The Night Has Teeth (5 page)

As she turns on her heels and pads away quietly, we
remain silent. Josh leans back on his elbows staring at Madison as
I close the sketchbook and tuck it safely away into my backpack.
She holds his gaze, defiant.

“We were just leaving?” he asks with a
grin.

She waves her hand dramatically and puts on a snooty
accent to match. “I grow weary of your company.”

The grin fades as he pushes off the railing. I stand
and sling my backpack across my shoulder. Meanwhile, Josh crosses
over to her, puts a hand on her shoulder and leans down. Everything
about the gesture is casual, and by that alone I’m sure he’s done
it a dozen times before. But he stops short of planting a kiss her
on the cheek and hovers a breath away instead, like he just
remembered something. Their eyes meet and then she laughs.

“If you’re going to be all European, get it
right.”

Whereby she takes hold of his shoulders and plants
air kisses on both his cheeks. He straightens up and walks away
quickly as she continues to blow kisses at us.

“Au revoir, mes
amis
!” she
exclaims.

It takes an effort for me to keep at Josh’s
heels.

“So, which way are you heading?” I ask as we step
outside onto the walkway of the well-manicured front
lawn.

He turns to face me but keeps walking away.
“Anywhere but here, I guess. ’Night.”

I can take a hint. Although I’ve paused to take
possession of my bike from the wrought iron fence surrounding the
estate, he heads off on foot without me. I push past the gate and
pedal in the other direction toward home, stopping at a Quick for a
burger. When I get back to the flat, the butcher shop below is
closed for the night. I push my bicycle up the set of wooden steps
that are just wide enough for me to pass through. The small space
is filled with a haunting violin tune. I recognize the melody from
childhood music lessons. One of the few classical songs I haven’t
heard a million times since. As I take out my keys on the landing,
the music stops abruptly. My hand hovers at the lock and a feeling
of apprehension washes over me. Just as I’m about to slip the key
in, the door opens.

Standing in front of me is a guy in his
mid-twenties. He presses his arms into the doorframe, waiting
expectantly. He wears a black popover shirt and black slacks.
Although he has the same coloring as me, that’s where the
similarities end. His chestnut hair is wavy without being unruly.
His eyes have a kind of amber hue compared with the mud brown of
mine. He also has the physique of a model, while I’m just tall,
lanky, awkward. Judging by how he dresses, he has more style in his
little finger than I could manage with a lifetime subscription
to
Esquire
. I
suddenly feel like a slob in my jeans and hoodie.

“Who are you?” I ask.

He eyes me suspiciously. When he speaks, his voice
is gruff and roughly woven with a French accent. “I live here.”

Something about the way he claims the space around
him makes me feel defensive. Completely out of character, I say,
“Like hell you do.”

He looks downright hostile, like he isn’t used to
being contested, as he glares at me. I manage to stay calm as his
jaw muscles clench. It doesn’t look like he’ll give up his stance
at the doorway anytime soon, so I try to peer past him.

“Where’s Amara?”

“In the bath,” he tells me, his eyes never leaving
my face.

“Are you going to let me in or what? If you really
lived here, you’d know that I do too.”

He lets out a scornful breath. “You don’t live here.
You’re a visitor.”

For a moment I think that he’s seriously considering
closing the door on my face, but eventually he steps back just
enough to allow me to enter. I feel his hot breath and blazing eyes
on me as I squeeze by. Once I’m inside, he shuts the door behind us
and I’m overcome by a feeling of being trapped. Trying to take my
mind off of this unexpected addition to the household, I take
Amara’s sketchbook out of my backpack and look for a clear surface
on which to lay it down.

“Where’d you get that?” he demands, grasping at
it. “It’s Amara’s.”

I pull it back, out of his reach. “I’d just as soon
give it to her myself.”

He crosses his arms as he practically snarls his
words. “I’m sure.”

