Forbidden French

I have a checklist of tasks I need to complete before I can walk away from St. John’s. I already finished final exams, but I need to return my library books, pack up my dorm, and have an exit session with Ms. Duval, the school’s guidance counselor. Every student sees her for four sessions a year. She’s well into her seventies, heavyset, and has no time for anyone’s shit.

“You’re late,” she tells me when I walk into her office.

“Apologies.”

I take the designated seat on the couch across from her chair. She never sits at a desk. She wants students to feel relaxed, which is why her office is decorated like a living room with worn furniture, lamps, and knickknacks.

“It’s fine. I have my lunch break after this, we’ll recover the ten minutes at the end.”

I don’t argue with her, don’t have the heart to make her job any harder than it already is. Ms. Duval always seemed to be able to level with students. Even when I was young, she treated me with more respect than I probably deserved.

“What’s with the books?”

She’s referring to the stack I set on the couch beside me.

“I need to go to the library after this. I’ve hoarded these in my room over the last year. I’m sure the librarian wants them back.”

She studies them, seeming impressed with the selection. “I didn’t realize you were such a voracious reader.”

I shrug. “It helps pass the time.”

She laughs. “You sound like a prisoner.”

I raise a brow as if to say, Aren’t I?

She smiles and slips her reading glasses off her nose, folds them in her hand. “So how have you been?”

“Great.”

“How about stress levels? It’s not uncommon for graduating seniors to experience a great deal of worry about the transition to college.”

“When did you suddenly become a shrink? I thought this exit interview was meant to be about you telling me what courses to take in college, ensuring I’m on the right track with school. My stress levels are fine. Worry?” I shrug. “Nowhere in sight.”

She seems amused. “You don’t need input in that area. You’ve managed to achieve perfect grades while at St. John’s. Becoming the valedictorian of your graduating class is no small accomplishment, and you were accepted into every Ivy you applied to”—I open my mouth, but she doesn’t let me butt in—“and though you might credit your accomplishments to your family’s name, I have no doubt you would have achieved similar results even without your father’s influence. I think you’re all set in the academic department.”

I start to stand. “Then if you’ll excuse—”

“Sit.”

I sigh and take my seat again.

She waits for me to realize this meeting is going to happen whether I want it to or not, and when I finally meet her gaze, she gives me a small, reassuring smile.

“This is our last meeting, Emmett. In college, you’ll become one of many. It’s easy to get lost. I don’t want that for you.”

“I assure you, I’ll be fine.”

“Humor me for a moment.”

It takes everything in me not to groan.

“Where do you see yourself after college?”

“Working for my father’s business.”

“And does that prospect make you happy?”

Happiness…what the hell is that?

“Sure.”

“There are sports clubs at Princeton—”

I’m quick to cut her off. “I’m attending college in Paris.”

Her brows rise in shock. “Really? I thought you’d accepted an early place at—”

“No.”

She exhales and sits back, almost looking defeated.

“It doesn’t matter,” I tack on. “I wouldn’t have had time for sports anywhere.”

“Right. Maintaining perfect grades will take a lot of your attention.”

Though I know she’s intentionally goading me, my tone is final when I reply, “Exactly.”

“Can I ask who it is you’re trying to impress?”

It’s a dumb question. She already knows the answer.

After the counseling session, I head to the library and find it completely deserted. The staff has already left for the day. The building is dim, and what little natural light there is shines in through the stained glass windows near the ceiling. No one wants to be in here now that finals are done. Most kids have already left St. John’s, save for the seniors. People are out partying and enjoying their last few hours of high school.

Tomorrow, I graduate. The school will be overrun with proud families. Mine will consist of Alexander. Wilson has already arranged for my things to be shipped to Paris, and I have to get everything packed into boxes before tomorrow morning. The movers will arrive at 10 AM. My flight leaves at 2 PM. A car will be waiting to take me to the private airstrip directly after the ceremony.

Just like that, my childhood is over.

