The Night Has Teeth (3 page)

“So, where are you from?” Josh asks.

I point to my American T-shirt but immediately
regret doing so as I remember the milk stain and the word
Idiot
next to it. Madison looks at
the logo with a smirk before returning to her book. In an attempt
to recover, I point to Josh’s T-shirt and say, “Let me guess,
Canada?”

He grins appreciatively. I’ve met enough Canadian
tourists in New York City to know they don’t actually live in
igloos and punctuate all of their sentences with the word “eh.”
Tempted as I am to throw around some light-hearted jibes about how
they pronounce the word “about”, truth is it’s actually nice to be
speaking English, and I don’t want to balls-up my first opportunity
at making new friends. Instead, I plant myself on the lawn next to
Madison. She’s lying on her stomach, legs stretched out behind to
expose thigh-high stockings beneath a red mini kilt. One stocking
is red and the other is striped black and white. By the images on
the pages alone I can tell that she’s reading
Lone Wolf and
Cub
, one of my all-time
favorite graphic novels. All I want is to be able to say something
clever without coming off as too much of a geek, but all I can
focus on is the scent of vanilla wafting off her. While I stare at
the open book, thinking and taking a bite out of my flattened
sandwich, her eyes flash over me again.

“Can you read Japanese?” she asks. “Or are you
just looking at the pretty pictures?”

“I’ve, um, read it in English,” I reply feebly
between chews. “You’re at the part that sets up the whole story
arc. It’s pretty epic. One of the most influential manga series.
Ever.”

When I point to a panel, my hand brushes against
hers. She stares at the point of contact like she’s going to burn
me with laser vision, so I withdraw quickly. There’s a moment of
awkward silence and then Josh joins us. Setting down the soccer
ball by his side, he paws at the book to glance at the cover.

“Another comic?”

“It’s not a comic,” Madison corrects, flipping the
page. “It’s manga. Highly influential stuff, actually.”

I don’t know if she’s making fun of me or not.

“Sorry!” he says, raising his hands in playful
surrender. Something about their dynamic tells me this isn’t their
first day of school together. “You know, every once in a while you
could get your head out of your book to talk.”

“Connor and I were having a perfect conversation
before you came along.”

“Really?” He casts a furtive look over at me. “And
what were you talking about?”

“The
epicness
of this book,” she replies.

Still not sure.

He hesitates before following up with me. “You read
comics, too?”

“It’s ... manga,” is all I can manage.

Nodding slowly, he says “Right,” drawing out the
word.

“So, Madison, you must be in the L stream,” I
observe.

The L stream is for all the humanities kids who opt
to study a number of foreign languages. Hey, I never said it was a
particularly astute observation. She flips a page, eyes focused on
the book, before finally responding.

“You’re a regular Nancy Drew, aren’t
you?”

Now she’s definitely making fun of me.

“She’s a linguistic genius,” Josh says.

“Shut up,” she snipes. “Just because you’re barely
literate in two languages doesn’t make everyone else a
genius.”

“I’m not saying everyone else is,” he insists,
taking her snark in stride. “Just you.”

“Well, cut it out. You’re making Connor
uncomfortable.”

I don’t argue the point. “So ... what part of Canada
are you from?”

“Kind of all over the place,” he replies
cryptically as he spins the ball in his hand.

Madison plucks a strand of grass and uses it as a
bookmark so she can turn to me. With the midday sun above us, her
skin sort of radiates a healthy honey complexion. Up close, I see
her eyebrow ring has a cherry design at the end of it.

“What Josh is trying to say is that we’re army
brats,” she tells me.

I grin. “Canada has an army?”

Her jaw drops in equal proportion to her eyebrows
rising. “Are you for real?”

With a face-palm, Josh mutters, “Don’t get her
started, Connor.”

