Tremendous Things Page 4

  “What did you expect?” asked Fab. “That they’d all be wearing berets and carrying wheels of Brie?”

  My face turned warm in spite of the cold. “No.” But inside I was thinking, Well, maybe the berets.

  The last student stepped off the bus.

  Time slowed. She was tall, almost as tall as me, her brown hair cut in a stylish pageboy. Her shoulders and hips were broad. She wore a yellow faux-fur coat over black-and-white-polka-dot tights, short black boots, and a purple miniskirt. She carried a small guitar case. She wasn’t wearing a beret or carrying cheese, but to me, she looked very French. She moved like a cat. Like the Pink Panther. Which is a kind of cat.

  She was spectacular.

  Mr. Papadopoulos got down to business. “Once you’re matched with your billets, you’re free to leave with your rides.”

  “I think the one who looks a bit like Drake is my billet,” said Alex.

  “I think the tall skinny dude is mine,” said Fabrizio.

  “I think mine is that guy with the big round head,” I said.

  Alex and Fab guessed right.

  I most definitely did not.

  “Charlie Bourget,” said Mr. P.

  The beautiful girl stepped forward.

  My eyes bulged more than usual. “No. You’re wrong!”

  The beautiful girl arched an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting I do not know my own name?”

  “Yes. No. Well, but. You’re a girl.”

  She gave me the most disdainful look anyone has ever given me, and I have been on the receiving end of many disdainful looks. “Charlie. Short for Charlotte.”

  Mr. Papadopoulos looked flustered. “I’m sorry. I assumed…” He scanned his list. “We’ll have to figure something out. We can’t have a girl billeting with a boy—”

  “Why not?” asked Mademoiselle Lefèvre and Charlie in stereo.

  “Well.” Mr. P cleared his throat. “We don’t want anything…untoward…happening.”

  Alex raised his hand. “Um, sir? By that logic, I shouldn’t have a boy billet.”

  Some of the other students nodded agreement. “You’re being awfully heteronormative,” added Fabrizio.

  “I— No. Whatever that means, I am not—”

  “And possibly transphobic,” added Laura.

  “I am none of those things,” said Mr. P. “The rest of you marked that you have separate bedrooms for your billets. Mr. Nuñez-Knopf does not. That is why I’m raising this—”

  “Where is Mademoiselle Lefèvre staying, sir?” asked Fabrizio innocently.

  “I—she’s—she’s staying in my apartment.”

  “And she has her own room?”

  Mr. P’s entire face turned pink. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

  Charlie was starting to shiver from the cold. “Mon Dieu.” She looked me in the eye. “You. Boy. Will you be, how did he say it, untoward?”

  “N-no,” I stammered. “I’m not that kind of man.”

  “See?” said Charlie. “He is gay. So it is no problem.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. P. “I should have realized.”

  “I’m not gay,” I said. “But I was raised by two awesome gay women who’ve nurtured my feminine side, so perhaps that’s what you’re picking up on—”

  “Okay, alors. It is settled,” interrupted Mademoiselle Lefèvre. “We are all tired and want to get out of the cold. Charlotte will stay with the nice homosexual.”

  Tyler was doubled over with laughter.

  And I wanted to run away as fast as my tree-trunk legs would carry me.

  * * *

  —

  Mrs. Shirazi had offered to pick Charlie and me up along with Alex and his billet, Léo, and Fabrizio and his billet, Christophe, since the Mumps were both working. She gave me two air kisses, left cheek, right cheek. I could smell her perfume. “Wilbur, hello. How are you and your mothers?”

  “We’re good,” I said. “And you and Mr. Shirazi?”

  “Oh, just fine. We haven’t seen much of you lately.”

  Because your son has abandoned his friend for his boyfriend, I wanted to say.

  We piled into their minivan. Charlie, Fabrizio, and I squished into the back. Charlie immediately fell asleep, her head against the window. Her mouth hung open and a bit of saliva pooled in one corner. She had a splash of freckles around her nose, and big nostrils. Her ears were a bit sticky-outy.

