Grace and Sylvie Page 2

  “Smelly,” Papa whispered back. “Grace thinks the cheese smells bad.”

  I shook my head and took a big helping. I love cheese—even the stinky kind!

  I’d been trying to follow the conversation, which was mostly in English, but it was hard to understand. Everyone talked so fast—and sometimes all at once! I could tell that they all enjoyed the food, and that made me happy. When we were nearly finished, Papa said something to Aunt Karen and Cousin Grace and then translated for me.

  “Sylvie made this meal. She is a really good cook and an excellent baker. Decorating pastries is her specialty. She works with me in the bakery.”

  Everyone was looking at me. “Merci,” I muttered, my cheeks on fire. Aunt Karen and Grace smiled, and Maman nodded encouragingly, but I couldn’t think of a word to say in English.

  There was an embarrassing silence, and then Aunt Karen asked Maman a question. The English conversation took over again, and suddenly I felt left out. Would the next five weeks be like this? Would I ever be able to talk to my American family?

  fter lunch, at Maman’s suggestion, Grace and I made our way toward les jardins du Luxembourg, the Luxembourg Gardens. I was too nervous to speak English, so we walked in silence. I felt awkward, but Grace didn’t seem to notice. She was busy taking in the neighborhood—the fancy brass knockers on the brightly painted doors, the blue-and-white house numbers, the wrought-iron balconies.

  As we passed my elementary school, I pointed to the yellow brick building. “Mon école,” I said. “My school.”

  The French national motto was written above the entrance door: Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité. Freedom, Equality, Brotherhood. I’d learned in school that both France and the United States believed in freedom and equality. As for brotherhood, Grace had a fourteen-year-old brother named Josh, but so far I had neither brothers nor sisters. I’d have one soon enough, though.

  I paused to think about this. Would the baby be a boy or a girl? Either way, Maman and Papa would certainly be giving it lots of attention. I felt a pang of worry again, wondering how I’d fit into this new family.

  I realized Grace was standing there, staring at me.

  “Liberté, Egalité, Cousinage!” I said to her in French. I was trying to make a joke by saying “Cousinhood” instead of “Brotherhood.” But Grace just tilted her head, confused, and said something in English that I didn’t understand. Oh, dear. How would we ever have Cousinhood if we couldn’t even talk to each other?

  At the Luxembourg Gardens there were pigeons everywhere, as usual. I’d saved a leftover piece of bread from lunch. I pulled it out of my pocket and threw the birds some crumbs.

  “Parlez-vous anglais, Sylvie?” Grace said. “Do you speak English?”

  I hesitated. If I said yes, she’d expect me to be able to have a conversation. “Non,” I said uneasily, keeping my eyes on the pigeons.

  Grace’s smile faded. I felt awful. After a long, embarrassing pause, Grace took out a cell phone and started snapping pictures of the pigeons.

  Click!

  Wow! I wished I could ask her to show me how the phone worked. What else could she do with it besides taking pictures? Go online? Send e-mail? Instead, I motioned for her to follow me as I sped through the park. She took pictures of everything: the playground, the puppet theater, the carousel, the pony rides. Without better English, I couldn’t tell her about any of it.

  By the time we reached the far end of the park, the silence between us was making me squirm inside. Grace must’ve been bored, because she kept yawning. Just then we came upon a small black-and-white dog, a friendly stray I’d seen before and sometimes fed. She had short legs, soft black eyes, and a smushed nose. She was thin and dirty, and I felt sorry for her.

  “Bonjour, petite chienne!” I said, greeting the little dog. I clapped my hands, and she came to me. I scratched her behind the ears and told her what a good girl she was. Her tail wagged furiously.

  Grace’s eyes lit up. She said something in English and snapped another picture. Then she bent down and looked for a collar, but there wasn’t one. “She’s so sweet,” she said.

  “Oui,” I said. I knew the word “sweet” because I’d heard English-speaking tourists use it in the pastry shop.

  Grace patted the dog’s head, ruffling her fur. I placed my last bit of bread on the ground, and the dog snatched it and ran off.

  “Au revoir, petite chienne!” I said as we walked away.

