Felicite Found (4 page)

“Cute name. Well, let Ém take her time,” she said, smiling. “Get yourself to school. Love you, my surrogate grandson.” She stood on her tiptoes to squeeze Pierre’s cheek as she had when he was a little kid. He smiled even though it brought waves of embarrassment upon him.
However, she did the same thing to Luc as well; it made Pierre snicker every time he witnessed Luc grimace as the little woman’s spidery fingers pinched him.

As they left the building, Pierre headed for the metro station a block from where they lived. Madame Rose went in the opposite direction, most likely to the library. She loved to read books.

Before Pierre entered the station, he glanced back to the building where he lived. He scanned up one floor and three windows over from the building’s entrance. Ém lay just beyond that window in his bed, sleeping soundly. He turned and strolled into the metro station. A deep groan rumbled loud in his throat. The poor person paying for a ticket glared at him probably thinking the sound was directed at her for no reason at all.

He shrugged off the accusatory scowl with his thoughts dancing back to Ém. He already missed her. He groaned again, only louder this time.

Wizard of the All-Knowing

Pierre tiptoed to his desk in the English classroom, even though only a few minutes were left of class. He saw Luc’s head bobbed up—doing a double-take—from doodling on a notebook.

“Why are you here? I swear you’re a crazy man,” he covered his mouth and whispered.

“I hate missing school, remember?” Pierre rolled his eyes as he stated the obvious.

“Whatever you say—”

“Luc,” Miss Russell, a tall, well-dressed American who never spoke French while teaching, scolded him as she placed her hands on her hips along with her customary tapping of her foot. “I know you are extremely interested in learning English, but at least if you talk while class is in session, you could try to speak in English.”
             

“I not speak English well. It too hard. I speak French. You speak English good. Thank you.” The class clown smirked and coughed a chuckle away. The other classmate stifled snorts of laughter.

“Mister Broussard, I know you can speak English better than that. I have heard you chatting with Pierre during class. Don’t sell yourself short. Please try.” She shook her head as though thinking: what am I to do with this kid? Then her eyes trained on Pierre. “Pierre, welcome. Why are you tardy? It’s unlike you.”

“Something . . . uh, unexpected happened this morning,” he spoke in English. “Sorry for being late.”

“You’re right about that,” Luc said under his breath in English.

“I hope everything is all right. But you are well ahead of everyone, so you didn’t miss much.” She turned back to the chalkboard and intricately wrote some new vocabulary on its surface. “We will continue.”

Lunch was next. Pierre and Luc purchased some baguette sandwiches topped with ham and strong smelling cheese. They caught up as they tore into the tough-make-your-jaw-ache bread.

“So, what happened with the girl?” A large bite of Luc’s sandwich swirled around in his open mouth as he chewed.

“Well,” Pierre began, wracking his brain for a way to say what he had to say. He sure didn’t want Luc to show up unexpectedly and bother Ém, or for that matter ask her out. That was his job and only his. Pierre envisioned himself kissing her. A lot. Shaking his head of the thought—incredibly great thought—he decided on the truth. Luc would find out one way or another, anyway. “She’s staying at my place until she—”

“What?” A chunk of cheese flew out of Luc’s mouth and onto the table. “You have to be kidding me. You have absolutely the hottest girl in the world staying with you. I’m so jealous. You are so going to have me over all the time. I want to hook up with her so bad, man.”

It was a bad call telling his friend the truth. “First of all, your eating habits are disgusting. Second, I’m not kidding. Third, you’re never, ever coming over. And fourth, and most serious, you cannot ‘hook up’ with her.” Pierre continued eating as though the conversation was over. In his mind, this particular girl was off limits to everyone, especially Luc.

“You dig her, don’t you?”

“Luc, how about we speak in English for the rest of lunch?” Pierre said in English, trying to divert him away from talking about Ém.

“You’re hopeless, man,” Luc responded in English. He did have a good grasp on the language but would rather keep up his funny guy reputation. “You could have any girl in this
school, in Paris, or the world, but you don’t go out with any of them. I bet you’ve never kissed a girl, either.”