  She was just…wow.

  Fabrizio elbowed me, hard. “Quit staring,” he whispered. “It’s creepy.”

  Alex was already talking in a mix of French and English to Léo and Christophe. I envied how much more comfortable he seemed in his own skin since he’d started dating Fabrizio; I would have given anything to exchange mine, just turn in my entire epidermis for a new one.

  Charlie and I were dropped off first. Since we were in the back, everyone had to get out. I grabbed Alex’s arm. “This is the worst thing that’s happened to me in my entire life,” I hissed.

  “Really? How so?”

  “Seriously, I don’t think I can do this. She’s gorgeous.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” said Fabrizio, eavesdropping.

  “Was I talking to you?” I turned my back on him. “Alex, seriously: Could we switch?”

  “Wilbur. You’ll be fine.” Alex took Charlie’s suitcase from the back and handed it to me. “Just be yourself.”

  “Well, not too much yourself,” said Fabrizio, still eavesdropping.

  Then the two of them hopped back into the minivan, and Mrs. Shirazi drove away, leaving me all alone with Charlie.

  She waited for me on the sidewalk. “Um. Je m’excuse,” I began in a loud voice. “Je, um, speak…poo français.”

  “I am not hard of hearing, or stupid,” she replied. “You do not need to shout. My English is much, much better than your French.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “This is a very interesting neighborhood, yes? Lots of murals and graffiti and sculptures made from objets trouvés.” She watched a woman skip past in head-to-toe tie-dye clothing, followed by a Rastafarian. “And people from all walks of life. Like Christiania in Copenhagen.”

  “Sure,” I replied, even though I had no idea what she was talking about because I have never traveled anywhere. I took her suitcase and she took her instrument case. We headed up the front walk. I tried to think of something, anything, to say. “That’s a tiny guitar.”

  “It is not a guitar. It is a ukulele.”

  “You play ukulele?”

  “No, I just carry it with me as part of my look.”

  “Oh. You pull it off very well—”

  “I am joking, Wilbur. Of course I play it.”

  “Ah. Right. Ha-ha.” I made a mental note that the French did sarcasm, too.

  “What instrument do you play?”

  “Triangle.”

  Her brow furrowed. “As in, ding?” She mimed the movement.

  “I also play cowbell and tambourine.”

  “Ah. A triple threat.” I couldn’t tell whether or not she was being sarcastic again.

  Templeton practically launched himself at us when I opened the front door. He started running in circles around Charlie on his stubby legs, yapping happily.

  “A Chihuahua, non?”

  “Chihuahua-dachshund mix.”

  “He is possibly the ugliest dog I have ever seen.” She only stated the truth, so it was hard to take offense. Templeton is nine, which is fifty-two in human years. I think his fur was originally white, but now it’s yellow, like a smoker’s fingers. He has a snaggletooth, he’s blind in one eye, and he’s missing an ear. It’s just one more reason why I love him so much, because I’m not the most attractive specimen, either. Mup says we’re both beautiful on the inside, which, now that I think
of it, is not actually a compliment.

  “I like to think he’s so ugly, he’s cute,” I said.

  “It is not cute that he is having sex with my leg.”

  “Templeton, stop! Bad dog.” I scooped him up. Charlie hung her coat on one of the colorful hooks in the hallway while I knocked three times on the wall.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “My best friend. We have a system. When I get home from school, I knock. If he doesn’t knock back, I call him. If he doesn’t answer his phone, I go over with my spare key. Just in case he’s fallen or something like that.”

  “What is wrong with him that he might fall?”

  “Nothing. Just old age.”

  On cue, Sal knocked back: one, two, three.

  Charlie glanced into our living room, and my heart constricted just a bit. After our avalanche of bad luck, we’d had to find creative ways to furnish the house. Mum and I had completely outfitted our home with what she and I call collectibles and Mup calls trash. I think it gives our house a homey look. Mup thinks it gives it a hoarder look. “Does one man’s junk always have to be your treasure?” Mup says every time a new item makes it into our space.

