Die for Me (3 page)

I WAS SO SHAKEN THAT I COULDN'T LEAVE FOR A
while. Finally, after allowing the café staff to use half their first-aid kit on me, I insisted that I could make it home on my own and wobbled back, my legs feeling like rubber bands. Mamie was coming out the front door as I arrived.

“Oh, my dear Katya!” she shrieked after I explained what had happened, and dropping her beloved Hermès purse to the ground, she threw her arms around me. Then, scooping up our things and leading me back into the house, she tucked me into bed and insisted on treating me like I was a quadriplegic instead of her slightly scraped-up granddaughter.

“Now, Katya, are you sure you're comfortable? I can bring you more pillows if you want.”

“Mamie, I'm fine, really.”

“Does your knee still hurt? I can put something else on it. Maybe it should be elevated.”

“Mamie, they treated it with a million things from their first-aid box at the café. It's just a scrape, really.”

“Oh, my darling child. To think what could have happened.” She pressed my head to her chest and petted my hair until something in me broke and I started crying.

Mamie cooed and held me while I bawled. “I'm just crying because I'm shaky,” I protested through my tears, but the truth was that she was treating me just like my mom would have.

When Georgia got home, I heard Mamie telling her about my “near-death experience.” My door opened a minute later, and my sister raced in looking as white as a ghost. She sat silently on the edge of my bed, staring at me with wide eyes.

“It's okay, Georgia. I'm just a little scraped up.”

“Oh my God, Katie-Bean, if anything had happened to you . . . You are all I have left. Remember that.”

“I'm fine. And nothing's going to happen to me. I'll keep far away from disintegrating buildings from now on. Promise.”

She forced a smile and reached out her hand to touch my own, but the haunted look stayed.

The next day Mamie refused to let me leave the house, insisting that I relax and “recover from my injuries.” I obeyed, to humor her, and spent half the evening reading in the bathtub. It wasn't until I had lost myself in the warm water and a book that my nerves got the best of me, and I sat there trembling like a leaf.

I hadn't realized how scared the near miss with the crumbling building had left me until it took topping the tub up several times with scalding hot water to calm me down. Ultimately, I fell asleep with little plumes of steam rising up from the water around me.

When I passed the café the next day, it was closed, and the sidewalk outside the building was roped off with yellow plastic police tape. Workers in electric blue overalls were erecting scaffolding for builders to come stabilize the facade. I would have to find another location for my al fresco reading. I felt a pang of disappointment as I realized that this was the only place that I had a chance of seeing my recent obsession. Who knew how long it would be before I ran into Vincent again?

My mother began taking me to museums when I was a tiny child. When we went to Paris, she and Mamie and I would set off in the morning for “a little taste of beauty,” as my mother called it. Georgia, who was bored by the time we reached the first painting, usually opted to stay behind with my father and grandfather, who sat in cafés and chatted with friends, business associates, and whoever else happened to wander by. But together, Mamie, Mom, and I combed the museums and galleries of Paris.

So it was no great shock when Georgia gave me a vague excuse of “previous plans” when I asked her to come museum trolling with me a few days later. “Georgia, you've been complaining that I never do anything with you. This is a valid invite!”

“Yeah, about as valid as me inviting you to a monster truck rally. Ask again if you plan on doing something actually interesting.” To show her goodwill, she gave my arm a friendly squeeze before shutting her bedroom door in my face.
Touché.

I set off alone to Le Marais, a neighborhood across town from my grandparents' home. Weaving my way through its tiny medieval streets, I finally arrived at my destination: the palacelike building housing the Picasso Museum.

Besides the alternate universe offered by a book, the quiet space of a museum was my favorite place to go. My mom said I was an escapist at heart . . . that I preferred imaginary worlds to the real one. It's true that I've always been able to yank myself out of this world and plunge myself into another. And I felt ready for a calming session of art-hypnosis.