Alexander will spend the summer in New York City, hiding out from my father. He was supposed to be a summer intern at Cartier, but he’s blowing it off. He doesn’t even have a place to stay, but he’s not worried. Alexander always seems to find a way.

My shoes echo on the parquet floor as I walk deeper into the quiet library. A wave of nostalgia hits me as I take in the familiar book stacks, the framed oil paintings, Shakespeare’s bronze bust, the study cubicles with the uncomfortable chairs I avoided like the plague.

There’s not a lot I’ll miss about St. John’s, but I will miss the campus.

My gaze roves over the back stacks, and I’m just about to continue on to take my books to the return desk when I see something out of place among the shelves.

La petite souris.

Her dark hair almost blends in with the shadows, but there’s a beam of light surrounding her. Specks of confetti made from dust dance in the air above her head, making her appear angelic, like a chosen child of a god I don’t believe in.

I’m walking toward her before I’m consciously aware of it. She’s crouched on the floor with her knees pressed to her chest. Her arms are wrapped around her legs, her chin resting on her knees.

As always, she seems sad.

I know she must realize I’m here, but she keeps her focus straight ahead on the shelf across the aisle.

“We really can’t keep meeting this way.”

She blinks but otherwise remains perfectly still.

“Go away.”

I don’t.

I study her, willing her to look over at me. I need to see her eyes one more time before I leave St. John’s.

“You really disappointed me the other day.”

“Go away.”

Her words aren’t minced. She throws them at me like she wants them to wound.

Still, I walk into the aisle where she’s sitting and slowly slide down the shelf to sit beside her, dropping my pile of books in front of us.

I wait in silence for a bit, letting her get used to me. She doesn’t uncoil her arms or stretch out her legs, but eventually I get the sense that she’s made peace with my intrusion.

“Why is it that you seem to have a voice with me but no one else? You should have stood up to Blythe.”

There’s a long bout of silence, so long I worry she might never speak again. When she does, I’m relieved.

“I wasn’t doing anything with that picture. I’m not… It wasn’t what they said it was. I’m not a freak.”

“We’re all freaks, Lainey. Get over it.”

She finally looks over at me, her green eyes ablaze with fury. “You’re an asshole.”

“Good,” I say with a proud nod. “That’s exactly what I want you to say to Blythe the next time she tries to bully you.”

Her eyes narrow angrily. “You know you could have said something.”

“And how would that have helped you? I’m leaving. In fact, I already have one foot out the door. Soon you’ll be here all on your own.”

“I’m already on my own.”

She watches me roll my eyes, and then I tip my head back to rest it on the shelf behind us, looking out across the aisle. “You think that feeling is unique. You think you’re the only person at St. John’s who’s sad and misunderstood, but in fact it’s just an excuse.”

“I wasn’t aware I signed up to be lectured by someone I don’t even know.”

I smile, but she can’t see it.

“Don’t we know each other? It feels like it, a little.”

I almost tack on a joke about her keeping a picture of me under her pillow, but I bite my tongue before I go that far. She’s so young; I forget sometimes.

It didn’t bother me when I found out about it. Why would it have? As cliché as it is, a god loves to be worshipped.

I do wish I could console her without making her feel awkward about it. Whatever feelings compelled her to cut out and keep my picture, I doubt they’re real. She’ll meet someone someday who will be worthy of having their photograph cherished. It’s a shame she doesn’t realize it.

“Are you happy to be leaving this place?” she asks with a quiet voice.

It feels like a question the guidance counselor asked me a moment ago, and whereas in her office it felt like I was checking boxes, doing my duty so I could leave, sitting with Lainey, it feels like honesty is the only option.

“Yes and no.”

Her brows scrunch with confusion. “But you’re heading off to college. Aren’t you excited?”

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“Is it because you don’t want to leave your friends behind? Your girlfriend?”

I try to think of who she could be referring to. There was a night a few weeks ago when Francesca and I got carried away, but…

“I don’t have a girlfriend, so no. And my friends will all be within arm’s reach, even if I’m halfway across the world. I’m going to school in Paris, and between you and me, I’m ready for a fresh start.”