Too late. She splutters for a little bit. Her
eyelashes flutter, eyebrows knit, and she bites her glossy lower
lip. I’m tempted to let her off the hook by admitting that I’m
joking, but she’s kind of cute when she’s aggravated. “Have you
never heard of the War of 1812? Seriously? We totally pwnd your
asses.”

“Canada wasn’t even a country in 1812,” I
retort.

She hesitates, her eyes scanning mine. “Well, aren’t
you Mr. Smartypants.”

“I was just kidding,” I finally
confess.

“You’d better be! We’re not your backwoods
cousins, you know.”

“I know.”

I try to suppress a smile. Madison removes a ring
from her thumb and pulls it apart. It’s some kind of a puzzle that
she toys with, but I don’t want her to catch me staring again, so I
focus on eating the rest of my sandwich and washing it down with
the frap.

“So, what’s your story?” Josh asks, leaning back
on his elbows by her side.

I shrug. “Why do I have to have a story?”

He flashes a smile of perfect teeth. “Because
everyone does.”

“Oh, let me guess!” Madison cries. Those hawkish
eyes of hers rake across every inch of me, and I feel my pulse
quicken under her scrutiny. “You grew up in some über-posh
neighborhood. Your parents are hardcore white-collar. Like, they
sit on boards and rub elbows with the muckety mucks. Every once in
a while they’ll check in to make sure you’re not on drugs. You’re
going to an expensive private school. Girls think you’re cute but
they can’t figure you out, so you’ve probably never been
kissed.”

“That’s some imagination you’ve got, Madison,” I
say, wondering for the first time in my life how much of an open
book I am to other people.

“Prove me wrong.”

“I grew up on the Upper West Side of Manhattan,” I
start and quickly add, “in a totally average brownstone. At best,
we’re upper middle class. I wasn’t cut out for public school, so my
parents enrolled me in ― yes ― a private French IB school. But I’m
not blue-blooded enough to associate with the celebrity and rich
kids or poor enough to fit in with the kids on bursary. Everyone
else is too busy climbing the social ladder to notice the likes of
me. Neither of my parents came from money. They don’t know or hang
out with anyone famous, and they’re way too busy with their day
jobs to volunteer their free time on committees. And finally, I
don’t kiss and tell.”

“How was I not right?” She looks to Josh for
affirmation. “Was I not right?”

“Yes, you were right,” he acknowledges.

“I beg to differ,” I say.

“Says the silver-spoon,” she remarks while putting
the ring back on, having completed the puzzle.

“Well, what’s your story?” I volley
back.

“I already told you: we’re army brats.”

“That’s not a story. That’s a
sentence.”

“Ugh! Fine, what do you want to know?”

“Where’d you grow up? How do you know each other?
The basics. I feel like I gave you my whole life story.”

She casts me a wry look. “If that’s the whole story,
your life is pretty lame.”

“I never said it wasn’t.”

“Whatever,” she says. “I’m from Montreal
originally. My parents have been dragging me around the planet
since I was three. Because of them I’ve never lived in a city for
more than a few years. So, for my seventeenth birthday I
emancipated myself from my parental units. As for Josh―”

“Woah, back up a step. That’s kind of a big deal,
isn’t it?”

She sits up, stowing her book away into a canvas
rucksack. With her face turned away and bangs shading her eyes, I
can’t tell if she’s angry or just doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Not everyone gets to lead a charmed life.”

When she stands, our eyes follow her, and I know the
conversation is over. Madison calls the shots. Some court,
somewhere, saw fit to let her be an adult. And all we can do is
play along. Getting up and collecting our own backpacks, we follow
her back inside. I pause to toss my garbage in a metal trash bin,
but they keep on walking, so I have to jog to catch up.

“How’d you two meet, anyway?”

Josh doesn’t get further than the word “We―” before
Madison cuts him off.

“We met in Germany at the start of high
school.”