The sudden realization that I may have offended him
on several levels hits me hard, so I keep quiet before digging
myself in deeper. There’s a very long, incredibly uncomfortable
silence between us. Nothing to do but stare down at the well-worn
floorboards at my feet ― examining the scuffed and scratched-up
patches of a century or more of use ― in an attempt to avoid eye
contact with the guy I can only assume is Amara’s boyfriend.

“Connor!”

At the sound of her surprised voice, I raise my
head.

“Hi,” I greet her with a relieved
smile.

She wears a red Chinese silk robe, cinched at the
waist, with her wet hair done in a coiled braid at her neck.
Standing side by side, they make quite the pair. Tall and lean,
with untamed and unattainable good looks. Mr. Esquire wraps his arm
around her and nuzzles her neck affectionately. I’m about to look
away, embarrassed at intruding on their intimate moment, when his
amber eyes hold mine in an intimidating glare.

“You left this behind at the restaurant,” I tell
her.

As she reclaims possession of the sketchbook, she
says, “How kind of you to return it.”

She’s smiling gently. I send a quick glance in his
direction, and he glares back with disdain. Amara doesn’t seem to
miss the exchange.

“
I assume you have made
introductions?”

“Actually, no,” I say, trying not to make it sound
like I’m ratting him out for his ill-mannered behavior.

“Connor, this is my partner, Arden
LaTène.”

Even his name sounds like that of a foreign
supermodel. I extend my hand reflexively. But I find myself waiting
with it stretched out as if ― could he be that rude? ― Arden is
considering whether or not to shake it. Finally, he unfolds his arm
and reaches out. As I shake his hand, he focuses his attention on
the wall behind me, as though trying to ignore the fact that I’m
there, going through the motions of civil interaction. With a quick
glance around the flat, I try to think of some other topic of
conversation. The violin that I heard through the door sits in an
open case on a walnut table by the window. For all I know, based on
how ancient everything else looks in the apartment, it could be a
Stradivarius.

Amara mistakes my prolonged stare at the instrument
as interest and asks, “Do you play?”

I shake my head instinctively. “Not really. I mean,
as a kid I took lessons, but...”

But like so many of my extracurricular activities, I
lost interest quickly. The classes were all just a distraction to
fill time while my parents were working late or overseas anyway. By
the time I was old enough to protest, I had found other interests,
like online gaming ― which is what I’d rather be doing right now if
I could only find a polite way of getting out of this
conversation.

“It is a hobby of Arden’s,” she says.

I lean in to take a better look at the violin,
thinking that maybe I had been too hasty in giving up this
particular extracurricular activity. As I consider picking up the
instrument for no other reason than to capture the familiar feel of
my childhood, Arden appears beside me and snaps the case shut. Our
eyes meet, and all I sense is pure hatred emanating from him.

“You play pretty well for just a hobby,” I remark,
hoping to defuse the situation. Something tells me there’s no
winning him over with words, though. “Are you an artist like Amara,
too?”

He grins crookedly as he informs me, “A
butcher.”

“Arden owns the shop below us.”

Before I can make any sort of remark, he picks up
the violin case and shoulders by me. Quietly, I inch my way toward
the hallway that leads to my bedroom. It dawns on me then that an
element is missing from this scenario, filled in remarkably well by
Arden. Usually, when Amara is home, her dog greets me at the door.
And by greet I mean snarls ferociously until she instructs him to
do otherwise. It’s sort of like a game show where I’m never sure
what to expect behind the door.

“Where’s your dog?”

Arden glances irritably over at Amara. “I’ll go get
him.”

“No, I―”

It doesn’t matter what I have to say. He’s already
stalked off into Amara’s ― well, I guess it’s their ― bedroom. I
desperately want to extract myself from the situation. Her dog
hates me, and I’m pretty sure her boyfriend isn’t my number one fan
either. A low growl precedes the entrance of Lou. As he pads toward
us, his eyes are glued to me. I step backward to match the
creature’s approach. When Lou reaches Amara, he sits by her side,
raising his muzzle to get a chest rub. Instead of a collar, a thick
gold chain hangs around his neck, dangling from which is a matching
ring rather than a dog tag.

