Kids Like Us by Hilary Reyl

Author:Hilary Reyl
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Text Publishing Company
Published: 2017-10-04T04:00:00+00:00

Wednesday, June 8

9:35 p.m.

Years from now, when this afternoon has become hopelessly out of date, it won’t seem at all hopeless to Gilberte and me.

I wanted to ask her to meet me after school at the boulangerie in town. Three times, I tried to say something. I tried in the hallway between math and history. I tried in the cafeteria. I tried right after the bell rang at the end of chemistry. All three times, I said, “I would like to ask you something.” The first time, she smiled and asked, “What?” I couldn’t respond. The second time, she laughed, then asked, “What is it, Martin?” I still couldn’t respond. The third time, she didn’t smile or laugh. She said, “If you don’t tell me what it is, I can’t answer.” I just stood there in the door of the classroom until somebody said “Excuse me” and I had to move.

There was a fourth time. It was in the yard, at the end of school, and it was my last chance. I saw her ponytail and her gladiator sandals, and I ran after them. I had to change my opening line or I was going to get stuck again. So instead of “I would like to ask you something,” I said, “Do you like madeleines?”

“Yes,” she said. “Do you?”

“Yes,” I said. “Do you want to get some right now?”

She looked down at her toes. I thought she was annoyed at me. Then she looked up and said, “Yes.”

We went into the boulangerie together. I bought a bag of six madeleines. Because I was with Gilberte, I had no trouble asking the lady in the pink apron for what I wanted. I paid without any problem. Gilberte picked an Orangina to drink. I got myself iced tea because there was no hot tea for sale, which was quite flexible of me.

We sat on a bench in a small shady square. At first, I didn’t open the madeleines. The scalloped ridges through the paper bag made me smile.

She asked me about my hand-painted sneakers. “Why are there butterflies on your shoes?”

“They are moths. My friend Layla back in California painted them.”

She arched her eyebrows. “Is Layla your girlfriend?”

“Of course not.”

“Why does she paint moths?”

“Moths are the people who flutter around the glamour of my mom’s movies. The big fans and the fascinated people. The ones who really hang on.”

“So you don’t like the moths.” She frowned.

“No, that’s not it. Not all moths are bad. Layla is good, and she’s a moth herself. ‘I am a moth drawn to the flame of glamour.’ That’s what she says. She copies them from insect books.”

I looked down at my Converses, then back up at Gilberte. She had her hair pulled into a ponytail like on the first day we spoke. She had even more freckles than before. She was still frowning, but not a sad frown. I recognized puzzlement. She reminded me of when I’m trying to work out something that might be important.

I wanted

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