Page 13 of Your Echo
4Black Mambo || Glass Animals
STÉPHANIE
I almost bumpinto Guita as she carries a giant platter of baklava into the library at the AMM. Almost all of the folding chairs are filled with people waiting for our guest speaker to arrive.
“My husband sent these over from the bakery,” she tells me in French, setting the tray down on the small table under the windowsill. “I was going to save them until after the discussion, but Rohit just texted me to say he’s going to be late.”
“Baklava to the rescue,” I joke. “The crowd must be fed.”
She picks up on my sarcasm and laughs. Even though the ‘crowd’ is enough to fill the small room, there’s still only thirteen people here, Guita and I included.
“Thank you so much for coming,” Guita says to me. “I know you had to rush over from your dance studio. Luc’s daughter is sick so he can’t make it tonight, and I don’t know if I could have put this all together myself.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I assure her. “I really likedMeditation for Modern Minds.I’m sure Rohit’s going to be a great speaker.”
Guita squeezes my hand and heads back to the kitchen. Sometimes I feel a bit out of place around the other AMM volunteers, who are all old enough to have spouses and families and other Experienced Adult Commitments I can’t relate to, but Guita always makes me feel at home.
I straighten up our display of Rohit’s books and sneak a baklava for myself.
“I thought I was going to be late, but it looks like you haven’t even started.”
I spin around, still holding the pastry up to my mouth with one hand and cupping the other underneath it to catch any crumbs.
“Maybe youhavegotten started,” Ace Turner comments, eyeing my dessert.
It’s really him, standing there in a black t-shirt and jeans, looking just as out of place as he did sitting cross-legged in the park. I force a mouthful of baklava down my throat.
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
He raises his eyebrows. “The flyer said everyone was welcome.”
“Ben, yes, of course. You’re right. Come in.” I sweep my hand toward the rows of folding chairs.
I slipped into French again. I did that around him last time.
I kicked the habit of peppering my English with French slang and interjections years ago. I might still throw French insults at people in my head, but until they learn my last name, the English parents at the studio don’t even know I’m French.
For some reason my slip-up just makes me even more annoyed at Ace for being here. He probably has some stupid bet with his band about getting into my pants. I grab the baklava tray and start passing it around the room, distracting myself by chatting with the other attendees. I’ve met most of them before.
By the time Rohit arrives, almost all the pastries are gone and so are almost all the seats. The only free one is right beside Ace. He pats the white plastic and gives me that little smirk again, the one that’s so subtle it look more like a twitch than an actual facial expression.
I take the chair and cross my legs, straightening the edges of my cardigan and keeping my eyes fixed on the front of the room.
Rohit, a studious-looking forty-something, begins his presentation by asking some kind of deeply reflective question and pausing to let the audience deeply reflect. I don’t even hear what the question is because I’m too busy concentrating on not letting myself glance at Ace.
All my muscles are tensed, braced for him to lean over and whisper something totally inappropriate in my ear. I’m so sure he’s going to do it I already have my hands clamped down on the edges of my seat, ready to glare at him and then inch the chair away.
“Unfortunately, my French is really quite awful and you’d probably be more offended if I tried to use it than if I didn’t”—the crowd gives Rohit a laugh—“so I’ll only be speaking about my book in English, but one of the volunteers here, Stéphanie, will be translating any French questions you might have during the Q and A afterwards.”
Right. I’m doing that.
“So to get things started, in the introduction of my book...”
I barely follow along with the rest of the presentation. Ace’s presence is like a magnetic field that throws off all my navigation systems. He’s a foreign object, sitting here in this place that is my sanctuary, and my body is reacting the same way it would to splinter getting lodged beneath my skin: panic, and then a crucial and immediate urge to push him out.
“Stéphanie?” My leg jerks when Guita reaches around from the row ahead of us and pats me on the knee. “Allô, Stéphanie. ?a va?”
“Ouais,” I answer distractedly, realizing the presentation is finally done. “Ouais, ?a va.”