As I walked through the gigantic doors of the Musée Picasso into its sterile white rooms, I felt my heart rate slow. I let the warmth and peace of the place cover me like a soft blanket. And as was my habit, I walked until I found the first painting that really grabbed my attention, and sat down on a bench to face it.

I let the colors absorb into my skin. The composition's convoluted, twisted shapes reminded me of how I felt inside, and my breathing slowed as I began zoning out. The other paintings in the room, the guard standing near the door, the fresh-paint smell in the air around me, even the passing tourists, faded into a gray background surrounding this one square of color and light.

I don't know how long I sat there before my mind slowly emerged from its self-imposed trance, and I heard low voices coming from behind me.

“Come over here. Just look at the colors.”

Long pause. “What colors?”

“Exactly. It's just as I told you. He goes from the bright, bold palette of something like
Les Demoiselles d'Avignon
to this gray and brown monotone jigsaw puzzle in a mere four years. What a show-off! Pablo always had to be the best at everything he put his hand to, and as I was saying to Gaspard the other day, what really ticks me off is . . .”

I turned, curious to see the origin of this fountain of knowledge, and froze. Standing just fifteen feet away from me was Vincent's curly-haired friend.

Now that I saw him straight on, I was struck by how attractive he was. There was something rugged about him—unkempt, scruffy hair, bristly razor stubble, and large rough hands that gesticulated passionately toward the painting. By the condition of his clothes, which were smudged with paint, I guessed he might be an artist.

That came to me in a split second. Because after that, all I could see was the person standing with him. The raven-haired boy. The boy who had taken up permanent residence in the dark corners of my mind since the first moment I saw him. Vincent.

Why do you have to fall for the most improbable, inaccessible boy in Paris?
He was too beautiful—and too aloof—to ever really notice me. I tore my gaze away, leaned forward, and rested my forehead in my hands. It didn't do any good. Vincent's image was burned indelibly into my mind.

I realized that whatever it was about him that made him seem a bit cold, almost dangerous, actually heightened my interest instead of scaring me off. What was wrong with me? I had never gone for bad boys before—that was Georgia's specialty! My stomach tightened as I wondered if I had the courage to go up and talk to him.

But I didn't have the chance to put myself to the test. When I raised my head, they were gone. I walked quickly to the entrance of the next room and peered in. It was empty. And then I just about jumped out of my skin as a low voice from behind me said, “Hi, Kate.”

Vincent loomed over me, his face a good six inches above mine. My hand flew to my chest in alarm. “Thanks for the heart attack!” I gasped.

“So is this a habit of yours, leaving your bag behind in order to strike up a conversation?” He grinned and nodded at the bench where I had been sitting. Lying beneath it was my book bag. “Wouldn't it be easier to just walk up to a guy and say hello?”

The slight trace of mockery in his voice evaporated my nervousness. It was replaced by a fiery indignation that surprised us both. “Fine! Hello,” I growled, my throat tight with fury. Marching over to the bench, I picked up my bag and stalked out of the room.

“Wait!” he called, jogging over to me and matching my pace. “I didn't mean it like that. What I meant . . .”

I came to a stop and stared at him, waiting.

“I'm sorry,” he said, exhaling deeply. “I've never been known for my sparkling conversation.”

“Then why even make the effort?” I challenged.

“Because. You're—I don't know—amusing.”

“Amusing?” I pronounced each syllable slowly and shot him my
You're a complete weirdo
look. My clenched fists rose automatically to rest on my hips. “So, Vincent, did you come over with the express purpose of offending me, or is there something else you want?”

Vincent put his palm to his forehead. “Listen, I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. Can we . . . can we just start over from scratch?”

“Start
what
over from scratch?” I asked doubtfully.

He hesitated for a second and then held out his hand. “Hi. I'm Vincent.”

I felt my eyes narrow as I weighed his sincerity. I gripped his hand in mine, shaking it a bit rougher than I meant to. “I'm Kate.”

