Forbidden French

I stay away from the library for the next few weeks, but that doesn’t mean I don’t see Emmett. I’ve developed a nighttime routine, leaning into the insomnia, appreciating it now, actually. Around 11:30 PM, I slip out of bed, quiet as a mouse. Petit de la souris. I looked up what that means, and I find I don’t mind the nickname; it’s fitting. My shoes wait for me near the door, and I slip out of the dorm while Blythe sleeps on, oblivious. She never wakes up, but even if she did, I have a bathroom excuse ready to go in my head.

I sneak out the side door of the building, careful to keep it propped open slightly, and then I head straight down to the rose garden. On nights when the moon isn’t reliable, I bring my phone for its flashlight. Tonight, I don’t need it as I wind through the narrow path, looking and feeling and, every so often, bending down to sniff.

The garden is tended meticulously, fertilized and watered and pruned, more gorgeous now in mid-spring than ever.

Always before I leave, I find a rose, one that’s already fallen to the ground. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Wilted and brown-tinged, they’re still lovely. I carry it down to the lake and try to spot Emmett’s lone figure meticulously slicing through the dark water. Sometimes, when the moon is full and bright, I see him right away. His heavy arms swing up and out of the water, over and over, as rhythmic as a metronome. Other nights, when the sky is black, I’m left with my imagination. I wonder how he does it on those nights, how he’s still able to cut across the lake and not end up lost, veering around in circles. I’ve watched him confidently cross enough times now that it doesn’t worry me anymore when he disappears. He always comes back.

On the bright nights, when the moon is full enough for me to clearly make him out, I walk all the way down to the dock and sit down to watch him. I relax, leaning back on the wooden boards, enjoying the view of the towering pines that rim the west side of the lake. I only stand to leave when I see his figure growing larger on his return journey.

But on the dark nights, I’m more cautious. I don’t linger as long. I leave him his rose right on the edge of the dock so he can’t miss it before I sneak back up into the school. It’s a secret that’s fun to keep, and I wonder what he thinks of the roses. I don’t stay to watch him find them. I imagine he peels himself up and out of the lake, water sluicing down his face, drops sliding down his chest. I know from watching him that first night that he gulps for air when he first gets out, barely able to catch his breath. It’s no easy feat to cross that lake once, let alone twice. I imagine him wiping his hands down his face, shaking off the water. Then slowly his gaze drops down to the rose. A bright yellow, a spotty pink, a faded white, a bloody red. Each night it’s something different. I wonder what he does with them, if he notices them at all.

On tonight’s wander through the garden, I find a bloom that’s the color of peach sorbet, and its lingering smell is just as sweet. I toy with the soft petals as I walk down to the lake. I’m slightly earlier than usual, so I’m cautious as I approach, worrying that Emmett might not have begun his swim yet. He’s never caught me watching him. If he finds out it’s me leaving him the roses, the mystery’s gone, the fun is over. More than that, I worry what he would assume about them. They might seem like a proclamation of love, but they aren’t. They’re just innocent roses that would otherwise stay forgotten in the garden.

I slow my pace as the water comes into view, and I hug the edge of the forest to be sure I have a place to duck and cover if I need it.

When I look at the dock, I misstep and nearly trip.

Emmett isn’t alone.

Tonight, he’s brought a girl down here with him, and they aren’t merely sitting and talking. They’re lying on the dock, and Emmett is on top of her. The shadows make it hard to see what they’re actually doing, if they’re clothed or…

She arches up, her head tilting toward the night sky, and she looks like she’s in ecstasy, like a statue I saw in the Louvre last summer. The moment my grandmother saw me eyeing it, she turned me away and called it crude. I peered back though, trying to figure out what she was so offended by. The sculpture was so beautiful to me. Love so blatantly on display should never be made to feel dirty.

I step forward, and a twig snaps under my shoe. I suck in a breath and freeze, but neither of them look up. Emmett is too lost in her.

His hand disappears into her bikini bottoms, and I feel something squeeze my chest, an emotion I first mistake for anger.

I’m not angry though. Emmett is so much older than me. Of course he has girlfriends, or at least girls he sometimes kisses. I’ve seen him with them around campus. It’s not all the time. He doesn’t seem to flaunt his relationships like the other guys in his group. Emmett is either more discerning than your average eighteen-year-old boy, or he’s better at keeping his activities concealed behind closed doors.

I truly don’t mind the fact that I’m being confronted by him and another girl. They’re getting more into it now. I should leave. It’s wrong to be here watching them, but my feet feel like lead weights.

I realize this tight feeling weighing me down is sadness at the idea that he would bring her here, to our place.

I let my rose roll off my fingers and drop onto the grass before turning back to walk to my dorm.

I have a harder time than usual sleeping. I try to go under my blankets with a reading light and a book, but Blythe gets angry, so I give up and lie there in bored silence, staring up at the ceiling.

I wonder if I’ll be doing stuff like that when I’m Emmett’s age. It’s hard to even imagine, not just because I don’t know exactly what they were doing, but because I can’t think of one boy who would want to be down there on that dock with me.

The next morning, I wake up and get ready, brushing out my long hair until it shines then pushing it back away from my face with one of my plaid headbands. After dressing in my uniform, I pick navy flats from my closet and accessorize with the dainty gold heart necklace my grandmother gave me for my thirteenth birthday. I even brave a quick trip to the dining hall to eat breakfast before heading to chemistry.

