The Ruby Notebook Read Online Free PDF Page B

Amandine.”
    “She’s your sister?”
    “Like a sister.”
    “What about the stepfather you mentioned?”
    After a beat, he says, “My parents are part of my old life.The life I’ve left behind.” He rubs the scar on his forehead, as if trying to erase it. “And your family?”
    “Just me and my mother. Layla. We’re more like sisters. The kind of sisters who fight a lot,” I add with a cynical grin. “You probably noticed her—the blond one?”
    He nods. “I thought you two were friends.” He squints at me. “How old are you?”
    “Sixteen. And you?”
    “Nineteen.”
    “Don’t you miss your home?” I ask. “And your parents?”
    “Not at all. It’s
liberté absolue
. Ultimate freedom.”
    His name rings through the noise of the square. “Jean-Claude!
On y va!
” It’s the gypsy dancer girl, calling to him.
    Jean-Claude blows out an “
Ouf!
” through his pursed lips, then kisses both of my cheeks. Even though that’s how everyone here says hello and goodbye, my face burns.
    “There will be a
fête
Friday night, Zeeta. For the summer solstice.” He scribbles an address on the inside cover of a small, old book. Looking back up, he runs his hand through his dark curls, once again revealing the scar, the only flaw on his otherwise perfect face. When I know him better, I’ll ask him about it. Stories about scars are always good notebook material. People can pick and choose their memories, but they’re stuck forever with the ones linked to their scars. The reminder’s there every time they look in the mirror, or take a shower, or rub their hand absently over their skin.
    I trace the tiny, nearly invisible scar on the back of my hand. In Guatemala, I was spending the weekend withPaloma’s family in her grandparents’ village, and as we were cutting firewood in the forest, my machete bounced off a stone and slashed my hand. When I showed my bleeding hand to Paloma’s father, he tore off his T-shirt and wrapped it tightly around my wound. It didn’t hurt too much. Despite its depth, it was a clean slice. He carried me three kilometers through the woods back to their pickup truck.
    Strangely, it was a good memory, him carrying me, worrying about me, murmuring to me that it would be all right. I glimpsed what it would be like to have a father, his smell of sweat and soil and pine wrapping around me, the warmth of his chest under my cheek. He stayed with me at the hospital as the doctor cleaned the wound and stitched it up. She told him, “Señor, your daughter will be fine, but she will probably have a small scar.” He didn’t correct the doctor, simply nodded and held my good hand, and I closed my eyes, not in pain, but bliss.
    I try to study Jean-Claude’s scar more, but hair is hiding it. He presses the book in my hand. “
Viens
, Zeeta. Come to the
fête. S’il te plaît.
” Please.
    I look at his scrawl. After the street address, he’s noted that it’s beneath Café Eternité. In a
cave
. Before I realize that
cave
means “basement,” I think of a real cave, imagining the cave Wendell and I were in last summer.
    And then I remember Wendell. I’m supposed to be an expert at fitting him into any conversation. I push this fact from my mind and focus on the address in my hands. “
Merci,
” I say, not committing to anything yet.
    “Return the book at the
fête
!” Jean-Claude calls over his shoulder, then follows his friends out of the square.
    I watch Illusion leave, a mass of glittering red, growing smaller and smaller and disappearing down the street. I check
Make some friends
off my list. Now all that’s left are the cute little jars of yogurt and finding the
fantôme
.

A few hours later, after a quick trip to the
boulangerie
for a baguette and the
charcuterie
for chicken, I swing by Nirvana. Ahmed is dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, gazing longingly at turquoise posters of seascapes taped to the walls, the only splashes of color in the room. They’re the kind of