Ruby

15

A Tour of Storyville

I sat with Gisselle on the patio and ate some lunch while she nibbled at her breakfast, complaining how sore her stomach still was from all the vomiting she had done last night. She blamed everyone but herself.

"Beau should have stopped me from drinking too much. I was so busy making sure everyone else had a good time, I didn't notice," she claimed.

"I warned you before we began," I reminded her. She smirked.

"It's never done this to me before," she said, but she grimaced in agony.

She had to wear her wide, thick sunglasses because the tiniest light sent ripples of pain up and down her forehead. She had dabbed gobs of rouge on her cheeks and painted her lips thick with lipstick once she saw how pale and wan her complexion was.

The long gray clouds that had made most of the morning dreary had come apart on the journey from one horizon to the other, and a soft sea of blue appeared to accompany the sunshine that rained down upon us to brighten the blossoms of the magnolias and camellias. The blue jays skittered from branch to branch with more spirit and energy, their songs more melodious.

In such a warm, beautiful setting, it was hard to feel unhappy or discouraged, but I couldn't keep the dark foreboding from inching its way into my thoughts. It moved slowly but surely like the shadow of a cloud. Daphne was very disappointed in me. Soon my father would be too, and Gisselle thought it was good for us to lie to both Daphne and him. I felt like going to Nina to ask her to find me a magical solution, some powder or enchanted bone to erase the bad things that had happened.

"Stop sitting there and pouting," Gisselle ordered. "You worry too much."

"Daphne is furious at me, thanks to you," I replied. "And soon Daddy will be, too."

"Why do you keep calling her Daphne? Don't you want to call her Mother?" she wondered. I shifted my gaze away from her and shrugged.

"Of course I do. It's just . . . hard right now. Both of our parents seem like strangers to me. I haven't been living here all my life," I replied, and looked at her. She chewed on my answer as she chewed on her croissant and jam.

"You just called Daddy, Daddy," she said. "Why should that be easier?"

"I don't know," I said quickly, and dropped my gaze so she couldn't see the dishonesty. I couldn't stand living with all this deception. Somehow, someday, it was bound to make our lives more miserable. I felt certain of that.

Gisselle sipped her coffee but continued to stare at me as she chewed lazily.

"What?" I asked, anticipating some question or suspicion.

"What did you do with Beau in the cabana before I came back and knocked on the door?" she demanded. I couldn't help but flush red. Her voice was filled with accusation.

"Nothing. It was Beau's little joke in response to what you did. We just. . . stood there and talked."

"In the dark, Beau Andreas just stood there and talked?" she asked, a wry smile on her face.

"Yes."

"You're not a good liar, sister dear. I'll have to give you lessons."

"That's not something I want to excel at doing," I responded.

"You will. Especially if you want to live in this house," she said nonchalantly.

Before I could reply, Edgar stepped through the French doors and approached us.

"What is it, Edgar?" Gisselle asked petulantly. Because of her hangover, every little noise, every little interruption annoyed her this morning.

"Monsieur Dumas has arrived. He and Madame Dumas want to see you both in the study," he said.

"Tell them we'll be there in a moment. I'm just finishing my croissant," she said, and turned her back on him.

Edgar threw a glance my way, his eyes showing his unhappiness at Gisselle's tone of voice. I smiled at him and his expression softened.

"Very good, mademoiselle," he said.

"Edgar is such a stuffed shirt. He creeps around the house as if he owns if and everything in it," Gisselle complained. "If I put a vase on a table, he'll return it to where it was originally. Once, I changed all the pictures around in the living room just to annoy him. The next day, they were all back in their original places. He's memorized where everything belongs, down to a glass ashtray. If you don't believe me, try moving something."

"I'm sure he's just taking pride in things and how well they're kept," I said. She shook her head and gobbled down her last piece of croissant.

"Let's go get this over with," she declared, and stood up. As we approached the study, we could hear Daphne complaining.

"Whenever I ask you to come home for lunch or meet me somewhere for lunch, you always have an excuse. You're always too busy to interrupt your precious workday. But all of a sudden, you have all this time to spare to arrange for an art instructor for your Cajun daughter," she decried.

Gisselle smiled at me and grabbed my arm to pull me back so we would delay our entrance.

"This is good. I love it when they have a spat," she whispered excitedly. Not only didn't I want to be an eavesdropper, but I was afraid they would say something to reveal the whole truth.

"I always try to make myself available for you, Daphne. If I can't, it's because of something that can't be helped. And as for corning home today, I thought in light of the circumstances, I had to do something special for her," my father protested.