  Grace pulled out a pocket dictionary. She looked through it but didn’t say anything. Leaving the park, she kept glancing back toward the dog. I realized that while we couldn’t speak each other’s languages, we did have one thing in common—we both liked animals.

  When we got back to the apartment, Grace was looking pretty droopy. We found Maman and Aunt Karen in Maman’s bedroom. Maman was on the bed with her feet up, surrounded by a sea of pillows. Grace said something to her mother, then went to my room.

  “I don’t think Grace is feeling well,” I said.

  Aunt Karen said something in English.

  “She’ll feel better after a nap,” said Maman, translating. “It’s the jet lag.”

  I remembered how exhausted I was when we flew to Boston for Papa and Maman’s wedding. Suddenly I felt bad for dragging Grace all over the park.

  Aunt Karen said something else, and Maman answered. They both laughed.

  I looked at Maman. “What did she say?” I asked, a bit impatiently.

  “She said she’s sleepy too and wishes she could lie down on the bed,” Maman answered. “But there’s no room. With all those pillows, I look like Queen Marie Antoinette. I told her, ‘In that case you must do my every bidding.’”

  It was great to see Maman joking with her big sister. I wondered whether Grace and I would ever be able to laugh together like that.

  “Oh, the baby is kicking!” said Maman. “Sylvie, would you like to feel it?”

  “Oui!” I said.

  She placed my hand on her tummy.

  “Karen, toi aussi,” said Maman, reaching for her sister’s hand.

  Together we held our hands on Maman and waited for the kick.

  “Je l’ai senti!” I said, and at the same moment Aunt Karen said, “I felt it!”

  Maman said something to Aunt Karen.

  “Maman, in French. Please. I can’t understand when you talk so fast.” It was so frustrating not to be able to follow a conversation with my own family!

  “I told her it’s great to have her here,” said Maman. “That I haven’t been able to do anything around the house and that I don’t know what I would’ve done without you, Sylvie.”

  Aunt Karen smiled at me. I felt a blush of happiness.

  “Grace took a lot of pictures in the park,” I blurted. “I hope she likes it here.”

  Aunt Karen said something in English, and Maman translated. “Aunt Karen says Grace is excited to be here,” Maman explained. “She’s been making lists of all the things she wants to see.”

  I’d been looking forward to showing Grace around Paris, but now I wasn’t sure either of us would want to spend another awkward afternoon together. “How will we talk to each other?” I said.

  “You know more English than you realize,” said Maman. “The more you speak, the easier it will get. Don’t be timid. Just take the plunge.”

  “Are you sure Grace won’t make fun of me?” I said.

  “Of course not, sweetie. Speaking French feels just as strange to her as speaking English does to you.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. Maman was right. I vowed to take the plunge, even if it felt like jumping into a cold lake.

  For now, I just wanted to be somewhere I felt confident. “May I go help Papa in the bakery?”

  “Mais oui,” said Maman. “Of course.”

  “Merci,” I said.

  As I walked through the living room, Napoléon rubbed against my legs. I reached down to pet him.

  “Oh, Napoléon,” I said. “I wish I’d paid more
attention in English class!”

  ylvie!” Papa whispered. “Wake up!”

  My eyes popped open. Papa was standing over me, his face flushed. I glanced over at Grace. Still asleep. She and Aunt Karen had been here a week.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked in alarm.

  “Shhh! Don’t wake Grace. Maman had the baby!”

  I leaped out of bed, nearly knocking over the clock. The green numbers glowed in the early morning light. Six a.m.

  “When?” The baby wasn’t supposed to be here until mid-July. “Boy or girl? Is the baby okay? Is Maman?”

  “A few hours ago. A girl. They’re both fine. Do you want to come to the hospital to see them?”

  “Mais oui!”

  Papa left the room, and I threw on a skirt and blouse. The baby’s here! And it’s a girl! I felt tingly all over. Thrilled, but also nervous. What was it going to be like to have a sister?

  We slipped out onto the quiet street. It was so early that the bakery was still closed. I knew that Colette, Julien, and Emilie were in the kitchen, getting ready to open, but the front of the shop was dark.

