July 1999
My feet slip and slide on the steep hill as I rush toward the creek. The trees are thick, lizard-green leaves hiding most of my view, but I can see her. She’s standing on the rocks waiting for me, her arms crossed, looking worried. I half-trip on a fallen branch, but I keep going because there is no time. I have to see her. I have to say goodbye.
I burst from the trees, and she sees me, and begins running toward me. I pull the popsicle I got her from my pocket. We stop in front of each other. I can’t speak. I play football, so running is easy for me. I can’t speak because I’m sad. Because I know this is going to be one of the worst days she has ever had. And because it is one of my worst days, too.
Her eyes are sad. She knows what I’m about to say, but I have to say it anyway, because neither of us is talking.
There’s a lump in my throat, so I swallow it. “This is it, Ivy. The last day. We’re about to go. Right now.”
Her lips shake as she asks if I can stay longer, and her face changes into something terrible when I say no. I hold the popsicle out to her, and she takes it, but it drops from her hand to the ground. She’s … devastated. I do the only thing I know to do. I wrap my arms around her, tighter than I ever have before. She cries into my shirt, and she doesn’t know it, but I cry, too. Even though I don’t have tears, I’m crying for her. I can’t protect her anymore, because I can’t take her with me.
We pull away from each other, not because we want to, but because we both know we have to.
“I’ll be back,” I reassure her. “I won’t forget you.” My eyes sting. They want to cry tears, but I don’t let them.
Her voice breaks as she speaks. “I can’t believe you’re really leaving.”
I grab her hands, and I hold them one last time. They’re trembling. I try to memorize them—how long her fingers are, how they feel in mine, but I’m afraid I’ll forget.
“Brooooooks!” I turn my head back to the woods. My mother, calling for me in a panic. Thankfully, I don’t see her, but I have to hurry. Our car to take us to the airport must have shown up.
My hands squeeze Ivy’s. I’m so nervous, but I have to do this or I’ll regret it the entire time I’m gone. I know she needs this to make it through.
Our eyes are locked together, her deep blues sparkling with tears, and her heart breaking in front of me. “I love you, Ivy.”
She shuts her eyes, and the tears fall down her face, and I know it’s the right time. I grab her cheeks, and I kiss her, pressing my lips to hers. I have never kissed a girl before, and I know we are too young, but I don’t know what will happen when we are apart. I wanted her to be the first, and me hers.
The lump in my throat comes back, but I can’t swallow it this time, and I feel a tear escape one of my eyes before it falls to her face.
I have to go.
I pull away.
And I leave her.
I run.
I run away from her.
I left her on the rocks, and I’m gone, and I don’t look back, because I can’t cry any more than I did while I was lying in bed last night.
“I’m gonna marry you one day, Ivy!” I shout to her.
And I mean it.
My body is scrunched on the bench in the window of my new room. I stare out at the people on the street, how they all look so rushed to get to wherever they’re going. We’ve been in France for a few days now.
I hate it. It’s so different. The way it looks. The people. In Paris, everything is old looking, and I’m not sure they like Americans. At least, not us, anyway. I just want to go back home. I don’t know why I had to come along. I can take care of myself. I know how to microwave mac-and-cheese and take a shower. I could have stayed with my brother. It’s not fair that just because Charles is almost eighteen that he got to stay.
It makes me bitter, because I miss Ivy. The entire plane ride here, I felt like my heart was going to beat so fast that it would eventually stop. All I wanted was to turn the plane around and go back and hug her again, but I knew all I could have was the memory of it.
A soft knock plays on the door. “Can I come in?”
I bolt from the bench and stand in front of the stereo, pretending I’m looking for music. “Sure.”
My mother enters the room, a warm smile on her face. “Your father and I are going to go down to the patisserie and get some lunch. Would you like to come with us?”
I drop the disk I’m holding and shrug. “I’m not really hungry.”
She sits on my bed, lines forming between her eyes, and her mouth pulling into a thin line. “I’ll leave a sandwich in the fridge, then. But you’re coming out with us for dinner tonight. That’s an order. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Her face softens again, like everything is okay, and it makes me mad. Like my life doesn’t matter. Like being here is better for all of us, when really, it’s just better for them. Money, money, money. Everything is about money with adults.
“I still don’t understand why I had to come. I could have stayed with Charles.”
“I’m not having this discussion with you again, Brooks. We’re here, and we’ll all make the best of it, and that’s that.”
My eyes turn to my father, who has poked his head in, looking prepared to defend my mother. My face gives a silent apology, and my father’s face relaxes.
“Brooks,” he says, “some of our neighbors have come to visit and introduce themselves. They have two daughters and a son. One of the daughters is your age.” He winks. “Come down.”
My face feels hot. Like I give a crap about that girl. “Maybe next time. I don’t feel like it.” Why do adults think people are so disposable? Like I can forget Ivy at the snap of a finger?
With that, my mother stands, the sun from the window hitting her jewelry and sending dancing light on the white walls. Her eyes are narrowed, and for a second I think she may just slap me for my defiance. But before she can make it over to me, the phone rings. Her eyes snap to the nightstand, and she shakes her head at me before walking over to pick up the phone.
“Allo,” she says, in her best French accent, and I roll my eyes. She insists we use French as much as possible when interacting with the locals to really assimilate, she says. Whatever that means. “C’est de la part de qui? … Allo? … C’est de la part de qui? … Pourrais-je laisser un message?”
A loud voice shrills through the phone. A familiar one. I rush over to my mother. “Is that Ivy?” I ask, but her hand covers the phone as she mouths “no” and shoos for my dad and me to leave.
As we’re leaving the room, our maid, Nicolette, walks in, and my mother says something in French to her before passing her the phone.
“I swear that sounded like Ivy,” I say to my dad as we walk downstairs.
He chuckles and pats me on the shoulder. “Your mother said it wasn’t. Cheer up, son. Ivy is a world away. Chloe lives right next door!”