CHAPTER TWO
There comes a short awkward silence, followed by a more awkward eye-to-eye contact before she finally splits her door wider. "Hey! I love your bag and that pink furry boots. Oh gosh! They are so lovely!" She praises casually, as if we know each other ever since, and that we share more than a year of friendship.
I have this poker face as a response to her compliment when someone from inside her apartment-probably her father if I have to base on the deep masculine voice I hear-calls her attention. After a while, she comes back and fits herself in the quarterly opened door and speaks something with a delightful face. "By the way, just comb your hair a few times and you'll be perfect!" She winks at me and slams the door. Wow. Where on earth did she get that energy?
A complete awkwardness sweeps through the busy corridors of the hotel, along with different voices speaking different languages brimming the atmosphere.
As far as I could tell from what's obvious, this building is filled with newly migrated families of all races. Some are Arabs, some are African-Americans, some are Nigerians, some are New Yorkers, and of course, to complete the United Nations concept, some are Italians. Us. I find it very funny yet quite amazing. This brings me to the thought that it won't be hard for us to adjust because everyone here is just like us.
Before I drive myself crazy in too much amusement of these new and eye-refreshing typical French scenarios, Mamma calls me to get inside and help her unpack our things. I chuckle as I brush past the four energy-drained helpers, which after some time, take themselves out of the room.
"This place is not that bad," I say, unzipping the blue suitcase beside the brand new comfy sofa bed. "But why are we transferring again?" As expected, I get no response. They only gaze at each other and lift the side of their lips, which gives me the clue that there's a reason behind this shit but it's better not to spill the tea.
Papà keeps exploring the room. From the mini dine to the shower, to the kitchen, and to the balcony. While switching from one area to the other, he sings this dope trending song-which I don't know the singer because I don't care and I'm not into music anyways-while dramatizing things as if he plays a special role of a police officer in a music video.
Meanwhile, behind the transparent glass room divider, Mamma struggles in pulling all the cooking and baking equipment out of the large-sized package box, which makes me come up with a stupid thought that she's planning to transform this apartment into a cafeteria, or perhaps a bakery slash restaurant to compete with others.
To sum it up, I live in the custody of the real hyper crackerjack policeman together with his sometimes funny yet often stubborn pastry chef want-to-be housewife, who always believes that it's not too late for her to achieve her dreams of becoming the world's greatest food master.
They exchange flying kisses, and winks, and blinks, and even the widest smile their lips could handle. I catch all the cringe those gestures have to offer because I am sitting on a sofa between the two of them. "Okay. Stop this love-shit. Please." I say, finally cutting off their teenage-like love story moment. I'm so jealous.
The next four hours before dinner becomes so busy for the girls of the family. We arrange our stuff and decorate the room according to Mamma's plan. I sweep and mop the floor, and now the porcelain floor tiles becomes so shiny that I could see my reflection clearly. I also change our beddings, hang the unnecessary but expensive pictures of flowers on the walls, and put on the white see-through curtains on the windows. Mamma remains in the kitchen, stressing herself about where to put this and that.
Meanwhile, after a few minutes of subtle conversation with his wife, Papà goes straight to his room and takes his thirty-minute nap. He really has to regain his energy because after dinner, he will drive back to Italy for work. Not to mention the police car that he borrowed to accompany us to this place.
"Bellissima!" Mamma mumbles in satisfaction while standing near the main door with her arms crossed, looking through the overall view of our so-called 'new home.'
I bobble my head. "Hai ragione, Mamma!" I walk towards her barefoot and give her the hug she deserved. She brushes her right hand on my back, while her left hand guides my head to lean on her chest.
That scene, the daughter-hugging-her-mother scene, becomes the most highlighted part of the afternoon drama of the Scouts family. Except for the striking of the clock at six, where another session of the light drama takes place.
"I think I have to skip dinner tonight." Papà hesitantly says, doing everything he could to avoid eye contact with Mamma.
Beside the square wooden table carved with The Last Supper on its upper surface covered with glass, Mamma replies in her calmest but kind of disappointed voice. "But. . . I cooked your favorite dish tonight."
Then I insert, lounging on the couch as if it is a trampoline. "You can pack dinner for Papà."
He shrugs his shoulders, and its when he realizes that aside from chagrining Mamma for refusing to eat his favorite dish which happens to be beef stew, he has to stay for a while and fill-in his stomach, spend fifteen minutes on the table with his family before he finally races through the highways and gets back to work within ten hours. Papà portrays the kind of person who can't stand fighting with his conscience when it comes to his wife. So, whether he likes it or not, he has to put his ass down to the dining area and serve himself some food– which is what really happens after quite some time of throwing unreasonable refusals only to end up accepting the dinner offer.
On the next fifteen to twenty minutes of spoonfeeding ourselves, nothing really is happening except for the discussion about dad's work, mom's plan of looking for a job, and geez. . . my school. My new school.
"Here's the thing. I have a friend who's working as a teacher at Westwood High School. . ." Mamma pauses for a while and digs her spoon out of her plate. "It's only a walking distance away from here. And guess what! She also said that they are still accepting transferees for the second semester! Just in time, Callie."
"Oh yeah?" I reply, as if this news would shock me in excitement.
Papà stares at me with a little worry on his face. "That's good then, honey!" He layers his hand over Mamma's. "Our daughter can finally make new friends."
"Make new friends? I don't even have old ones." I smile.
Well, that's right. Back in Italy, I failed to make my own circle of friends. Not because I'm not a friend-worthy or best friend material, but because I go to school only to study. Nothing else. I thought I would regret it for not having any. But then, later on, as we transferred here in Paris, I realized that what I had done was a good choice. At least, I don't have to miss anyone. I could start a new life here, and I could finally forget what happened there. That won't be hard for me, knowing that nothing in my Italy life really worth remembering.
"I'll process your papers tomorrow. You still have one week of semestral break." Mamma grins.
The dinner's over. . . at last. The next drama takes place outside the building where Papà is about to leave. I get my last forehead kiss of the day, and Mamma gets hers. I smile as I see him walking towards his car. But Mamma? Eh. . . she almost dies crying.
I really don't get Mamma's sobbing segment, and I especially don't get Mamma's sobbing segment during the shutting of the car door, and I hundred percent don't get Mamma's sobbing segment about the fact that Papa will only leave us for a week.
Nothing is new about seeing Mamma overacting things since it's part of her daily routine. But tonight, she performs so well that she deserves a FAMAS award for being the best crying lady.
"Okay, hush. Let's go upstairs. I'm already sleepy," I say. I wrap my right hand on her shoulders and try to make her calm though I know I can't. She's really possessive of her husband ever since, and that makes her continue to burst into tears.
"Mamma, could you please stop? Papà is going to the police station for work. He's not going to a nightclub and hooking up with other girls." I explain, hoping this time, she would get what I mean.
We head back to the room. A few minutes after I accompany her to her bed, she falls asleep. I know it. She overdoses on grape wine during dinner.
I walk towards my room with my head feeling heavy and my knees acting like noodles. I seated myself in the study table near the window for a while and reach for my bag on the rocking chair next to me. I take out the crumpled piece of white paper and fold it into an airplane.
"I've been keeping you for a couple of years and nothing happened. Now, we're up to start a new life. And starting a new life means letting go of the past. Farewell for now. I may not have you anymore, but you'll be staying in my heart forever." I breathe heavily as I let the paper plane soar out of the window.