"Do something special for her in light of the circumstances? What about my circumstances? Why can't you do something special for me? You used to think I was someone special," Daphne retorted.

"I do," he protested.

"But not as special as your Cajun princess apparently. Well, what do you think now after I told you what happened?"

"I'm disappointed of course," he said. "I'm quite surprised." It broke my heart to hear his voice so full of disillusionment, but Gisselle's smile widened with glee.

"Well, I'm not," Daphne emphasized. "I warned you, didn't I?"

"Gisselle," I whispered. "I've got to tell—"

"Come on," she said quickly, and pulled me forward to enter the study. Daphne and our father turned promptly to face us. I could have burst into tears at the sight of his sad and disappointed face. He sighed deeply.

"Sit down, girls," he said, and nodded toward one of the leather sofas. Gisselle moved instantly and I followed, but sat away from her, practically at the other end. Our father stared at us a moment with his hands behind his back and then glanced at Daphne, who pulled her head up and folded her arms under her bosom expectantly. My father turned to me.

"Daphne has told me what happened here last night and what she found in your room. I don't mind either of you having wine at dinner, but sneaking hard liquor and drinking it with boys . . ."

I flashed a look at Gisselle who looked down at her hands in her lap.

"It's not the way young women of character behave. Gisselle," he said, turning to her. "You shouldn't have permitted this to happen."

She pulled off her sunglasses and started to cry, emitting real tears from her eyes at will as if she had some sort of a reservoir of tears stored just under her eyelids to be dipped into at a moment's notice.

"I didn't want to do it, especially right here at our home, but she insisted and I wanted to do what you said: make her feel wanted and loved as soon as I could. Now I'm in trouble," she wailed.

Shocked by what she said, I tried to meet her eyes and hold them, but she refused to look at me, afraid once she did, she couldn't look away.

Daphne widened her eyes and nodded at my father who shook his head.

"I didn't say you were in trouble. I just said I was disappointed in you two, that's all," he replied. "Ruby," he said, turning back to me. "I know that alcoholic beverages were common in your household."

I started to shake my head.

"But we have a different view of that here. There's a time and a place for imbibing and young girls should never do it on their own. Next thing you know, one of your boyfriends gets drunk and everyone gets into the car with him and . . . I just don't like to think what could happen."

"Or what young girls can be talked into doing after they've consumed alcohol," Daphne added. "Don't forget that aspect," she advised my father. He nodded obediently.

"Your mother is right, girls. It's just not a good idea. Now, I'm willing to forgive everyone, put this bad incident aside, as long as I have your solemn promise, both of your solemn promises, that nothing like this will occur again."

"I promise," Gisselle said quickly. "I didn't want to do it anyway. I had a terrible headache this morning. Some people are used to drinking a lot of alcohol and some are not," she added, throwing a glance at me.

"That's very true," Daphne said, glaring at me. I looked away so that no one would see how much I was fuming inside. The heat that built itself up in my chest felt as if it could burn a hole through me.

"Ruby?" my father asked. I swallowed hard to keep my tears from choking me and forced out the words.

"I promise," I said.

"That's good. Now then," he began, but before he could continue, we heard the door chimes. He looked at his watch. "I expect that is Ruby's art instructor," he said.

"Under the circumstances," Daphne said, "don't you think you should postpone this?"

"Postpone? Well . ." He looked at me and I looked down quickly. "We can't just turn the man away. He's giving his time, traveled here—"

"You shouldn't have been so impulsive," Daphne said. "Next time, I would like you to discuss it with me before you give the girls anything or do anything for them. After all," she said firmly, "I am their mother."

My father pressed his lips together as if to shut up any words in his mouth and nodded.

"Of course. It won't happen again," he assured her.

"Excuse me, monsieur," Edgar said, coming to the doorway, "but a Professor Ashbury has arrived.

His card," he said, handing the card to my father.

"Show him in, Edgar."

"Very good, monsieur," he said.

"I don't think you need me for this," Daphne said. "I have some phone calls to return. As you predicted, everyone and anyone who knows us wants to hear the story of Ruby's disappearance and arrival. Telling the story repeatedly is proving to be exhausting. We should have it printed and distributed," she added, spun on her heels and marched out of the study.

"I've got to go take a couple of aspirins," Gisselle said, sitting up quickly. "You can tell me about your instructor later, Ruby," she said, smiling at me. I didn't smile back. As she left the study, Edgar brought in Professor Ashbury, so I had no time to tell my father the truth about what had occurred the night before.