  It usually takes twenty minutes to walk to the hospital, but Papa and I flew down the sidewalk and got there in fifteen. The receptionist waved us in, and we took the stairs two at a time.

  “This way,” Papa said when we got to the third floor. “No running. Walk.” He steered me to Maman’s room.

  There was Maman sitting in the bed, grinning down at the tiniest baby I’d ever seen. Le bébé was wrapped tight in a blanket, looking like a sausage in a baguette.

  I tiptoed to the bed. Maman leaned over and gave me a kiss.

  “Good morning, sweetie. Meet your sister.” Maman turned the baby to face me. She had Papa’s dark hair and Papa’s chin.

  “What’s her name?” I asked softly.

  “Lilou,” said Maman. “We’ll call her ‘Lily’ for short.”

  “Oh, that’s so pretty,” I said. “Like a flower.” I thought of Grand-mère and felt a flutter in my chest. The baby was amazing, but I missed my grandmother. How strange to feel happy and sad at the same time.

  Maman smiled, and Papa put his arm around me. We all looked at the baby, and for a while, no one said anything.

  “Why is her face all scrunched up and red?” I finally asked.

  Maman laughed. “That’s what newborns look like.”

  “You looked just like that when you were born,” Papa added.

  My eyes widened. “I did? I was that wrinkled?”

  “Oui, ma chérie,” he said. “But you were perfect. And so is Lily.”

  I looked at Maman and Papa and felt my lip begin to tremble.

  “Sylvie, what’s the matter?” said Maman.

  “I don’t know how to be a sister,” I said, the words catching in my throat. “What if I’m no good at it?”

  “You will be,” said Maman.

  “Of course you will,” said Papa.

  “But how do you know?” I said. “I’m not even good at being a cousin.”

  “Yes, you are,” Papa insisted. “And you’ll get the hang of being a sister. You’re good at learning new things.”

  He sounded confident, but I didn’t feel that way. A big sister should be sure of herself. I just felt small and overwhelmed.

  Papa took me home, checked on the bakery, and then returned to the hospital to be with Maman and Lily. I was exhausted from all the excitement and didn’t know what to do with myself. In the afternoon, when Aunt Karen and Grace went to meet the baby, I decided to stay home.

  The house was quiet, just Napoléon and me. I went downstairs and poked my head into the bakery. Colette was behind the counter, wearing one of her pretty aprons. “Congratulations, Sylvie! A girl!” she said.

  “Oui,” I said.

  “I can’t wait to meet her. Does she look like your mother or your father?”

  “Like Papa,” I said, without much enthusiasm.

  “Do you want to give us some help in the back? We’re making tarte Tatin.”

  Normally I like helping with apple upside-down cake, but not today. Nothing about today was normal. “Non, merci. I think I’ll stay in the apartment.”

  I trudged up the stairs. Sunlight was streaming through the living room window, but it didn’t cheer me up. Rather, it made me think of how Papa called me his “ray of sunshine.” Would he still do that, now that the baby was here?

  Napoléon wound himself around my legs. I picked him up, snuggled him against my shoulder, and turned on the television. There was nothing interesting, just some stupid cartoons. I must’ve fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, there were cooking noises in the kitchen. Aunt Karen and Grace were clomping around, talking in English a mile a minute. They were probably gushing about the baby, but the conversation was so fast that I couldn’t follow it.

  I buried my face in a pillow. I missed Maman and Papa. I wished Grand-mère were here. The new baby wasn’t even home yet, and already everything was different.

  The next morning as Papa was leaving for the bakery, he told me that Aunt Karen wanted to buy some flowers for Maman before she and Grace went to the hospital.

  “Please help them, Sylvie,” he said, dashing off.

  I took them to my favorite flower shop in the neighborhood. The sidewalk in front was covered with buckets full of red poppies, yellow daisies, pink sweet peas, orange lilies, and all kinds of roses. Inside the shop, a woman with the world’s tiniest scissors was clipping a dead flower off an orchid plant.

  “Bonjour, madame,” she said to Aunt Karen. “Puis-je vous aider?”

