The Stranger

Camille was now breathing our Parisian air like someone who wasn’t born here. Tanned from sandswept weekends with her friends and the knowledge of having experienced something exotic. A golden girl that belonged to the sunshine coast while I stayed home, pale in comparison. 

Ma fille! Maman said, unable to contain her glee. It didn’t matter that she had not bothered hugging either of us upon her arrival, which we’d been expecting thirty minutes prior. 

Camille was my sister, six years my senior. Her sneakers wore heavy strides against the airport tile, cutouts of beige and gray, while Maman and I trailed behind, hauling her luggage that was heavier than I remembered and would have to share the back of the red Citroën with. Camille’s first year at university had come to an end and I was desolate. 

My sister was desperate to tell Maman about her adventures since she’d been gone. What Miami’s like and how Americans spend their money, as if they all shared the lottery. I tuned in and out of their conversation, only half conscious, with my ear vibrating against the window. Maman liked speed. 

On the drive home we stopped at a McDonald’s for dinner. Maman muttered something about being too tired to cook from all that time on the road and Camille’s palate had not yet adjusted to that of her home. She gave me her fries but by then I was full and they’d gone soggy, cold.

* * *

I started my summer assignments while Camille got settled in. I didn’t care for her American stories. Those were for Anais to be interested. Anais was my best friend but, more, she was in love with my sister. She once asked me if Camille kissed boys on the lips. We were in primary school then; Camille had just started at le lycée. I told her that Camille is quite boring, that she keeps to herself unless she wants something. I knew this answer would not satisfy Anais, just as I knew she preferred my sister to me. 

I wanted to tell her that Camille and I are not so different. We shared the same hair. Blonde. Passed down from our mother. We shared the same house, the womb we’d come out of. Though I knew none of it was enough to convince Anais. Camille did not share everyone’s fascination with me. 

Soon she turned to me with her giant grin with three front teeth and, for a moment, I saw the awkward girl who would try and mimic my sister

Camille was in her room, the door left open, when I saw her posing naked in front of the mirror. Her face reflected the image of someone who was pleased. As if watching some extraordinary thing. I left for my own room at the sight of her like this, only to be met with her shadow, always following, when I shut the door. 

I tried looking at myself the way Camille did, but it was useless. My hair wouldn’t fall the way I wanted; my nose was not a slope you could ski on. Even when I took off my clothes, pretending I was her, I could not see what Camille had in the mirror. 

It had grown hot. Maman didn’t like us opening the windows, saying that the heat would attract strange creatures. Something about les cigognes et les choux. It didn’t matter; I was already flushed from what Camille brought home. 

In the glimpse I caught from the hallway, I noticed she had shaved. My first thought was to tell Anais, but it was late. Instead, I crept into the bathroom to do the same. 

I didn’t understand how any of it worked. I kept dropping the razor borrowed from Maman’s drawer and having to readjust my legs against the ring of the basin. It didn’t help that I couldn’t see the parts I’d been trying to reach. When I lifted the blade it felt like something had stung me.

* * *

Camille’s days were now spent at home. Watching the window with that same, distant look, making it apparent her expectations had not been met upon her homecoming. She was nineteen but no longer needed somewhere to be. And when she did, there was no goodbye or telling where she went. 

Does she have a boyfriend? I hadn’t known. Anais asked me this at the pool Camille used to take us to. It was where all the neighborhood kids undid their summers, where they could cool themselves with handfuls of water and their trite thoughts. 

Well, she probably does if she shaves, Anais added from the ledge she was sitting. I watched her comb fingers through her wet hair before jumping back into the pool; others had been watching too. Her slender arms looked like dandelion stems floating in the water she was wading, pushing herself until the waves carried her. Undulating. Do you think he’s from the States?

* * *

I waited on Anais’s bed while she washed up. I’ll just be a minute, she’d called before leaving to rinse off. Her room was still pink and stuck in the years from when she preferred Croquet to boys when I looked around. It was then Anais entered in a dress I’d never seen her in before.