“You were there when I kissed someone. Remember that German girl at the nightclub you dared me to kiss?” Pierre felt like a three-year-old due to his lack of experience with girls. It’s not like he didn’t think about them—like them. It was just for the best not to hang out with them.

“You just need to kiss someone you really like. You’ll never stop after that.”

“Have you ever kissed someone you
actually
liked?” Pierre grinned at him—the highly friendly guy with all the girls.

“Let me think about that.” He tapped his forehead, looking at the ceiling. “You got me there. I guess I’ve never kissed someone I really liked. But there’s that girl over there.” He nodded at a short, brunette with glasses, sitting by herself as she nibbled at a salad, a book perched in her hand. “Her name is
Chéri. Well . . .” He coughed, brushing a hand through his thick, messy hair. He leaned in close, glanced from left to right, and whispered, “I’ve liked her for a while.”

“Then ask her out, bro. You can ask anyone out and within minutes are making out. She looks like way higher quality material than the rest of the people you’ve gone out with.”

“See that’s the thing, she
is
higher quality. I always go for the less quality girls because they won’t stick around. I can move on—not lose my rep, you know? If I hooked up with her, I’d give in to stability. I’m totally not ready for that.”

“Give up the bad girls, go for a good one for once,” Pierre suggested, still speaking in English.

“So not doing that, but you have to go for whoever the girl is you saved today. She’s way too hot to pass up the chance. Plus, she doesn’t want to leave your side. What better way to reel her in?” Luc motioned his arm back and forth as if casting off the line of a fishing rod.

Pierre laughed at Luc’s poorly done theatrical performance of fishing. “What is she, a fish now? She just needs a place to stay. Hanging out with girls is
literally
going to kill me one day. Remember?”

“Pierre, you’re ridiculous. Just think about getting with her, all right?” Luc rolled his eyes.

“No, my mind is made up. It’s been made up for years. I’m never dating anyone.” Shrugging and feeling his stomach tighten, Pierre thought of his families curse.

“Forget about the ‘Rousseaux Curse’ for a minute.” Pierre grumbled as Luc continued. “Man, I’ll bet you three-hundred Euros you’ll change your mind in a couple days.”

“I’m
so
not making this a bet,” Pierre said, knowing all too well that he
was
developing feelings for her. He would lose big time.

“Be that way, then. It’s not like you don’t have a lot of money or anything.” He laughed, punching Pierre in the arm.

“Always have to hit me, huh?” Pierre rubbed his arm and groaned just for effect.

“Man, you’re built like a brick. Punching you hurts me more than you. Look at you.” He motioned up and down. “When was the last time you lifted weights? You’re gifted with good looks, smarts, and
could
have all the girls. You don’t even have . . . How do you say these in English?” He pointed to a couple of red spots on his chin.

“Pimples, zits, acne.”

“I like zits the best. Anyway, you better sort through your feelings. I want to win the bet.” Luc pumped his arm in the air, whooping in the process.

“I already said we’re not betting. You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“Admit it Pierre, you like her.” Students were filing out of the lunchroom. A few girls looked at Pierre and giggled then whispered to each other. Class was about to start again. He hadn’t had much of a chance to eat his sandwich with all the chatting about his
apparent
love life.

“If I admit it will you stop bugging me about her?”

“I knew it.” He slapped Pierre on the shoulder, stood up, and shouted in English, “I am the wizard of the all-knowing!” The few students left in the cafeteria clapped at the outburst. Luc had a way with people. He could get someone to jump off a building if he said “Jump.” The thought made Pierre think of Ém.
His heart thumped hard against his ribs.

“Nothing gets by you, Luc Broussard, the wizard of the all-knowing. Time for class, bro.” Pierre reverted back to his native tongue.

“You’re ruining my moment of wizardry. Just shut up for a minute.”

