He pulled at the collar of his T-shirt. “Christ it’s hot today.”
I saw the small pendant on the end of the chain come free. “You wear a St. Christopher?” Again, I just kind of blurted it out. I think it was the surprise at seeing it, recognizing the little gold saint.
“Oh.” He looked down at the pendant. “Yeah. This was my mum’s. She gave it to me when I was small. I never take it off—I kind of forget it’s there.” I tried to see him as a child and couldn’t. Could only see him tall, broad, the tanned skin of his face. He had lines, yes, but now I realized they didn’t make him look old. They just made him seem more interesting than any of the guys I knew. Like he’d been places, seen stuff, done stuff. He grinned. “I’m impressed you recognized it. You’re a Catholic?”
My cheeks flamed. “My parents sent me to a Catholic school.” A Catholic girls’ school. Your papa really hoped you’d turn out a nun, Camille said. The closest thing he could find to a chastity belt. Most kids I know, like Camille, went to big lycées where they wore their own clothes and smoked cigarettes and ate each other’s faces in the street at lunch break. Going to a place like the Soeurs Servantes du Sacré Coeur makes you into a total freak. Like something out of the kids’ book Madeline. What it means is you get stared at in your uniform by a certain kind of creep on the Metro and ignored by all the other guys. Makes you unable to talk to them like a normal human being. Which is probably exactly why Papa chose it for me.
Of course, I didn’t stay the whole time at the SSSC. They had some trouble with a teacher there, a young man: my parents thought it best I leave and for the last few years I had a private tutor, which was even worse.
I saw Benjamin Daniels looking at the record I was holding. “Velvet Underground,” he said. “Love them.” The design on the front of the vinyl sleeve—by Andy Warhol—was a series of pictures showing wet red lips opening to suck soda from a straw. Suddenly it seemed somehow dirty and I felt my cheeks grow warm again.
“I’m getting this,” he said, holding up his record. “The Yeah Yeah Yeahs. You like them?”
I shrugged. “Je ne sais pas.” I’d never heard of them. I’d never listened to the Velvet Underground record I’d picked up, either. I’d just liked the Warhol design; had planned to copy it in my sketchbook when I got home. I go to the Sorbonne, but what I’d really like to do （if it were left up to me） is art. Sometimes, when I’ve got a stick of charcoal or a paintbrush in my hand, it feels like the only time I’m complete. The only way I can speak properly.
“Well—I’ve got to run.” He made a face. “Got a deadline to meet.” Even that sounded kind of cool: having a deadline. He was a journalist; I’d watched him working late into the night at his laptop. “But you guys are on the fourth floor, right? Back at the apartment? You and your flatmate? What’s her name—”
“Camille.” No one forgets Camille. She’s the hot one, the fun one. But he’d forgotten her name. He’d remembered mine.
A few days later a note was pushed under the apartment door.
I found it!
I couldn’t work out what it meant at first. Who had found what? It didn’t make any sense. It had to be something for Camille. And then I remembered our conversation in the record store. Could it be? I went to the cupboard that contained the dumbwaiter, pulled out the hidden handle, cranked it to bring the little cart upward. And I saw there was something in it: the Yeah Yeah Yeahs record he’d bought in the store. A note was attached to it. Hey Mimi. Thought you might like to try this. Let me know what you think. B x
“Who’s that from?” Camille came over, read the note over my shoulder. “He lent it to you? Ben?” I could hear the surprise in her voice. “I saw him yesterday,” she said. “He told me he’d love it if I could feed his kitty, if he ever goes away. He’s given me his spare key.” She flipped a lock of caramel-colored hair behind one ear. I felt a little sting of jealousy. But I reminded myself he hadn’t left her a note. He hadn’t sent her a record.
There’s this expression in French. être bien dans sa peau. To feel good in your own skin. I don’t feel that way often. But holding that record, I did. Like I had something that was just mine.
Now, I look at the cupboard that has the dumbwaiter hidden inside it. I find myself drifting over to it. I open the cupboard to expose the pulleys, crank the handle, just like I did that day in August. Wait for the little cart to come into view.