The Ruby Notebook Read Online Free PDF Page A

unnoticed.
    Which is why I can’t stop thinking about why my
fantôme
picked me out of the crowd. I open my notebook, write,
Who gave me the CD? And why?
With questions on a fresh page, my powers of observation sharpen. I take another look around, sure that my
fantôme
must be out there.
    There’s that mime again, frozen against the tree trunk, eyes closed as though he’s asleep or dead.
A mime
, I write. Of course, I would have noticed a mime slipping something into my bag. He’s pretty conspicuous.
    Above him, just inside a tall, ceiling-to-floor window above Café Cerise, sits an old woman, peering outside. The French doors are open wide behind a twisted wrought-iron railing. The woman lifts something to her eyes. Binoculars? Yes, they must be. They’re cream colored and look old-fashioned, like opera glasses. No one but me seems to notice. Then I realize they’re pointed in my direction.
    I write,
There’s a lady in a window with binoculars
. She shifts the angle higher, gazing at something else, beyond me. My eyes dart around to see what she could be looking at. By the fountain, an old man—covered head to toe in pigeons—waves to her, and she waves back. I jot down notes on thebinoculars lady and the pigeon man.
Maybe they saw my
fantôme.
    My espresso is nearly gone now. I resist sipping the last drops, and instead, nibble on the square of dark chocolate that came on the saucer.
    Looking around to signal the waiter for another espresso, I catch a glimpse of the old woman in the window. She’s waving again, this time straight at me.
    Startled, I wave back.

    As Illusion plays the last notes of their set, the red-haired girl tosses up the hat, does a backflip, and a split second after landing on her feet, belts out, “We. Are.
Illusion!
”
    Wiping sweat from their foreheads, the band members pass around a carafe of water. The tuba player is all loose limbs, with a relaxed smile that grows bigger when the gypsy dancer sidles up to him, slips her arms around his waist, and whispers in his ear.
    The other girl is busy pirouetting around the square, collecting money in the hat. When she dances up to me, I toss in some coins and shake off my twinge of nervousness. The only way to make friends fast is to jump right in and start talking. “Your band’s great,” I say.
    “
Merci.
” She eyes me carefully, then says, “There’s something different about you.”
    “Different how?”
    “You’re not quite a local, but you’re not quite a tourist, either.”
    I smile, curious. “How can you tell?”
    “You’re an insider and outsider all at once. You fit right in, but stay at a distance. A girl of contradictions. Like me.”
    I laugh. I like her. “I’m Zeeta,” I say.
    “I’m Amandine,” she says, her eyes dancing. “Always nice to meet another traveler our age, isn’t it? We stick together,
non?
”
    I nod.
    She holds the hat as if she’s forgotten about collecting money. “How old are you, Zeeta?”
    “Sixteen.”
    “Me too! I just had my birthday last month.”
    I’m surprised. She looks younger.
    “When’s your birthday?” she asks.
    “March seventeenth. I’m a Pisces.”
    “Water’s your element, then.” She does a backflip, not in a show-offy way, but more like it’s a restless habit, the way some people might jiggle a knee. And somehow, she doesn’t drop a single coin from the hat as she does it. “Air’s mine,” she announces, then says abruptly, “You think I look young, don’t you?”
    “A little,” I admit.
    “Life circumstances have made me old for my age, even though I look like I’m twelve.”
    “Life circumstances?”
    She nods. “The wandering life. Lack of parents.”
    The accordionist comes over, offers Amandine a swig from the carafe of water.
    After sipping, she does another backflip, as effortlessly as if she were scratching her nose. They obviously know each other well, well enough that they don’t need words.
    The guy’s lips are wet with the water.