Neither of them is looking at me, so I have no
idea if there’s any innuendo in what she’s just said. Have they
been
friends
since
freshman year, or have they been
dating
since then? Side by side, they’re kind of a study in
contrasts, but that doesn’t really mean anything. The saying that
opposites attract had to come from somewhere, right? In any case,
it doesn’t exactly matter. My Facebook relationship status has been
steadfastly “single” since I opened my account. I think about
asking anyway, and maybe she gets a read on me again, because she
quickly redirects the conversation.

“What are you doing next weekend?”

Studying, I guess. What a lame answer, though. “I
don’t really have any plans.”

“You do now,” she declares. “We’re hitting up the
parade next Saturday.”

The last time I was at one of those, I was six years
old and perched on my dad’s shoulders over a massive crowd, waiting
for Santa to finally show up while practically freezing my toes
off. Somehow I can’t reconcile that memory with the sophistication
of Paris. “Parade?”

“The Paris Techno Parade?” Her tone makes me feel
small.

“Um...” It’s not exactly my type of music, but I
can’t help nodding agreeably. “Cool.”

She pulls a phone from her schoolbag. “Give me your
digits.”

It’s going to take some getting used to her bossy
personality. Maybe this is how Josh became friends or whatever with
her. He had no choice. As I give her my contact info, I kind of
feel that way myself. Regardless, I’m just glad to have my first
break in the social scene here in Paris. It’s not like it’s going
to kill me to step outside my comfort zone.

3. Howlin’
For You

“E
arth to Connor,” Madison’s voice beckons.

It’s lunch hour again and she’s looking at me
expectantly while Josh hovers in the background. I get the
impression that I missed out on a part of conversation that was
directed at me, but I’m too focused on my injuries to pay any
attention. He somehow coerced me into kicking around the soccer
ball in the courtyard. After a few minutes of tripping, falling and
being hit in the head with the ball, I admitted defeat in the face
of hand-eye coordination.

“We’re going to grab a bite. Are you
coming?”

“Yeah, sure,” I reply while picking myself off the
concrete.

As we make our way down the street, she asks, “Have
you always been this athletic or were you just a late bloomer?”

My face feels hot, and I’m not sure if it’s due to
swelling from the direct hit it took from the ball or because of
her mocking tone, so I just laugh it off. To Josh’s credit, he
doesn’t make any comment about my spectacular lack of sporting
abilities. He just casts me a pitying look as I take Madison’s
barbs in stride. They have an easy way between them that must come
from having known each other for so long. But there are still
boundaries. I catch him slipping his fingers between hers. In the
next moment she pulls her hand away to sweep at her bangs and then
clasps it around the strap of her rucksack. He doesn’t get the
laser beam eyes like I did, though. All the same, she gives me a
sidelong glance that I pretend to not notice.

“Here we are,” proclaims Madison at our
destination.

We’re standing in front of a colorfully decorated
building. When I look up to read the sign, my stomach sinks a
little: J’m Sushi. The “m” has a ginormous doodled pink heart drawn
around it. I Heart Sushi is the last place in the world I want to
be. Don’t get me wrong. I may not be a master of international
cuisine, but I do have food interests beyond the Golden Arches and
Kraft Mac & Cheese. Not that I can find the latter in Paris ...
I tried. Who would think that dehydrated pasta mixed with a
processed cheese-like substance could be classified as an exotic
food?

With a touch of sarcasm, she says, “Cute,
n’est-ce
pas
?”

Inside, the place is crowded with university
students. As I trail behind Josh and Madison, I’m suppressing the
urge to throw up while also trying to quash the memory of my first
and last experience with sushi. In retrospect, an all-you-can-eat
buffet of raw fish is probably not the best idea, unless you’re a
penguin. It was like playing “Find the Tainted Meat”, and after
three plates, I won! I was sick for days. Now even the thought of
raw vegetables makes me a little queasy. I’m trying not to look at
the preparation counter as we push toward an open table, where I
bump into someone. The contents of a messenger bag spill onto the
floor, along with a paper cup filled with hot liquid.