  The woman had said, “How can I help you?” but Aunt Karen didn’t understand. “Parlez-vous anglais?” Aunt Karen asked.

  “Non, madame.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Aunt Karen. “I would like…” Aunt Karen started in English. Then she shook her head and tried French. “Je voudrais…Je voudrais…” She fell silent. I realized she didn’t know how to buy flowers in French. It had never occurred to me that a grown-up could have trouble with a foreign language, just like me. And Aunt Karen was a teacher!

  “Une minute,” said Grace, whipping out her French dictionary. She flipped through the pages, looking for the right words.

  I didn’t know much English, but I did know flowers. I stepped forward and told the woman that we’d like to buy a bouquet. I explained to her which flowers Maman liked and asked if she had them in the shop.

  “Ah, oui!” she replied, asking Maman’s favorite color.

  “Pourpre,” I replied.

  Grace looked up from her book. “Purple?” she said.

  “Oui. Purple,” I said. The word felt funny on my tongue.

  “Oh, perfect!” said Aunt Karen.

  I picked out pink, white, and purple roses and some sweet-smelling freesia. The florist clipped the bottoms and arranged them in a swirling bouquet, turning it as she added each stem and tucking in some lavender at the end.

  “Parfum supplémentaire,” she said.

  It took a few minutes for Grace to look up the words in her dictionary. “Extra fragrance,” she finally declared.

  The florist filled a clear plastic sleeve with water and tied the flowers into it with a purple ribbon.

  When it was time to pay, I helped Aunt Karen pick out the correct euro bills and coins from her purse. She wasn’t used to our European money.

  “Sylvie, thank you,” said Aunt Karen as we left the shop.

  “You’re welcome,” I said shyly in English.

  On the way home, I felt like skipping. I had been able to help, and Maman’s bouquet was beautiful.

  But then Grace put a hand on my arm and said something quickly in English. Suddenly I didn’t feel like skipping anymore.

  “I am sorry, I do not understand,” I said carefully in English, wishing I had a bonbon au chocolat for every time I’d said that lately. If only talking to Grace were as easy as combining flowers into a bouquet!

  hen Lily came home from the h
ospital she slept all day, snorting and gurgling and making little burpy noises. The second morning, she was awake when I finished breakfast, and Maman said Grace and I could visit with her.

  I leaned over the bassinet and looked into Lily’s big brown eyes. She stared right back, unblinking.

  “Bonjour, mon petit chou,” I said, stroking her baby-soft cheek. Grand-mère used to call me her “little cabbage” when I was young. It suited Lily, too, I thought.

  Grace peered into the bassinet. “Bonjour…mon petit…chou,” she said slowly. Then she added, “And welcome to the world!”

  I glanced at Grace, then at Lily. “Welcome to the world,” I repeated to myself. But I didn’t have the nerve to say it out loud.

  Grace smiled. “She’s so small,” she said, holding her thumb and index finger close together in the air.

  Small. I knew that word. “Oui,” I said, nodding.

  I made some kissy noises at Lily, and so did Grace. We both started cooing and saying nonsense words in high, squeaky voices. Baby talk must be a language everyone knows—it was the most Grace and I had spoken to each other since she arrived. I held out a finger to Lily, and she grasped it with her tiny hand. Maybe being a big sister wouldn’t be so hard after all.

  But as the week went on, I began to feel more and more left out. Maman and Aunt Karen were always busy with Lily—feeding her, burping her, changing her, rocking her, and bathing her. Babies sure need a lot of attention! And once Lily discovered her lungs, I was shocked that someone so tiny could make such a big sound. Grace and I had to sleep with pillows over our ears.

  School had ended, so I was able to spend more time in the bakery. At least I could be close to Papa. He was grateful for my help, even if he didn’t have time to talk to me. I kept out of his way and assisted Colette. Meanwhile Papa bustled between the bakery and the bassinet, looking rumpled and tired because he was often up in the middle of the night with Maman and Lily. I felt invisible, especially when Maman didn’t remember to translate her conversations with Aunt Karen and Grace. I never knew you could be so lonely in a house full of people.