  So I watched with bated breath as Charlie took in the old purple couch, the hot-pink velvet chaise longue, the lamp with the gold tasseled shade, the kidney-shaped coffee table, and all the knickknacks and doodads Mum and I had picked up over the last few years, like the salt-and-pepper-shaker collection that lined the mantle and the old framed advertisements that hung on the wall.

  “Eclectic design,” she said with an approving nod. “I like it.”

  This made me inordinately happy.

  We each took one end of her suitcase and carried it up the narrow stairs to the second floor. When we stepped into my room, my happy feeling vanished. Why hadn’t I taken down my old Emma Watson poster? Yes, she’s a super-smart feminist, but my poster was from the first Harry Potter movie; she was in her Hogwarts robes, wielding her wand. Even my favorite garage-sale find, a painting of dogs playing poker, suddenly seemed ridiculous under her Parisian gaze. “You can have the bed,” I said. “I’ll sleep in the alcove.” My room has a unique shape, with a smaller separate crawl space under the eaves. Mup and I had put an air mattress in there the night before. “I emptied the top two drawers of my dresser. Is there anything else you need?”

  She didn’t answer. Her gaze had landed on my bedside table.

  Lying there in full view: Latex gloves. Kleenex. Petroleum jelly.

  Her brow furrowed. She looked at me, alarmed.

  It took me a moment.

  “No! You don’t— I swear it’s not for— It’s for Templeton! My dog!”

  “Quoi?”

  “For expressing his anal sacs. It’s a condition some dogs get. We can’t afford to take him to the vet all the time, so I learned how to do it at home.” She looked at me blankly, and I could tell I’d lost her. “I just put on the gloves”—I pantomimed putting on the gloves—“then I use a bit of the jelly”—I pantomimed putting jelly on my finger—“then I poke my finger up his rectum, find the anal sacs, and squeeze the contents onto the Kleenex….” I pantomimed that part, too.

  “You are a lover of animals.”

  “Yes! Yes, I am a lover of animals.”

  She bolted out of my room and down the stairs.

  A moment later, I heard her scream.

  * * *

  —

  I guess I would have screamed too if I’d come face to face with a zombie. Charlie had been punching in Mademoiselle Lefèvre’s number on her phone when Mum walked through the door, straight from a movie set that she called “the poor man’s Walking Dead.” The makeup artist had gone all out; it really did look as if half of her face had rotted away.

  Luckily, Mum speaks decent French, so she was able to calm Charlie down pretty quickly. A few minutes later the two of them were laughing in the kitchen while Mum put the kettle on.

  “Oh, Wil,” Mum said. “First she thought you were a serial masturbator. Then she thought you were diddling the dog!” I tried to laugh, but I was pretty offended.

  As if I would ever diddle the dog.

  * * *

  —

  Sal sent me a text while Charlie and I set the table for dinner.

  How is your excellent stud?

  Sal hates thumb-typing, and his eyesight isn’t the best, so sometimes I have to decipher the spelling mistakes and autocorrects.

  My exchange student is a girl. Charlie = Charlotte.

  Like your favorite spider! Sal responded.

  Sal and I often did book swaps, and I’d recently loaned him my much-loved copy of Charlotte’s Web.

  But prettier, I typed. And without eight eyes and legs.

  Thank goofiness for that.

  Want to come to dinner?

  Who’s cooking?

  Norah.

  …

  Think I’ll eat here, thanks.

  Sal likes Mum’s cooking as much as the rest of us.

  Mup arrived home just as we sat down to dinner. She was wearing work pants and an old sweater, and she was covered in tufts of fur. “Stanley and Daisy were hellions today,” she said.

  “You work with children?” asked Charlie.

  “Dogs. Which is almost the same thing. Except most children are toilet trained.” Mup works at a doggy daycare a few days a week—her third of three jobs.

