The French Girl Read Free Page A

stool.
    “I have not spoken with her,” I said.
    “But this money?” he said.  “She did not give it to you, non ?”
    “Her friend did.”
    “Ahh…” he said as he reached behind him and took out a large glass bowl.  “And who is this friend?” he asked casually as he opened the front freezer and dipped the metal scoop into a tray of hot water.
    I watched the muscles of his arm twitch as he dove into the frozen bins.
    “Luc Paul.”
    “Ahh…Luc Paul,” he said nodding.  “And where did you see Luc Paul?” he asked. I kept hoping if I didn’t answer him right away, he’d keep scooping.  I watched the white mound grow and tried to guess what flavor it was.
    “He was at the apartment,” I said.
    Monsieur Segal set the dish in front of me and watched as my eyes grew large. I could see the chocolate chips, but something else was in there, something red.
    “Where in the apartment?” he asked.  He held a spoon out to me, waiting for my response.
    “In Maman’s room,” I answered, though after I said it, I wasn’t sure I should have.
    “I see,” he said as he set the spoon down.  “And was Maman in there, too?” he asked.  I picked up the spoon, but he scooped the bowl out from in front of me.  I could see the flare of his nostrils and he seemed to be breathing a little hard.
    “Yes,” I said.
    “What was she wearing?” he asked, his gray eyes narrowing.
    I stared at the bowl as he reached out from underneath the counter and took out a bottle of his home-made whipped cream which was so good, and held it poised, over the bowl of ice cream.
    “Please, Monsieur Segal.”
    “What was she wearing, Etoile?” he asked again.
    “I do not know. I did not notice.  Her black and white dress, I think,” I lied because in fact, Maman had the covers held all the way up to her chin and come to think of it, her shoulders were bare, though I hadn’t realized that before all of this.  My stomach began to toss around and I was afraid I might have just wasted two dollars on nothing.
    Monsieur Segal put the tip of the whipped cream to the bowl and squeezed around and around in circles forming a peak of cream.
    “Cherry chocolate chip,” he announced as he set the bowl back down in front of me.
    “ Merci ,” I said as I picked up the spoon and dove in. The thick cream slid across my tongue and down the back of my throat, leaving only chunks of dark chocolate and cherries to chew.  Tart and sweet.
    Monsieur Segal laughed in amusement as he pointed me out to our neighbor, Mrs. Lavasseur, the Pig Woman, who had just come in.
    “This one, she can eat, non ?” he said.
    Mrs. Lavasseur leaned forward and said something to him that I could not hear.
    Mrs. Lavasseur’s husband was aboard La Catherine , one of the other boats that went down during the Christmas storm.  She lived with her son, Frankie, who was in my grade, next door to us. I hated Frankie Lavasseur.  He was the meanest boy in the entire school. Just the other day, he’d stood in the middle of the playground as a gust of wind lifted Bett Chapelle’s jumper up and chanted, “Bett wears a diaper, Bett wears a diaper.”  All the other kids joined in and Bett ran back to the school in tears. Mrs. Gordon sent Frankie to Mrs. Varrone’s office, but it never seemed to do any good.  I thought of many things I could do to Frankie Lavasseur, and named him “ garcon de ballon ,” “the Balloon Boy,” because that is what he looked like, a filled balloon about to burst.  I dreamed of poking him in the side with a sharp needle to see what would happen.
    Mrs. Lavasseur inspected each loaf, knocked on it and gave each one a little squeeze right in the middle. The skin on her arms flapped back and forth as she did so.  Her swollen ankles burst out of the sides of her thick black shoes.
    As I watched Mrs. Lavasseur and looked down at the ice cream, I realized Maman was probably right. I was a little pig, a Pig Girl who would surely grow up to