The Paris Library(106)
“I told you, I’m going to be a writer.”
“Writing isn’t a profession,” he said.
“Tell that to Danielle Steel,” Ellie said. “She’s richer than Jonas Ivers!”
“You’ll study accounting,” Dad said. “You need a backup plan.”
“A backup plan? You think I’ll fail? Anyway, it’s none of your business what I study.”
He poked his fork in my direction. “It is if I pay the tab.”
“With you, everything comes down to money.”
“One of the jobs of a banker,” he said, “is making sure that everyone has a plan.”
I had no idea how we’d gone from a nice dinner to a fight about college.
“I think,” Ellie said, “your father’s trying to say that he’s seen people lose their homes, entrepreneurs lose their businesses, and he doesn’t want you to suffer the way they have.”
After dinner, I went to Odile’s. “When you were my age, did you know what you wanted to be?”
“I loved books, so I became a librarian. You need to find your passion.”
“Dad said I should learn a trade.”
“He’s not wrong. You need to feel alive, but you also have to pay the rent. It’s important for a woman to have her own money. I worked as the church secretary, and appreciated the income. You want to have choices.”
“I just wish he wouldn’t lecture me.”
“Dear Professor Cohen always said, ‘Try to accept people for who they are, not who you want them to be.’?”
“What did she mean?”
“She was talking about my father. She said he had my best interest at heart, but I wouldn’t believe her. You and your dad are different, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love and worry about you.”
* * *
THE DAY OF the winter formal, I told myself it didn’t matter that no one invited me to the dance. Boys in Froid didn’t have any brains. I’d find my soulmate in New York; I had already applied to Columbia. With five million men, one of them was bound to like me. Simone de Beauvoir didn’t find Sartre until she was twenty-one.
In the cafeteria, Mary Louise sidled up to me and invited me over after dinner to see her gown. For months, she’d forgotten I existed. Now she wanted to show off.
“Can’t,” I lied. “Too much homework.”
“Please!”
Part of me wanted to be a good friend. A bigger part wanted Keith to dump her, so she’d be as miserable as me.
After dinner, I slumped in Odile’s chair.
“Mary Louise abandoned me. Again.”
“Didn’t she invite you over to see her dress?”
I stared at the books on our 1955.34 shelf. Bridge to Terabithia, Roots, My Antonia. “I don’t want to go.”
“What if I come, too?” Odile asked.
I perked up. “It might help.”
The whole way to Mary Louise’s, she watched me. Like a hawk, Mom would have said. The minute we walked through the door, Mary Louise twirled for us. In the pastel gown, her neck and shoulders exposed, she appeared more delicate than ever.
Her body had changed almost overnight. Her breasts rose as bold as the Rockies, while mine stayed flat as the plains. Her hips curved like a bell, but my body, straight as a pencil, hadn’t budged.
“What do you think?” She tugged at the bodice.
“Stunning,” Odile said.
Crossing my arms over my stunted chest, I thought for a minute, until I found the compliment that would mean the most: “Prettier than Angel.”
“No!” Mary Louise peered at the mirror beside the coatrack. “Really?”
I nodded, not able to get any more words out. Jealousy welled like tears, and in that moment, the most beautiful she’d ever been, I could barely stand to look at her.
Keith arrived. He hovered near the door, and Sue Bob nudged him toward Mary Louise. The way he gazed at her made me feel hopeless. A sour bile rose in my throat; I swallowed again and again. Not sure I could last much longer, I inched toward the door. Mary Louise bounced over, and Sue Bob snapped a photo of the two of us. “Why should you be miserable and alone?” the bile said. “A real friend wouldn’t have guilted you into coming over. She’s gloating, can’t you see that? Tell the pimply jockstrap what she said—that the custom cutter she made out with kissed better, did everything better.”
With Mary Louise’s arm wrapped around my waist, I said, “Keith…”
Odile frowned.
“You should know—” I continued.
“Don’t,” Odile whispered. “It only takes a word. I can see the crows circling in your head.”
CHAPTER 45
Odile
PARIS, SEPTEMBER 1944
HOW COULD YOU betray me? Margaret’s question echoed in my head as I drifted down the sidewalk, toward the river, toward home. Though the magnificent Alexandre III bridge loomed before me, I only saw Margaret’s stubbled scalp. I wanted to hide in my room, or confess to Maman and Eugénie. But both would be horrified by the way I’d put my dearest friend in harm’s way. In Paul’s way. No, I was too ashamed to face Maman. I couldn’t go home. And I couldn’t go to the Library, where everyone loved Margaret. She had made it clear that she never wanted to see me again. This meant she wouldn’t return to the Library if I still worked there, and she’d lose her friends and her calling.