Pierre got up and dumped his tray, not waiting for Luc to follow. As he was about to leave the cafeteria, he looked back to see Luc staring up at the ceiling with an awed expression on his face.

He’s the weirdest person alive
.

Sitting through the rest of school was agonizing. Pierre couldn’t concentrate. The only thing he paid much attention to was the clock, and it seemed to be tick, tick, ticking backwards.

Come on clock, go faster. I need to get out of here. What if Ém wakes up and panics because I’m not there? Ugh, I miss her and would love to kiss her right now. Pierre get a hold of yourself. Don’t let yourself fall for her. That will only lead to bad things. Just breathe.

He stared at the clock again. His knee bounced up and down.
He slumped in his seat, fiddling with his pen.

Get me out of here. Now
.

He was never going to make it through the afternoon. Yet, somehow he did. He booked it home as soon as the last bell rang.

Nightmare

A hunched-backed man turned up the collar of his heavy overcoat. He folded his arms tight around his chest, a shiver itching down his spine. The wind whipped circles around his frail frame, driving the bitter chill of winter deep into his bones. He quickened his step when he heard the all too familiar scratchy voice creep—unwanted—into his mind as it had thousands of times before.

You know you will never get rid of me. After what you did to me, I will torture you forever.

The man cupped his hands firmly over his ears. “Please, just leave me alone. I did nothing to you.”

He sped off in a dead run away from the voice, screaming a high-pitched howl. Pedestrians narrowed their eyes, wrinkling their noises, and backed away from him as though he was infected with a contagious disease. He pumped his legs faster but, all of a sudden, powerful hands pushed on his back making him stumble forward. Grasping at nothing but air, he plummeted hard to the unforgiving pavement. A distinct crack exploded in his ears as his nose connected with the ground. Blood coursed like the heavy current of a river out of his nostrils. The crimson fluid splattered on the ground and smeared onto his wrinkled, white shirt.

The man stood, searching around him, eyes wild like an animal with frothy foam bubbling out of its mouth, dripping down its jowls. His hands trembled and tears billowed from his dark-circled eyes. He began muttering as he sprinted away from the scene. After jogging for what seemed like forever, he made it home—the sight making an unnerving ache churn in his belly. Sweat billowed from the nape of his neck and down to the small of his back despite the chill in the air.

His mind was made up; the madness solidified in his mind. He knew there was no going back. There was only one way to get rid of the hell of his nightmarish life.

He crept up the creaking steps of his home with hopes he would go unnoticed. Up and up he traveled until he made it to the top floor high above the grounds of the yard—the perfect escape route for him.

Shuffling into one of the many rooms, he made his way to the window. Without thought, he stripped off his bloodstained coat and white button-up shirt until his pale chest shown bare. His face bore dried blood that had drizzled down his chin to his neck. Deep, guttural breaths gushed from his mouth until he felt light-headed. His heart pumped hard drawing blood heavy into his balled up fists.

Moisture rushed from his eyes, making dried blood streak down his chest. He wiped hard at his face, madness taking over his ability to function rationally. Treading toward the shuttered window felt like a thousand years even though it only took a few seconds.

The maddening voice returned; it was lathered with laughing malice.

Do it. It is the
only
way you can be rid of me. Open the window and jump
.

“What do you think I’m trying to do?” he screamed, heat sweeping down his face to his toes. It stung him until his body was engulfed in a storm of hellish fire.

I do not think you can do it. Prove you can.

The man threw open the window, leaving his bloodied fingerprints on its white paint. A chill rushed in, cooling his body temperature until goose bumps rose in high peaks over his flesh. His legs wobbled as he stepped onto the window’s edge. His expensive black shoes forced some
loose pebbles to plummet into the wide expanse; they dropped, gaining speed until they shattered into dust at reaching the pavement below.

Jump and pay for your sins
, the voice shrieked into his ear.

“I did nothing . . . I did nothing to you,” he stammered, his voice strained. His hands shook until his whole body followed suit. “I did nothing.”