After I eat, I’m walking in the courtyard, trying to get from one building to another with as little interference as possible. I’ve learned that keeping my head down seems to provoke the assholes less. If only I could disappear altogether…

I’m cutting across the center of the path, near the fountains with antiquity-inspired sculptures of water nymphs, when someone steps in front of me, blocking my way. I stop myself just before I collide with Blythe. Behind her, like a pair of cronies, Lavinia and Nellie stand with their arms crossed as if they’re daring me to try to cut past them.

Immediately, I feel the color drain from my face.

Interacting with me in public isn’t done by students who want any sort of social life. Blythe decreed me untouchable, and the kids in my grade are nothing if not loyal minions to their overlord, who’s currently beaming with excitement.

Really, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look happier than she does right now.

Knowing it’s time to get a move on if I want to make it out of here in one piece, I take a step to the right. Blythe follows.

I cut back to the left, but she predicted my move.

I sigh and cross my arms, trying to disguise the fact that I now have a death grip on my book bag. They’ve stolen things from me before, and I can’t let it happen again. I have algebra homework in my bag that I need to turn in to Mr. Fisher after chemistry, and I don’t think I’ll have time to redo it if they decide to take it.

I brace for impact just as she begins.

“Did you really think you would get away with it?”

She looks back at Lavinia and Nellie, and the three of them all cackle like she’s never said anything funnier.

“It’s sooo pathetic,” Nellie says, pinching her face into a grimace like she’s embarrassed on my behalf.

Students are starting to gather now, eager for front-row seats to The Blythe Show.

She looks out at the forming crowd, and her eyes gleam with power. She lives for the spotlight, no matter the cost.

“Have you guys seen this?” she asks, holding out a small piece of paper for them to look at.

The crowd leans in for a good look, and she obliges them.

She doesn’t even have to finish her next sentence before my world implodes. As soon as I hear her say “Look what she keeps under—” I know what they’ve found.

I know she will say “her pillow,” and I know she will follow it up with “His picture!”

“Whose?” someone in the back shouts.

“Emmett’s!”

No last name required. At this school, in this life, there’s only one Emmett that matters.

“Oh my god, she loves him,” a girl from my English class declares.

A boy I recognize from art says, “She cut his picture out of the yearbook like some kind of stalker.”

The word freak hisses through the air, landing like an arrow in my heart.

“There’s probably more too.”

Whoever says this, I can’t tell. Tears are already starting to crowd the corners of my eyes. Soon they’ll drop.

“You need to be careful, Blythe. I can’t believe you have to sleep right next to her.”

For a moment I imagine what my mom would do in this situation, the words she’d have for these people. She’d eviscerate them. They would bow at her feet by the time she was done.

And for what it’s worth, I do try. My jaw ticks. My lips part, but then the first tear falls, stalling my courage and my words.

Collette, an older girl who hangs out with Emmett and his friends, slices through the crowd and steps across the invisible boundary separating me from everybody else.

“Blythe, you can be such a little shit sometimes, you know that? Give the poor girl her picture back.”

She yanks it out of Blythe’s hand then looks down at it. Her mouth forms a perfect, surprised O. I wish so desperately I hadn’t scrawled a heart at the very top of the picture a few weeks ago, the night before my thirteenth birthday. My red pen marks a foolproof confession.

“Is this yours?” she asks, looking up at me with brown eyes overfilled with pity.

I’m still formulating an answer, trying to decide how I could possibly answer that question with the truth, when her gaze rises over my head to someone standing behind me.

A loyal hero through and through, Collette tries to turn the photo to hide it, but the person behind me has already seen it. I know it’s him without turning around. I know by the hush that’s fallen over the small crowd that the worst has happened. The object of my fantasies, the subject of my secret photo is here, witnessing the most embarrassing moment of my life.

“You’re all pathetic,” I wish he’d say. “Lainey, come on.”

In this fantasy, he’d take my arm and whisk me away from the mean girls, putting them in their place.

Real life is so painful in comparison. His silence is an acid bath on my already exposed wounds.

Shaking, I turn to peer over my shoulder to confirm. I have to know.

Emmett stands in front of a group of his friends with his sharp gaze on me. I’m surprised by the anger in his expression; his dark eyes have never seemed so intense. I feel his frustration aimed at me like it’s a physical force. It’s the final crushing blow in Blythe’s torture. She found herself an unexpected ally, and I’m sure she can hardly believe her luck.

Whirling around, I rip the picture out of Collette’s hand, tearing the corner in my haste to leave. I don’t care that I’m running. Like always, I’m giving them what they want.

I put as much distance between them and me as I can. I go to the pine trees by the lake, the tall ones on the far side, and slowly slink down to rest against a trunk. With my knees bent up against my chest, I look down at his image, ruined now, torn and wrinkled and soiled by Blythe’s grubby mitts. My hands shake with rage. In a fit of defiance and anger, I start to tear it up. Then I use my fingers like trowels, digging down into the soil beneath me, over and over. I plant little pieces of him, knowing nothing will grow.

Of course it won’t. I’m not planting seeds; I’m burying them.

Even before I’m done, I regret it.

I mourn the loss of that picture as soon as it’s gone.