“A sterling characteristic,” Nick agreed.
“Maybe I just see how it goes. She’s trying to keep me safe.”
Nick nodded. “If you think she’s okay, then she’s okay.”
The train rumbled under our feet. Nick threaded his fingers between mine. “So do you have plans for Saturday night?” he said.
“Um. Not really, why?” My skin tingled where he was touching me.
“Let’s go see the Eiffel Tower.”
I grinned at him. “Yes, please. I’ve been meaning to go see it so I can share selfies of it with all forty-eight of my Instagram followers.” He laughed, throwing his head back. The people in the seats around us eyed him suspiciously. I wondered if I’d missed the sign saying it was forbidden to laugh on the Métro. When we got to Le Mur, Nick’s friends were already there. Martine was smoking as she talked to Youssef, carefully blowing the smoke away from him. When we did kiss-kiss, I noticed how the harshness of the smoke balanced the sweetness of her perfume. “Those things’ll kill you,” Nick said. She did look glamorous, though, with her wrist cocked back, the cigarette held between her languidly curled fingers.
“Maybe you could vape,” I suggested.
She shook her head. “It looks like an infant sucking onits, euhm—” She motioned with her cigarette like,What’s the word?
“Pacifier?” I said.
“Yes. I prefer not to look like a baby.” She blew a stream of smoke out the side of her mouth like some vintage Hollywood actress. “Does it bother you that I smoke?”
“Only because it’s bad for you. I don’t really mind people smoking outside.” It was such acitysmell, like diesel exhaust or hot asphalt or roasting garlic from a nearby restaurant.
“One day, I will quit. But for now, it is my friend.”
“That’s an interesting way to describe it.”
“I can always rely on smoking to calm me when I am agitated.” She pointed to the wall where Le Bec had painted his mural. “I think these birds feel the same way.” At fifteen feet tall, they practically exploded onto the street. The first one in line, sleek and fashionable in heeled black boots and a cropped leather jacket, was holding its cigarette with its wing cocked back, blowing smoke out of the side of its beak.
“It looks exactly like you,” I told her.
She regarded it critically. “The jacket is very nice. I would wear it.”
The pigeon next to it wore a Mediterranean-blue messenger bag slung across its body and clutched an e-cigarette. Martine was right; it did look like it was sucking on a pacifier. The third one cradled its backpack between its checkerboardVans–clad feet, like penguins do with their chicks. It was lighting up, its wing cupped around the lighter, which cast dramatic shadows onto its bird face. Next to it, a goth bird wearing a black leather bustier and flamboyantly winged eyeliner flicked its cigarette onto the sidewalk. The last pigeon wore abeanie pulled low over its eyes and battered, half-laced boots and was lighting a second cigarette off the end of the first one. It amazed me how Le Bec had made them seem more real than the actual pigeons pecking at the sidewalk below. I loved how he’d given the birds personalities—how he’d changed the curve of the beak slightly to give goth pigeon a sneer, how he’d made vaping pigeon’s feathers a little raggedy and its body gaunt, like maybe it had an eating disorder. Each bird had a story you could read in its stance, its expression, even the color of its feathers. I knew how hard it was to do that—to bring life to a painting. I’d struggled to do it in art class, my vision of what my painting should look like always at odds with my technical skill. I’d told myself I should have a little genetic advantage—Mom had been a medical illustrator—but it wasn’t until we did a printmaking unit that I found a medium that loved me.
“Waou,” Youssef said. “I do not like pigeons, yet I love these.”
“Why not?” I asked. “Anything that survives on stale fries and breadcrumbs and still manages to strut around like they own the place deserves respect, if not adoration.”
He shook his head. “Do you know how corrosive pigeon shit is? It dissolves stone. They are ruining buildings every day of their lives, like tiny architectural terrorists.”
I imagined a cell of anarchist pigeons as Le Bec might paint them, hoodies pulled up over their heads, bandannas covering their beaks, cooing out coordinates for their next bombing run. “You’re very concerned about buildings,” I said.
“I am going to be an architect. I do not want stupid, dirty birds degrading my work.”
“Well at least Le Bec’s pigeons won’t poop on your buildings,” I said. Youssef laughed. People flowed around us, many of them stopping to look at Le Bec’s mural. I was watching their reactions when Noor caught my eye. “I like your T-shirt,” she said. I was wearing a heathered gray tee, soft from wear, with the word “estrogen” broken into three lines and reversed out of a magenta rectangle:
“Thank you,” I said. “My debate team had three whole girls on it, including me, so I made us T-shirts for solidarity. We always wore them on the bus to meets.”
“You made this?” she asked. “I am impressed.”
I smiled, pleased that an artist as good as Noor liked something I’d made. “Yeah. I really love printmaking.”
“So what do you think of my work?” Le Bec’s voice murmured in my ear. I squeaked and jumped as he put his hand on the back of my neck. Cole did that, and I hated it. It made me feel small and vulnerable. “Such beautiful hair.” Le Bec’s voice was low, his mouth still uncomfortably close. “I like redheads.”
Ick.“Oh, hi,” I said, my voice unnaturally loud as I spun out of his grip. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“I am everywhere.” He smiled at me with his teeth.