"Professor Ashbury, how do you do?" my father said, extending his hand.

Looking like he was in his early fifties, Herbert Ashbury stood about five-feet-nine and wore a gray sports jacket, a light blue shirt, a dark blue tie, and a pair of dark blue jeans. He had a lean face, all of his features sharply cut, his nose angular and a bit long, his mouth thin and smooth like a woman's.

"How do you do, Monsieur Dumas," the professor said in what I thought was a rather soft voice. He extended a long hand with fingers that enveloped my father's hand when they shook. He wore a beautifully hand crafted silver ring set with a turquoise on his pinky.

"Fine, thank you, and thank you for coming and agreeing to consider my daughter. May I present my daughter Ruby," Daddy said proudly, turning toward me.

Because of his narrow cheeks and the way his forehead sloped sharply back into his hairline, Professor Ashbury's eyes appeared larger than they were. Dark brown eyes with specks of gray, they seized onto whatever he was gazing at and held so firmly he looked mesmerized. Right now they fixed so tightly on my face, I couldn't help but be self-conscious.

"Hello," I said quickly.

He combed his long thin fingers through the wild strands of his thin light brown and gray hair, driving the strands off' his forehead, and flashed a smile, his eyes flickering for a moment and then growing serious again.

"Where have you had your art instruction up until now, mademoiselle?" he inquired.

"Just a little in public school," I replied.

"Public school?" he said, turning down the corners of his mouth as if I had said "reform school." He turned to my father for an explanation.

"That's why I thought it would be of great benefit to her at this time to have private instruction from a reputable and highly respected teacher," my father said.

"I don't understand, monsieur. I was told your daughter has had some of her works accepted by one of our art galleries. I just assumed . . ."

"That's true," my father replied, smiling. "I will show you one of her pictures. Actually, the only one in my possession at the moment."

"Oh?" Professor Ashbury said, a look of perplexity on his face. "Only one?"

"That's another story, Professor. First things first. Right this way," he instructed, and led the professor to his office where my picture of the blue heron still remained on the floor against his desk.

Professor Ashbury stared at it a moment and then stepped forward to pick it up.

"May I?" he asked Daddy.

"By all means, please."

Professor Ashbury lifted the picture and held it out at arm's length for a moment. Then he nodded and put it down slowly.

"I like that," he said, then turned to me. "You caught a sense of movement. It has a realistic feel and yet . . . there's something mysterious about it. There's an intelligent use of shading. The setting is rather well captured, too . . . Have you spent time in the bayou?"

"I lived there all of my life," I said.

Professor Ashbury's eyes lit with interest. He shook his head and turned to Daddy. "Forgive me, monsieur," he said, "I don't mean to sound like an interrogator, but I thought you had introduced Ruby as your daughter."

"I did and she is," Daddy said. "She didn't live with me until now."

"I see," he said, gazing at me again. He didn't seem shocked or surprised by the information, but he felt he had to continue to justify his interest in our personal lives. "I like to know something about my students, especially the ones I take on privately. Art, real art, comes from inside," he said, placing the palm of his right hand over his heart. "I can teach her the mechanics, but what she brings to the canvas is something no teacher can create or teach. She brings herself, her life, her experience, her vision," he said. "Do you understand, monsieur?"

"Er . . . yes," Daddy said. "Of course. You can learn all about her if you like. The main question is do you believe as some already have exhibited they do, that she has talent?"

"Absolutely," Professor Ashbury said. He looked at my picture again and then turned back to me. "She might be the best student I've ever had," he added.

My mouth gaped open and my father's face lit with pride. He beamed a broad smile and nodded.

"I thought so, even though I'm no art expert."

"It doesn't take an art expert to see what potential lies here," Professor Ashbury said, looking at my painting once more.

"Let me show you the studio then," my father said, and led Professor Ashbury and me down the corridor. The professor was very impressed, as anyone would be, I imagined.

"It's better than what I have at the college," he whispered as if he didn't want the college trustees to hear.

"When I believe in something or someone, Professor Ashbury, I commit myself fully," my father declared.

"I can see that. Very well, monsieur," he said with some pomposity, "I accept your daughter as one of my students. Provided, of course," he added, shifting his eyes to me, "she is willing to accept my tutelage completely and without question."

"I'm sure she is. Ruby?"

"What? Oh, yes. Thank you," I said quickly. I was still absorbing Professor Ashbury's earlier compliments.

