We applauded when we saw the closing sequence. We’d finished our sections one after another and stepped back in a kind of extended reveal, leaving the focus on Noor. She made a last pass with the spray paint, putting a glint in Mona’s eye. Then she stepped back, took a long look at her creation, nodded to herself, and turned to face the camera. Youssef heldthe shot for a triumphant moment, then the screen faded to white.
“Formidable!” Martine said.
“So amazing,” I agreed as we hugged Noor.
“It looks so big, so important,” Noor said, sounding pleased and also stunned. “I did not think it was this powerful.”
“It is,” I said. “You have to post this right away so everyone can see it.” She nodded, already uploading. Then we took her to the nearest pâtisserie to celebrate, treating her to her favorite pastry: a decadent, chocolaty opéra. We watched the video’s viewer count climb until we finally had to tear ourselves away and head home for dinner. I didn’t realize until I got home that I hadn’t given Noor back the lockpicks she’d lent me.
The “Mona Lisa (Headscarf Version)” video went viral Sunday night, racking up several million views. On Monday,Paris Matchcontacted Noor for an interview. Even I knew how big a deal that was. The magazine had a prominent spot on every news kiosk in the city.
“Do you think this interview will help you to get a spot on Le Mur?” I asked. I’d gone to meet Nick after school, and she’d exploded out of the building, waving her phone, so excited she was babbling. It had taken a few minutes before we could get anything comprehensible out of her.
“I think,” she said, “that Le Mur is not so important now. I will get more exposure from even a small article inParis Match. But the best thing is that now so many people will know that the most famous painting in France is a portrait of a woman wearing a headscarf. I made a difference. I madepeople see us.” She was laughing and crying, and Nick, Martine, Youssef, and I engulfed her in a huge hug.
The magazine interviewed her Monday, and two days later, she was on the newsstands and theParis Matchwebsite. Youssef suggested taking some publicity shots of her in front of the installation for her social feeds. After the success of the video, he was coming up with all sorts of ideas to raise her profile. Noor bounced up and down, delighted by his suggestion. We all wanted to go see the installation again, so we went with them. While Youssef photographed Noor, we stood nearby and watched the reactions of passersby. My favorite reactions were from the girls and women wearing headscarves: their double-takes when they saw it, their squeals and selfies; their smiles; the way they walked a little taller after seeing it.
An image of Le Bec brandishing a Champagne bottle the night he was celebrating his piece on Le Mur swam unwelcome into my mind. It had been fun, being there while he celebrated his triumph, but it was more fun standing here watching people see Noor’s piece for the first time. When Youssef finished the shots with her and with the strangers who hugged her because she’d made them feel big, he gestured us in front of the piece. We slung our arms around each other, full of the joy of having helped Noor make this amazing thing.
Someone shouted, “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” Noor’s smile collapsed, and Le Bec stomped up the sidewalk toward us, pale with anger. I felt a sting of guilt, as though my thinking of him had conjured him, and I faded behind Nick, my heartracing.
“What is going on?” he demanded again.
“We are taking photos of the new piece that Noor made,” Martine said. “Did you see the article about her inParis Match?”
“Yes,” he snapped. “And the video, and all the comments on her TikTok.” He glared at Noor. “You now have more followers than I do.”
“It is not a competition,” she said.
He stuck his finger in her face. “You are not more important than I am. In fact, you are nothing. You would not be an artist without me. I taught you everything you know.” His voice rose. “Without me, you would be invisible.”
“Yes, you taught me everythingyouknow,” she said. “You did not teach me everythingIknow.” I was amazed at how calm she was.
He inhaled as though she’d slapped him. “The only reasonParis Matchinterviewed you is because you are exotic. That is all. You are a mediocre artist taking attention away from the real artists. Nobody would look at your work if you did not wear that thing.” He snatched at her scarf, yanking it askew. Noor gasped and flinched away, and we circled her protectively.
“Do not touch me.” Her voice shook with anger.
“Take it down.” He pointed at Noor’s piece. “Take it down or I will.”
“No,” she said. He stepped closer, his face reddening.
“I will break you,” he said.
Youssef and Nick put their bodies between the two of them. “You need to leave,” Youssef said. “Now.” Martine and I flanked Noor, and I hoped she didn’t feel me trembling. Ireached up and took hold of Madame Dupuy’s pendant for reassurance. Le Bec scowled back at us. I was afraid he’d turn this into a fight. Finally, he took one step back, then another, his eyes locked on Noor. People jostled him, but he ignored them. Noor stared back at him, confident. When he’d retreated a couple of meters, he turned suddenly and waded into the flow of pedestrians, pushing them aside roughly.
I was still nervously sliding Madame Dupuy’s pendant back and forth, but I couldn’t hear the zing it made as it rode the chain. I pulled my hand away. On either side of the silver heart I held, the two ends of the chain dangled. My anxious yanking had broken the clasp.
“He did not have to be happy for me,” Noor said softly. “I do not expect that. But he did not need to attack me.” I felt horrible for her. He’d ruined her moment on purpose. “I think I will go home now,” she said. “I have to get ready for work.”
As we said goodbye, I whispered, “You did something amazing here today. Don’t let Le Bec ruin it.”
She just gave me a sad smile.
Chapter 13
Nine Weeks Ago
“I can’t believe this,” I muttered, pulling everything out of my bathroom cupboard. I was out of tampons. How was that possible? I dumped out my backpack and both my purses, but nothing. I went through my drawers, my coat pockets, even Dad’s bathroom. No tampons. I’d have to go to the store. I checked the time. It was seven-thirty p.m., still light in that lovely, glowing way Paris evenings had of spinning out the daylight for as long as possible, the better to enjoy all the delights of the city. I flumped down onto my bed. The store closed at eight. Madame Dupuy had gone home. Dad was at a business dinner, and I wasn’t sure when he’d be back. Nick was in the Loire Valley with his family, celebrating the end of his and Sophie’s school year by visiting Sleeping Beauty’s castle (Sophie), a museum of Gallo-Roman antiquities (Nick, adorable history nerd that he was), and vineyards (their mom and dad). Martine was doing a mandatory family dinner, andYoussef was at soccer practice. I texted Noor to see if she and her brother could come over to go to the store with me, but she didn’t respond. I looked down at the street below. Was it safe to go out alone if I stayed close to people? Every Parisienne had been told so often in the past few months not to go out by herself—and especially at night—that the warning was tattooed onto our brains. But this was an emergency. And it was still daylight. There were plenty of people around. I liked the reassurance of a crowd. If there was a crowd, it was probably safe. People don’t congregate where it’s dangerous. That’s why I didn’t like downtown Portland on weekends. It felt deserted and uncanny—almost postapocalyptic—and I was always looking over my shoulder for the threat that had driven everyone away.
