widen, and he and my mother exchange looks. “That is truly incredible.”
“For real. Then there’s this letter between Delacroix and Dumas referencing a mysterious raven-tressed woman. We’re trying to figure out if all these pieces are connected. Maybe there is an actual treasure, and maybe it’s a Delacroix painting. And somehow this mystery woman is the key to finding it. Then, well, maybe I could write a whole new essay that could win the prize . . .” And thus rewrite my entire future, I think. “But if this is all really real—this woman, these letters—how come no one else has found her? Made the connection? All these clues have been lying there waiting to be found.” I look to my mom.
My mom shakes her head. “I think you probably already know the answer to that. It’s a story we’ve seen over and over. For too long women’s contributions have been disregarded. Forgotten. Barely footnotes in the stories and histories of men with power. And that’s something you could help rectify. It would be truly amazing if you could connect these bits and pieces and find this woman. And a missing painting!” I can tell how excited my mom is when she starts gesticulating as she speaks—right now she’s at peak academic giddiness. “If you figure this out, it could mean a lot more than an award. Art history and literary journals would eat it up.”
I give my mom a little side hug and mouth a thank-you. I know it’s her job, but it still feels good to know she believes in me.
“And I’m sorry for giving you a hard time about your intentions with Alexandre.”
I step aside, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“I mean Papa and I were thinking that you were spending time with him because you felt a . . . connection. Not because of his connections.”
My face flames with anger. “I’m not using him or anything. How could you say that?” I snap.
Now it’s my parents who look confused. Excellent. I’ve stepped in figurative crap again and have another mess to clean up. Not sure why I feel defensive anyway. I mean, I do actually like Alexandre.
“Mon chat, we don’t think that,” my dad says. “That’s not who you are. We were surprised that you two shared an academic interest, that’s all.”
I shrug. “Alexandre goes to the école du Louvre. Maybe he will want to write a paper, too, if we find something interesting, especially because Alexandre Dumas is his actual ancestor.” I start walking again with my shoulders drawn to my ears. My parents hurry after me.
My mom touches my shoulder. “Khayyam, it’s critical that you not let him take credit for your work. It’s like I was saying—you have to make sure your voice, your contribution, isn’t silenced. It might be the twenty-first century, but as women of color, we still have to fight for our worth. All marginalized folks do. It’s more important than ever. If you’ve hit on something, the findings are part of your intellectual property, too.”
“Mom, Alexandre wouldn’t do that,” I say, anger edging into my voice again.
My dad jumps in. “All the same, perhaps you should bring him around so we can discuss it with him.”
“Mom. Papa. You’re making a huge deal out of nothing. We’re having fun. Besides, girl saves herself from academic purgatory isn’t exactly Le Monde headline worthy.”
My mom takes my hand in hers, her voice softening. “Beta, don’t sell yourself short. I know how much losing that contest stung you. But please don’t ever think you’re a failure. I wish you could see yourself as we do—bright, brilliant, hardworking.”
I wish I could imagine myself like that, but it doesn’t feel real. Since my catastrophic failure, I don’t hear their words. All I hear are the judge’s: a dilettante, not a future art historian. I don’t feel brilliant or bright at all. I feel like a light bulb that sparks and pops right before it fades out.
I walk up the wide, winding staircase to our apartment alone.
My parents went for a stroll along the Seine. I swear to God, as I watched them walk off hand in hand, the golden light of