     teacher, less like an ally.
    Sheila leaned into Ms. Lawrence’s desk. “I wanted to tell you that I’m going to Paris,”
     she said. “In the fall.”
    Ms. Lawrence’s face brightened instantly, and Sheila felt her chest open again, her
     breathing steady. “That’s wonderful, Sheila,” she said.
    “I just thought you would like to know,” Sheila said.
    “Of course, how exciting,” said Ms. Lawrence. “Just think of how much your French
     will improve! If you need a recommendation or anything of that sort, I’d be happy
     to write you one. What type of program is it?”
    Sheila watched Ms. Lawrence’s manicured fingernails pick a piece of lint off her sweater
     while she waited for her to say something.
    “Oh, it’s not really a program,” Sheila said. “I’m just going.”
    “I don’t understand,” Ms. Lawrence said. “You mean you’re going on vacation?”
    “No,” said Sheila, “to live. I’ve been saving for a while.”
    “You know people there? Family?”
    “Not really,” said Sheila.
    “I see,” said Ms. Lawrence. She bit her bottom lip.
    It was quiet for a second.
    “It’s very expensive, Paris.”
    “I thought I could maybe get a job when I get there.”
    The chalk dust was settling around them. Sheila thought she could feel it drifting
     off the edges of things in the room.
    “Have you thought about Canada?” Ms. Lawrence said finally.
    “Canada,” Sheila repeated. Like
Canada
-Canada? Like
Canada-north-of-Minnesota
-Canada. She felt suddenly like she was going to pass out.
    “Because Paris is,” Ms. Lawrence paused. “How do I put it? Well, there’s ‘
Paris
,’” and here she extended her four fingers as if to place a quote around the word,
     “and then there’s Paris. The Paris that our textbook talks about just doesn’t exist,
     not really.”
    “What?” Sheila said. “What do you mean?”
    “I mean sometimes our expectations of a thing create a kind of unreality.”
    Sheila wondered if Ms. Lawrence was insane.
    “I mean it’s a city like any city. Yes, it’s wonderful, but there are Burger Kings
     there too, for example. There are ignorant drivers. There are thunderstorms. There
     are bills to pay and waiting rooms. The common cold. I mean I could keep going,” Ms.
     Lawrence said, but she trailed off.
    “So Paris is Coralville,” Sheila said.
    “Oh, there’s a thought! How interesting!” Ms. Lawrence laughed. She shook her head.
     “I don’t want to discourage you. But a place like Montreal is also really lovely,
     and it’s so much cheaper too, and closer to home. If you’re looking for an adventure,
     I mean. If that’s what