“I think I’m going to call it a night.”

“It is early, is it not?”

I scratch the back of my head. “To be honest, your
dog kind of freaks me out.”

“He is gentle,” she urges, scratching the dog’s
head.

“Honestly, I’ll take a rain check, if it’s all the
same to you.”

I make an earnest move toward the hallway.

“Please let your new friends know I enjoyed
meeting them today,” she tells me.

It surprises me. She seemed so ill at ease at the
time. Her dog huffs as though confirming my hunch.

“Um, yeah,” is all I can say in response. “’Night,
Amara.”

“Pleasant dreams.”

As I walk down the hallway toward my bedroom, I’m
certain that I hear distinct barking laughter resonating behind me.
Although I can’t be sure if it’s Arden or the dog, I do know that I
haven’t won over either of them. I’ve never been on the receiving
end of such open hostility. Somehow, whether it’s warranted or not,
I don’t expect making friends with him is in the cards. Enemies,
well, that’s another story.

5. Only
Girl

M
y parents have always taken kind of a lax approach with me.
Besides that one biting incident, I haven’t given them much to
worry about. Most of my social activities are online. On the rare
occasion that I plan on staying out late in the real world, I bring
my iPhone and let them know my exact coordinates in case of an
emergency. There’s never been an emergency. My track record for
being a fine, upstanding teenager is pretty solid. So when I
explain to Amara what my plans are for Saturday night, I don’t
expect to get the third degree.

“We’re going to a place called Club Cin-Cin after
the Techno Parade tonight,” I tell her, digging into a fruit
salad.

Even though I already had my fill of cheese,
croissants and deli meat, she insists on feeding me the missing
element from the food pyramid. Clearly she’s one of those “the body
is your temple” kind of people. Her skin and hair are luminous in
the late morning light of the kitchen.

“That sounds like...” she struggles to find the
word “…fun.”

“Do you want me to call or text to let you know
when I’ll be back?”

“I do not have a phone.”

The sentence doesn’t compute. “What do you
mean?”

“Precisely what I just said. I have no
phone.”

I almost laugh both at her literal way of speaking
and at the fact that she’s unreachable on so many levels. Who
doesn’t have a phone?

“Do you not require a chaperone?”

“A what now?” I ask, my voice rising an
octave.

Her dog lets out a growl by her feet.

“A chaperone is―”

“I know what the word means,” I respond calmly so
as not to alarm the dog any further. “You do know that the legal
drinking age in France is sixteen, right? And I’m already
seventeen.”

“I am wholly aware of these facts.”

“Well, what’s the problem then?”

“The contract we signed with your school stated
that we must provide adequate supervision and discipline that is
consistent with being a responsible parent and in accordance with
school district requirements.”

The way she recites the words so precisely, I
wouldn’t doubt she mesmerized the entire document. It’s completely
unexpected. Of all people, I didn’t think she’d be the one to
enforce rules. Although, I guess there are less cool chaperones in
the world. Like Madame Lefèvre. It isn’t exactly the end of the
world. In how many other scenarios would I be able to hang out in
public with a hot tattoo artist? I relent, imitating her Gallic
shrug, before heading off to meet Madison and Josh.

We spend the morning goofing off before heading to
the Golden Arches, which is abbreviated to McDo’s in France. Insert
Homer Simpson jokes ad nauseum. In any case, it’s Madison’s idea to
play Truth or Dare. When Josh balks at the suggestion, I become
even more nervous, because he knows her better than I do. She
doesn’t seem to have any filter, so these kinds of games must come
easy to her. Personally, I’d rather leave my embarrassing stories
buried somewhere in my subconscious where I don’t have to deal with
them. Like the time I was concentrating so hard on my moves that I
fell off a dance floor. Oh, I hope she doesn’t ask me why I don’t
like to dance.