“What’s it like?”
“Cold. Wet.”
“Were they close?” I asked. “My mom and Miss LaBarge?”
He loosened his seat belt. “When they were your age they were inseparable. Except when your father was around, of course.”
Finding Montreal on the map, I laid my hand down on the page. The width of one index finger—that was how far away my grandfather’s house in Massachusetts was from the city. Two index fingers—that was how far away from Montreal Miss LaBarge was when she died. Four index fingers —that was how far away my parents were when they died. I spread out my hand across the page—that was where Dante could be. Anywhere. And every day we were apart felt like a lifetime lost.
“Do you ever feel like you’re running out of time?” I asked Dustin.
He stared at the ice cubes in his drink. “Always.”
“So what do you do about it?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I just try to enjoy the time I do have. That’s all we can do, really.”
The rest of the flight was quick; it seemed like we had just boarded when three chimes sounded over the intercom, followed by the flight attendant’s voice, announcing in both French and English that we had begun our descent. Dustin leaned over me to look out the window. The blue sky faded as we entered the clouds, and was replaced by the tiny lights of buildings, the irregular spirals of roads. And then, through the mist, an island emerged.
Montreal was a castle of a city, surrounded by water on all sides, and connected to the mainland by bridges. After going through customs, we rented a compact car and set out for St. Clément, in the old part of town, Vieux-Port. We drove down a street called rue Notre-Dame, which was lined with uneven sidewalks and town houses capped with mansard roofs.
It was an overcast afternoon, the air warm and thick. I rolled down my window as we passed a group of bicyclists, all wearing little hats. One of them turned to me as we passed, his hair pulled back into a messy knot. Dante, I thought as I pressed my nose to the window. But it was just a tall man with long hair. He winked as we turned down rue Saint Maurice. There, we drove until we passed a narrow street with no sign. Slowing to a stop, Dustin looked over his shoulder, and then reversed until we were even with the unnamed street, which was really more of an alleyway. Dustin squinted at the stained brick buildings.
“If my memory serves me correctly, this is it,” he said finally, and turned. The cobblestones were slanted, putting our tiny car on an incline.
A pair of pigeons flew out of our way and flapped around the alley as we squeezed past the trash bins that lined the curb. The street ended at a sign that read PETIT RUE SAINT CLÉMENT.
It was only slightly larger than the alley, but much sunnier. Dustin took a left, and a few hundred feet down, pulled up in front of a large stone building with an arched entranceway. Etched over it in large letters was: LYCÉE SAINT CLÉMENT.
A security guard sauntered toward us. Setting down my bags, Dustin fished around in his pockets for a piece of paper. Upon reading it, the guard uttered something in French to us, making hand gestures. To my surprise, Dustin seemed to understand. “Merci, monsieur,” he said, with what sounded like a perfect accent, and picked up my bags.
“I didn’t know you could speak French,” I said as we crossed a grassy courtyard surrounded by the school. In the middle was a fountain. Two girls were standing next to it, holding books as the water spouted behind them.
“Nor did I,” said Dustin. “The last time I spoke it was a lifetime ago.”
We entered one of the buildings on the far side of the courtyard, which said FEMMES. Unlike the Gottfried dormitories, this one was small and cozy. A plush carpet blanketed the lobby, which was furnished with overstuffed sofas. A bulletin board hung on one wall, cluttered with tacks and colorful fliers. Potted plants streamed over the windowsills, and brass numbers and nameplates decorated each of the doors. Upstairs we found a maze of hallways lined with rose wallpaper, and crowded with girls hauling trunks, suitcases, and piles of books into their rooms. They barely paid attention to me as I squeezed past them.
My room was nestled into a sunny corner of the building with one other room, number 32, labeled with the name CLEMENTINE LAGUERRE. Mine was number 31. I fumbled with the keys, pushing the door open just as Dustin, hauling the luggage, caught up with me.
The only word to describe it was lovely. An arched hallway led to a series of little areas: a sink and mirror, a bedroom with a real potbellied stove, and small balcony that overlooked the courtyard. There was even a beautiful old fireplace, which had been sealed years ago, according to Dustin, after a bad fire. But the most foreign thing of all was that I had the whole room to myself.
The only shared part was the bathroom, which connected my room and Clementine’s, and had a deep porcelain tub that could fit three of me in it. I fiddled with the knobs on the bidet, turning the right one around and around, but nothing happened. It must be broken, I thought, hitting it with my hand just as Dustin said something from the other room. Suddenly, water burst out of the spigot, spraying my legs.
“What?” I shouted, jumping out of the way.
“I said, someone just slipped an envelope under the door. Would you like me to open it?”
“Okay,” I said, struggling with the faucet.
“‘Promptly report to the gymnasium at nine a.m. on Monday for your placement examination.’”
Wiping off my shorts, I went to the main room. “A placement test?”
“Yes,” Dustin said, checking his watch. “Tomorrow.” When he saw my wet clothes, he chuckled and dug through my bag until he found a towel.
“Tomorrow? But I don’t even know what the test is on.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” Dustin said. He pulled some sheets from my bag and stretched one over the mattress. When I tried to help, he swatted me away.