And then he kicked off of the ledge with his arms stretched out wide like a plane. As the slow motion of air rushed past his face, his son’s precious two-year-old
chubby face flashed into his mind. A stabbing pain exploded in his broken heart, and then it ceased beating when he crashed onto the pavement with puffs of dirt rising into the air. He was dead, blood pooled around his lifeless head, eyes still open with a vision of horror caught in their depths.

Sweat poured from Ém’s skin as she screamed, being completely unaware of where she was at the moment. She bounded up with a start in the warm bed. Branches of lightning-filled pain shot through her side, making her groan until moisture spotted her vision.

The first thing she could think of was a name: Pierre. Without willing her voice to do so, she shouted out the name. Loud.

The door to the room screeched open, and a light flashed on with the flick of a switch on the wall. She had to close her eyes to adjust to the light that filtered into the room. A woman, she remembered her name: Hélène. The woman—Pierre’s mother padded to her side.

“Ém, what’s wrong?” Her words came out in a rush, and her face became pale—grave.

“Where is Pierre?” Ém cried as the nightmare seared hot and tangible into her mind. All she wanted to do was transport herself into the dream before he jumped—save him, keep him from killing himself. Why had she dreamed something so horrible? So disturbing? Perhaps it came on because she had tried to kill herself. She rubbed at her temples ferociously until her fingers felt numb.

Hélène’s voice chimed sweetly into her mind, answering her question. “He went to school. I promise he’ll be back.” Hélène grabbed the blanket laying wound in knots at the foot of the bed. She proceeded to soak up the sweat and tears mounting on Ém’s face and neck with its fabric. Sitting down, Hélène draped her arm over the girl’s shoulder while stroking the blond locks of hair that fell parallel with her arm. “Are you okay?”

“I had a dream . . .” Sniffle. “A really bad, bad dream.”

“I’m here. I’m here. It was only a dream.”

After a while, the door to the flat opened. “Pierre?” Raising her head, Ém darted her eyes over Hélène’s shoulder to gain a view into the living room. “Pierre,” she spoke louder and more insistent.

He pounded into the room, dropping his bag on the floor; it made a heavy thud echo throughout the space. “What happened? Are you okay, Ém? Mom, what’s going on?”

“Pierre, she needs you,” Hélène said, relinquishing their guest to him.

“I had the worst nightmare. It was so bad.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Pierre asked. He rubbed his hands up and down her arms. Ém looked at him and then to his mother. Hélène shook her head as if to tell him not to pry.

“Are you hungry? How about I make us dinner?” Hélène left without getting an answer.

Pierre drew Ém into the living room. Rustling sounds spilt out of Hélène’s bedroom. Moments later, she appeared dressed in a coat, holding her purse and an umbrella. “I’ll be right back. Need to get some food for dinner.” Pierre’s beautiful mother sniffled and dabbed at her nose with a tissue. She stepped out of the flat, shutting the door softly.

“Just so you know my mom’s a terrible cook. Don’t tell her that I told you. It’ll be our secret.” He put his finger to his mouth, making a shushing sound.

Ém laughed, a blanket of fluid warmth filled her chest. “Were you trying to make me feel better, or is she really that bad of a cook?”

“I’m telling the truth. Honest. Be careful eating anything she puts in front of you.” He nudged her. “You going to make it?”

“I think so.” Ém sighed, nestling her head into Pierre’s chest. She could feel his heart beating like the low thump of a drum—a comforting feeling. A minute later, their eyes met and danced from one another’s eyes to lips. Inside, she wanted his lips to brush hers so badly. His head leaned closer—inch by crucial inch—but she lowered her head back to his chest. A heaving breath filtered out of his lungs. She hoped she had not offended him, but knew being intimate with him right now was a terrible idea. The timing was unquestionably off.

Outside, the wind picked up, and it started to rain. Pierre continued to hold her and rock her back and forth. She felt safe with him, out of danger. But more so, she felt peace being in his presence. The thought of not being with him was too difficult to fathom.

Please do not leave me
, she thought.
I need you!