  I relaxed during supper because I knew the Mumps would carry the conversation. Templeton lay at my feet, hoping for scraps. Mum, her makeup removed and her sweatpants on, served us one of her specialties, a meatless meatloaf.

  “I got bumped up to special skills extra on set today,” she told us. “The director shot me in close-up, chewing off someone’s arm. I got to say, ‘Aaaaaa­aaaaa­gh.’ ”

  “Very convincing,” I said.

  “It sent a chill up my spine,” Charlie agreed.

  “Tell us more about you, Charlie,” said Mup. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

  “Non. I am an only child, like Wilbur. I live with my father.”

  “And your mother…?”

  “She is not with us.”

  I put down my fork. A lump rose in my throat. I worried I might cry, because this was a million times sadder than the Sarah McLachlan song. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “When did she…?”

  “When I was seven.”

  “How did she…?” asked Mup.

  “A train.”

  All three of us tried to keep our horror in check. “She got hit by a train?” I asked.

  Charlie looked puzzled. Then she started to laugh. “Oh—non! I have not explained well. When I was seven, she took a train to the South of France with her boyfriend! She is alive.”

  We all exhaled. “Thank goodness,” said Mum. Then: “Why didn’t she take you with her?”

  “She said she had to follow her heart. I spend summers with her.”

  The Mumps looked horrified all over again. I tried to imagine how I would feel if one of them left to “follow her heart.” It was too sad to contemplate.

  Mum brought down the carousel cookie jar and put out a plate of her quinoa squares. “You must eat a lot of cookies in this house,” Charlie said, checking out the twenty or so jars that lined the tops of the cupboards.

  “Nope,” said Mup. “We just live with a hoard—forgive me, a collector.”

  “They make me happy,” said Mum. “What does your father do, Charlie?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “He is an intellectual.”

  “I mean, what does he do for a job?”

  “Just that.”

  Mup whistled. “Wow. I don’t think intellectual is a job description in North America. Over here, when someone is called an intellectual, it’s an insult. Es
pecially if you’re a politician.”

  “But that makes no sense,” said Charlie. “You want your politicians to be smart, non?”

  Mum gave a sad smile. “You would think so, wouldn’t you?”

  “In France, we value the knowledgeable person’s opinion.” Charlie took a bite from a quinoa square. Her eyes widened. A moment later, I saw her drop the rest of the square on the floor for Templeton, who gobbled it up because he will eat literally anything, including but not limited to cigarette butts, dirty underpants, and his own barf.

  “What does he do, exactly?” I asked.

  “He writes for newspapers and magazines. He publishes essays. And he appears often on TV. My father and I, we argue all the time, but not in a bad way. He wants me to be a critical thinker.”

  I nodded and tried to look like I might be thinking critically. But what was going through my head was She is out of my league in every way.

  * * *

  —

  After dinner Charlie said she’d like to join Templeton and me on our evening walk, and I felt anxious all over again. I put Templeton into the rainbow-colored sweater Mum had knit for him and slid four little matching booties onto his feet. We headed out into the freezing cold night.

  “Please, will you take me to get something to eat?” Charlie said. “Your mothers are wonderful, but mon Dieu, that meatless meatloaf…”

  “Was revolting?”

  “Oui! I do not want to starve to death on my first trip to Canada.”

  “I promise I won’t let that happen. The Mumps have many great qualities, but cooking isn’t top of the list, especially for Mum.” We started walking east toward the heart of the market.

  “Why do you call them that? The Mumps?”

  I shrugged. “When I was really little, I started calling Norah Mum, and Carmen Mup. Put them together and they make the Mumps.”

  “I like it.” She was shivering; her yellow faux-fur coat wasn’t enough protection from the cold. “I can see my breath!” She puffed out her cheeks and blew little clouds of air.

  The Jamaican patty shop was still open, so I took her inside. She bought three beef patties and wolfed them down. She was a noisy eater, groaning with delight and chewing loudly. Lloyd winked at me. “Gotta love a woman with an appetite.”