Page 8 of Your Echo
“It is,” Ace agrees. “You know, I thought the meditation teacher would be way older than you are.”
I shrug. “Meditation is for everyone. Just look atyou.”
His lips quirk up. “What’s your name?”
“Stéphanie.”
“So youareFrench. I was wondering. You speak both languages perfectly.”
“How do you know I’m French?”
For a second he looks taken aback by the harshness in my question, but then he reverts to smirking.
“Stéphanie,” he mimics, exaggerating the French inflection way more than I did.
“Whatever. You’re named after a card game,” I fume.
He laughs for the first time. “I knew it. I knew you could get mad. I just wanted to see it for myself.”
He leaves me standing there speechless and clutching the coffee can as he turns to join his friends where they’re already walking towards the edge of the park.
“Goodbye,Stéphanie,” he shouts over his shoulder.
* * *
The Association buildingis just a few blocks away from the park. Loose change clinks around in the coffee can as I walk over with it hugged against my chest. This little walk on Sundays is usually one of the highlights of my week; I’m done at the dance studio for the day. I have the whole evening ahead of me to relax and enjoy the almost exhilarating rush of clarity that comes after a good meditation session.
Except today wasn’t a good meditation session.
I can still feel Ace’s eyes on me, see him smirking like he’s pulled back a magician’s curtain and found the secret trapdoor.
I see you, he seemed to be saying, and you’re a fake.
I dart across a busy road and onto the quiet, tree-dotted street where the AMM headquarters are. My yoga mat slips out from under my elbow, unrolling itself on the cracked sidewalk, and I let out a string of French curse words.
Relax,I tell myself as I bend down to roll the mat back up.You know that’s not true.
He was just an asshole out for a walk in the park who decided it would be funny to bother a pretty girl in her meditation class. The same thing has happened a few times before, and I never let it ruin my session for me.
Once I have my mat back in order, I walk up to the tiny porch on the front of the Association building. The roof overhead slopes heavily to the left and the shingles are peeling off like sunburnt skin, but there’s a pot of geraniums blooming on the step and a bright welcome mat on the floor.
I step inside and make my way down the narrow hallway of the converted two-bedroom house. Guita is in the kitchen/office, watering yet more pots of geraniums as she sings to herself in Arabic.
“Bonjour,Stéphanie,” she greets me in her rich Lebanese accent.
“Salut, Guita.”
I drop the coffee pot onto the table and grab the cashbox and logbook out of one of the cupboards.
“Comment était votre session aujourd’hui?”
“The class was okay,” I answer her. “There were more people than I expected in this humidity.”
She hums in response and continues with her singing. I dump the contents of the coffee can out and tally up the total before depositing it all in the slots of the cash box.
“Donations were good today,” I let Guita know. “Maybe we’ll finally get the porch fixed up. Sometimes I’m scared it’s going to collapse on my head.”
She lets out a silvery laugh and sets her watering pot down.
