“You annoying girl.”
“We can speak Italian instead. Will that be easier?”
“Non,” he deadpanned, then proceeded to spit out some gibberish between his teeth. His face was long yet somehow round. His arms looked too long for his body as he threw them up in annoyance, like other people seemed to do around kids my age.
“Those weren’t words,” I informed him.
“Qu’est-ce qu’elle est stupide.”
“That’s not how you say stupid.”
“It is French.”
“Ohhh.” I nodded. He was much older than me. He probably knew more languages too. “Okay, that makes sense. Will you teach me?”
“Go away.Allez, va-t-en.”
“But don’t you want to play?” I asked, twirling back around and sliding up beside him. I knocked him in the shoulder. “Everyone else is crying, and we’re walking and walking forever. And my babbo’s not yelling. We should play. I know you want to.”
“Non, I do not.”
I pouted a bit. “’Cause I’m a girl? My brother says that a lot. But I swear I’m fun. I really, really promise.”
“You are just a kid.”
“So are you.”
He sighed. “You do not give up, do you?”
“Nope, never ever never.” I giggled. “So, we going to play?”
He shook his head.
“Why not? We can be friends. I promise to be the bestest friend you’ve ever had.”
“My grandmother would no’ like it.”
“Why not?” I frowned.
“Respect.”
“Respect?” I repeated with my American accent.
“Oui.” He nodded.
“Why?”
“For my grandfather.” His emphasis on ther’s was so strange.
“Why? Where is he?” There were so many old people here I’d have a difficult time figuring out which old man his grandfather was, even if this boy pointed him out.
“In the…cerceuil.”
“The what?”
The boy pointed upward at the box carried on the men’s shoulders. The woman beside him, pretty as a picture, as my schoolteacher loved to say, signaled for him to lower his finger quickly, without touching him. She spouted off some quick, random sounds, probably more of that French, forced a smile in my direction, and then faced forward. There were even more tears in her eyes.
“Huh,” I huffed out. “Why is he in there? That can’t be comfy.”