My face must’ve given it away when she asked if I liked it. I just got it, she said. I thought it would be perfect for when we go out tonight, no? 

What are you saying about? We had just gotten back from the pool. This was the time of our sleepover when we would stuff ourselves with chocolates and popcorn and the same movies we’d seen over and over until one of us falls asleep first. 

She responded with a club someone had told her about. The name of the person I didn’t recognize. My eyes drew down to the old T-shirt and shorts I had on. Anais was standing beside me, shifting the things on her nightstand, once I looked up. The vision of her from up close made me feel more underdressed than I was.

Soon she turned to me with her giant grin with three front teeth and, for a moment, I saw the awkward girl who would try and mimic my sister. But that image was wrecked when she held out the joint in her hand. Did you roll that yourself? I asked. 

A lady never tells. She shoved me to make room for herself, the joint peeking from her mouth where I could tell she’d painted lipstick on. 

Before, her room had been a myth. A place I’d never been allowed in; I couldn’t tell what was new, what had always been. 

I held my face away once she lit up. Smoke began to stream and the smell reached me. I faced her again. The fumes changed her gaze, or the moonlight poking through the curtains did. 

She took another drag before passing it over: Here, you try. You just suck, then blow. Well, you know. Then lit the end for me to follow her instructions that brought my lungs to my stomach. When I exhaled she asked if I felt it. I told her no, which erupted into a fit of coughing. 

You will, she reassured. Her palm soothed circles over my back to calm the episode in my throat but that look in her eyes stayed put. Once my coughing let up, she nudged me and said: At least you inhaled.

* * *

Later I would learn of how we smelled like skunks, but for the remainder of that night I’d be too out of it to notice, even if someone had told us. We were in le18ème arrondissement, all sweaty and our feet upset. Anais carried hers bare over the blacktop, a shoe slung in each hand. She wouldn’t shut up about how much fun she’d had, that we should do it again next time. 

I walked in silence next to her, unable to hang onto anything she said, too busy feeling the effects from when we’d smoked in her room; the skirt she let me borrow hugged my hips too tight and the red she put on my lips didn’t fit my skin. 

Neither of us knew what the time had been. Only that it was dark enough to empty the streets. None of the storefronts were lit and the streetlamps had gone dull from the humidity. I asked if she knew where we were; my feet were beginning to fail. I felt her breath when she opened her mouth to answer but it was quickly dissolved by the presence of another. 

Someone from behind wrapped their arms around Anais and me. Their gloved hand forced my friend’s mouth shut while the other reached a knife to the collar of my blouse. Its silver edge was cool against my skin, the same feeling of the razor from the other night when I’d shaved. 

YOUR WALLETS. MAINTENANT. The voice sounded like Anais’s papa when he would shout. 

I was first to hand him my bag, only carrying a pad and my Navigo. Anais did the same after she’d seen me. I felt her in my arms, trembling, once it was just us again. Tears were running down her cheeks in hot, oblong beads and, despite everything that happened, I could still smell her perfume. Stubborn and sweet. Though I could not offer her a sentiment that was.

* * *

I let Anais have my bed when we got inside. There, she was spread on the sheets and I listened to her snore while I sat against my pillows. I couldn’t get comfortable. Light leaked in from underneath my door. Camille’s. It was her who let us in when we arrived at my house so late. 

I made my way over, not bothering to knock. Before, her room had been a myth. A place I’d never been allowed in; I couldn’t tell what was new, what had always been. 

Camille was reading on top of the covers with her hair pinned up in rollers. What is it? she asked. She didn’t look up. 

I couldn’t sleep. 

I wouldn’t be able to either if I were you. She put down the Cosmopolitan and motioned at the spot next to where she was sitting. It was then I saw she hadn’t been looking at the words. Is Anais asleep?

Yes. 

She looks different. Camille began to braid my hair, something she hadn’t done in years. Her fingers were light on my skin and even with my back turned I could still tell the expression on her face. I didn’t want her pity, so I said: I didn’t mind it. Having to give up my things. It was the first time I felt wanted. After those words left my mouth, I could feel Camille tie off the braid.