“Well then what’s holding you back?”

Now I’m the quiet one.

She bumps her shoulder against my arm lightly. “You can tell me. I’m good at keeping secrets.”

I nearly smile at her earnestness.

Instead, I shrug. “It’s not some big thrilling thing. Just…people expect a lot from me. There’s a life plan I need to follow.”

“Or what?”

“Or…nothing. I’ll be unremarkable. A failure.”

She doesn’t reply, and when I turn to look at her, she’s furrowed her brows as if she can’t comprehend that fate for me.

Then she looks down at where her arms have a firm grasp around her legs. “Yeah…well, I envy you getting to leave. I still have so many more years here.”

“It doesn’t have to be miserable.”

“I have no friends,” she says, point-blank.

“You could try to put yourself out there more.”

“The same way you try to be less angry? Less intense? And how does that work out for you?”

What an astute little thing.

“You’re right. People are who they are. But sadness is a heavy thing to carry for so long.”

“I’m allowed to be sad—I’m grieving.”

Right. Her parents both died earlier this year. It was fuel for a lot of the rumors about her. I feel like an asshole for forgetting that.

“Do you want to talk about—”

“No.”

She’s made herself clear, but I still feel bad, so I volunteer something I’ve never shared with anyone else at St. John’s outside of Alexander.

“I had a sister about your age.”

Her eyes widen in alarm. “Is she dead?”

“No. I used to wish, sometimes…” Fuck, that’s cruel. I shake my head. “She’s not at St. John’s. In fact, I barely know her. We have different mothers, but I imagine she’s a lot like you, smart and quiet.”

“How do you know I’m smart?”

“Wild hunch. Are you not?”

“I am,” she says indignantly. “I get As in all my classes.”

“Good.”

She suddenly leans forward and pushes aside some of the books I’ve brought to return so she can read the spines more clearly. “Are you kidding? I’ve been waiting for this book for months. I was about to just buy it.”

I look down at the copy of East of Eden by John Steinbeck.

“You’re reading East of Eden?”

“I would be, only someone’s been hoarding it.”

I almost chuckle as I lean forward to grab it and pass it over to her. “There, it’s yours. If you’re interested in that one, I think you’d also like A Farewell to Arms.”

Her eyes light up. “I just finished it last month.”

We sit there for a while, letting our conversation shift to books, deciding which ones we think should be shelved as classics and which ones are completely overrated. We both prefer Steinbeck to Fitzgerald, and if we’re getting away from American classics, fantasy is our ultimate escape genre.

“Have you read the Mistborn series?” she asks, sounding hopeful.

“I tore through it in a week.”

Her entire face lights up with joy.

We could stay there the whole day talking books, but my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Harrison or Alexander, and if not them, someone else wanting to meet up and say goodbye. I ignore the first call, but another swiftly follows. I sigh, and she gets the picture.

“Do you leave tomorrow?” she asks, unable to meet my gaze.

I nod.

“You have so much to do, I’m sure.”

“Unfortunately.”

My room is barely packed.

With a reluctant sigh, I stand. I’m about to collect my books, but instead I point down to them. “Take them. Hoard them like I did if you want to. You’ll like them. I have impeccable taste in literature, as you now know.”

She laughs then nods, already pulling the top one off the pile so she can run her finger along the spine.

With nothing to keep me there, I start to walk away, but there’s a strangeness to the moment, a tightening in my chest as if I’m doing something wrong, failing somehow.

“Emmett?”

I glance back, relieved to have an excuse to look at her just one more time.

Her eyes are smiling for the first time since I’ve seen her, the green so vivid they seem otherworldly, more fitting of those fantasy books we both love than this dark and lonely library.

“Thank you.”

The words carry so much weight, as if she’s thanking me for much more than the books I just gifted her. Her brows crease in frustration and her lips part. She’s working up to say something else, and I linger there, giving her time to gather the courage.

Then she sighs and shakes her head. “…for the books.” Her shoulders sag. “Good luck in Paris.”