Chapter 5

Nick slept poorly. His frantic dreams clawed at his subconscious. Hands reaching out from a black hole in the ground. Also, there was that boy again—wearing a ragged uniform, holding a rifle, and some random man running toward him.

“You are a thief, Jean Claude Rousseau.”

Jean Claude Rousseau, a name. The boy’s name?

When his alarm sounded at 6:15 a.m., Nick wearily swung his legs over the side of the bed, picked up his phone, and saw a message from his mother saying they had stayed at the hospital with Grandma. Although groggy and unfocused, the name Jean Claude Rousseau stayed with him.

Before showering and getting ready for school, he turned on his computer and typed in “Jean Claude Rousseau”: he was a movie director, a real person. Could Nick have watched one of his movies? He scanned the list, but nothing looked familiar.

He turned off his computer, took a shower, and checked Minnie’s water bowl before heading out. The closer he got to school, the more hesitant he became and eased up on the accelerator and coasted into the school parking lot. He dreaded seeing Cat again. She had irritated something deep within himself, like a sore on the back of his heel that nagged him when he walked.

Nick parked next to Gary. “Hey, man!” They bumped shoulders. “You get calculus finished last night?”

Gary nodded and gave a low whistle. “I had trouble concentrating. My sister was practicing her trumpet. And then I was trying to watch the game.”

Nick grimaced. He could imagine the noise Gary’s little sister, learning the trumpet, could make.

Gary whistled and waved to his girlfriend, Tiffany. “Later,” he said to Nick as he jogged over to her.

Emily waited by Nick’s locker, swaying from side to side on the balls of her feet, always energetic and busy. Today she wore red-white-and-blue sneakers and pink-and-white polka-dotted socks. “How’s your grandmother? I’ve been waiting for you to get here to find out!”

“About the same. Mom sent a message they stayed at the hospital last night.”

“How did you sleep?”

He yawned in response, his fatigue visible.

“You look exhausted,” she said.

“That obvious?”

The bell sounded, they kissed, and he opened his locker and shoved his calculus book onto the pile of papers, notebooks, a forgotten sweatshirt, and several pairs of smelly socks that made him wrinkle his nose. Wearily he closed the door. When it was time for World History, he dragged his feet, knowing he had to sit next to Cat.

“Hello,” he said softly, glancing quickly at her, watching the others file in for class. Cat was studying her phone and obviously didn’t hear his greeting. It appeared she was dressed for gymnastics or dancing in a low-cut leotard and multicolored tights with a flimsy skirt. He looked away from the swell of her breasts. The only time Emily showed off her breasts was in the summer when they went to the beach.

He shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable, but the chairback, rigid and unyielding, pressed into his spine. “Good morning,” he said. “Are you a gymnast?”

“Dancer.” She glanced at him and smiled. “Morning.” She slipped the phone into her bag and handed him a piece of paper. “My contact info.”

Nick looked at the paper blankly for a moment.

“So we can talk about our paper if needed,” she said.

“Ah!” Nick put her contact info into his phone and gave Cat his number.

She smiled at him again. She had a nice smile even with bright-red lipstick.

Coach Sullivan tapped on his desk to get the students’ attention. “We’re going to continue talking about what happened in the European countries after the start of the war.” Looking down at his wristwatch, he added, “And halfway through class, you can all work on your projects.”

As Nick listened, he doodled on his notepad, writing a fact here and there. Hitler, Goering, Patton, Churchill, Colonel Michon. He lifted his pen. Had Coach said “Colonel Michon”? No, Nick had added the name on his own. Who was he? He circled the name and looked at Cat and then down at his notepad. Her eyes narrowed at seeing the name.

Nick pointed to the Colonel’s name and raised his brow, questioning.

Cat wrote back: Superintendent at your school.

Nick wrote back: Which school?

Cat: Cadre Noir Huh?

Coach continued his lecture, but Nick only heard a buzzing in his ears. When Coach finished, the room erupted in a hum of voices. Hands raised and students asked, “Can we change our topic?” and “What if we can’t find any research?” and “Why do we have to do this?” The questions went on and on.

“I don’t understand,” Nick said to Cat, pointing again to Colonel Michon’s name. “I’ve never heard of him.”

She studied him. “He was the head of your school in Saumur.”

Her comment still didn’t explain why Nick wrote his name. A thin face with a goatee flashed in his head.

“People!” Coach rapped on the board for quiet. “Stop talking over each other! Raise your hand if you have a question.”

Nick turned to Cat, whispering, “Do we still want to write our paper about Gypsies?” Or what had she called them? Romas? A boring topic, in his estimation.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes, and I prefer we call them ‘Romas.’ ‘Gypsy’ is a trash term.”

“Oh.” Nick swallowed. “What if I want to do something else?”

“Then you’ll be working alone,” she said, raising an eyebrow at him.

Nick paused and thought about her comment. Part of him wanted to work alone and research Patton, but he was drawn to Cat and the Gy—er, Romas. And the battle Coach had told him about.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll do it your way. But I need to narrow down the topic.” Truth was, he didn’t know anything about Gypsies. Images of a woman wearing a turban looking into a crystal ball was pushed away by a girl wearing a multicolored skirt with a red flounce at the bottom. The vision of the girl was vivid, and she seemed familiar, but he didn’t know who she was. Maybe she just resembled someone he had once seen?

Cat began speaking and jerked him away from the flirty skirt that flared out when twirling.

“The treatment of French Romas during World War II. The Romas interned at Saumur. Narrow enough for you?” she asked.

He laughed. “I guess.”

They were silent for a moment. “Coach mentioned a battle there. I’ll cover that.”

“Yes, the students against the Nazis.”

He quirked a brow at her. So she knew about that too?

“And you can tell me why you left me,” she added.

Wait. “What?”

“I think we have unfinished business between us, and that’s why we found each other,” Cat said. “That’s the usual reason ‘souls’ find each other.”

He shushed her and used his hand to indicate she lower her voice.

“Is that why you looked mad when you saw me in the cafeteria the first day?” he whispered.

“Probably.”

“I think there needs to be another explanation. I’ve never been to France.”

“I slowly starved to death in my prison hole,” Cat said.

“Huh?”

“Starved. Do you know how painful and slow that is?”

His stomach twinged. He had forgotten to eat breakfast. Could he imagine starving? His stomach grumblings multiplied by a hundred? He frowned and scrubbed at his chin.

“No, I’ve never been starving.” He smiled. “I thought I was, but I wasn’t.”

She cocked her head at him, her fingers tapping on the desk as she regarded him, deciding if he was serious.

He added, “No, I can’t imagine how horrible that would be.”

She gave him a quick smile in response.

They had gotten off to a rocky start. Maybe they could start over and get their paper written. Maybe he would learn something new.