“Nice to meet you, Kate,” Vincent said, bemused. There was a four-second silence, during which I continued to glare at him. “So. Do you come here often?” he murmured, unsure.

I couldn't help but burst out laughing. He smiled, obviously relieved.

“Um, yes, actually. I've kind of got a thing for museums, not just for Picasso.”

“A ‘thing'?”

Vincent's English was so good that it was easy to forget it wasn't his first language. “It means I like museums. A lot,” I explained.

“Okay. Got it. You like museums but not Picasso in particular. So . . . you just come here when you want to meditate?”

I smiled at him, mentally giving him points for trying so hard. “Where'd your friend go?” I asked.

“He took off. Jules doesn't really like to meet new people.”

“Charming.”

“So, are you British? American?” he said, changing the subject.

“American,” I responded.

“And the girl I've seen you around the neighborhood with would be your . . .”

“Sister,” I said slowly. “Have you been spying on me?”

“Two cute girls move to the area—what am I supposed to do?”

A wave of delight rippled through my body at his words. So he thought I was cute. But he also thought Georgia was cute, I reminded myself. The wave disappeared.

“Hey, the museum café has an espresso machine. Want to get some coffee while you tell me what other things you've got a ‘thing' for?” He touched me on the arm. The wave was officially back.

We sat at a tiny table in front of steaming cappuccinos. “So, now that I've revealed my name and nationality to a complete stranger, what else do you want to know?” I asked, stirring the foam into my coffee.

“Oh, I don't know . . . shoe size, favorite film, athletic prowess, most embarrassing moment, hit me.”

I laughed. “Um, shoe size ten,
Breakfast at Tiffany's
, absolutely no athletic ability whatsoever, and way too many embarrassing moments to list before the museum closes.”

“That's it? That's all I get?” he teased.

I felt my defensiveness melting away at this surprisingly charming and decidedly not-dangerous side of him. With Vincent's encouragement I told him about my old life in Brooklyn, with Georgia and my parents. Of our summers in Paris, of my friends back home, with whom I had, by now, lost all contact. Of my boundless love for art, and my despair at discovering I possessed absolutely no talent for creating it.

He prodded me for more information, and I filled in the blanks for him on bands, food, film, books, and everything else under the sun. And unlike most boys my age I had known back home, he seemed genuinely interested in every detail.

What I didn't tell him was that my parents were dead. I referred to them in the present tense and said that my sister and I had moved in with our grandparents to study in France. It wasn't a total lie. But I didn't feel like telling him the whole truth. I didn't want his pity. I wanted to seem like just any other normal girl who hadn't spent the last seven months isolating herself in an inner world of grief.

His rapid-fire questions made it impossible for me to ask him anything in return. So when we finally left I reproached him for it. “Okay, now I feel completely exposed—you know pretty much everything about me and I know nothing about you.”

“Aha, that is part of my nefarious plan.” He smiled, as the museum guard locked the doors behind us. “How else could I expect you to say yes to meeting up again if I laid everything out on the table the first time we talked?”

“This isn't the first time we talked,” I corrected him, trying to coolly ignore the fact that he seemed to be asking me out.

“Okay, the first time we talked without my unintentionally insulting you,” he revised.

We walked across the museum's garden toward the reflecting pools, where screaming children were celebrating the fact that it was still hot and sunny at six p.m. by splashing around ecstatically in the water.

Vincent walked slightly hunched over with his hands in his pockets. For the first time I sensed in him a tiny hint of vulnerability. I took advantage of it. “I don't even know how old you are.”

“Nineteen,” he said.

“What do you do?”

“Student.”

“Really? Because your friend said something about your being in the police force.” I couldn't help the trace of sarcasm in my voice.

“What?” he exclaimed, coming to a complete stop.

“My sister and I saw you rescue that girl.”

Vincent stared at me blankly.

“The girl who jumped off the Carrousel Bridge during that gang fight. Your friend escorted us away and told us it was a police procedure.”