"I will take you through the fundamentals once again," he warned. "I will teach you discipline, and only when I think you are ready, will I turn you loose on your own imaginative powers. Many are born with talent," he declared, "but few have the discipline to develop it properly."

"She does," my father assured him.

"We'll see, monsieur."

"Come to my office, Professor, and we will discuss the financial arrangements," my father said. Professor Ashbury, his eyes still fixed on me, nodded. "When can she have her first lesson with you, Professor?"

"This coming Monday, monsieur," he replied. "Although she has one of the finest home studios in the city, I might ask her to come to mine from time to time," he added.

"That won't be a problem."

"Trés Bien," Professor Ashbury said. He nodded at me and left with my father.

My heart was pounding with excitement. Grandmère Catherine had always been so positive about my artistic talent. She had no formal schooling and knew little about art, and yet she was convinced down to her soul that I would be a success. How many times had she assured me of this, and now, an art instructor, a professor at a college, had taken one look at my work and declared me very possibly his best candidate.

Still trembling with joy, I hurried upstairs to tell Gisselle, my heart so full, I had no room for anger anymore. I gushed out all the professor had said. Gisselle, trying on different hats at her vanity table, listened and then turned with a look of puzzlement on her face.

"You really want to spend hours with a teacher after spending most of the day in school?" she asked.

"Of course. This is different. This is . . . what I've always dreamt of doing," I replied.

She shrugged.

"I wouldn't. That's why I never pushed for the singing teacher. We have so little time to have fun. They're always finding things for us to do: teachers pile on the homework, make us study for tests, and then we have to fit our lives to our parents' schedules.

"Once you get to know some of the boys and make some friends, you won't want to waste your time with art instruction," she declared.

"It's not a waste of my time."

"Please," she sighed. "Here," she said, tossing a dark blue beret at me. "Try this on. We're going to the French Quarter to have some fun. You don't want to tag along looking like someone just born," she added.

We heard the sound of a car horn, a funny bleep, bleep, bleep.

"That's Beau and Martin. Come on," she said, jumping up. She grabbed my hand and pulled me along, not showing the slightest regret for the things she had said to our father and Daphne about me only a short while ago. Lies did float about this house as lightly as balloons.

"You're not going to lie to us again about which one of you is which, are you?" Martin asked, smiling as he pulled open the door to Beau's sports car for us.

"Now that you're looking at me in broad daylight," Gisselle retorted, "you surely can tell I'm Gisselle." Martin glanced from me to her and nodded.

"Yes, I can," he said, but he said it in such a way to make it hard to tell if were complimenting her or complimenting me. Beau laughed. Annoyed, Gisselle declared she and I would sit in the back together.

We squeezed tightly into the small rear seat of Beau's sports car and held our berets on our heads as he shot away from the curve. Speeding down the street, we screamed, Gisselle's voice louder and more filled with pleasure and glee than mine which was driven by a pounding heart as we spun around a turn, tires squealing. I imagined we made quite a sight, twins, their ruby red hair dancing and flicking like flames in the wind. People stopped walking to pause and watch us rush by. Young men whistled and howled.

"Don't you just love it when men do that?" Gisselle screamed in my ear. With the sound of the engine and the wind whistling by us, we had to shout to be heard even sitting next to each other.

I wasn't sure what to say. On occasion in the bayou, walking to town, I recalled men driving by in trucks and cars whistling and calling to me like this. When I was younger, I thought it was funny, but I remembered once being frightened when a man in a dirty brown pickup truck not only called to me, but slowed down and followed me along the road, urging me to get into the truck with him. He claimed he would give me a ride to town, but there was something about the way he leered at me that set my heart thumping. I ended up running back toward home and he drove off. I was afraid to tell Grandmère Catherine because I was sure she would stop letting me walk to town by myself.

And yet, I also knew there were girls my age and older who could parade up and down the street day in and day out and never get a second look. It was flattering and threatening at the same time, but my twin sister seemed to draw satisfaction from this attention and looked surprised that I wasn't having a similar reaction.

Our tour of the French Quarter was quite different from the one my father had taken me on, for with Beau, Martin, and Gisselle, I was shown things I hadn't seen even though we were walking on the same streets. Maybe it was because we were there at a later part of the day, but the women I saw lingering in the doorways of jazz clubs and bars now were scantily dressed in what at times looked like no more than undergarments to me. Their faces were heavily made up, some using so much rouge and lipstick and eyeliner, they resembled clowns.

Beau and Martin gawked with interest, their faces frozen in licentious smiles. Every once in a while, one would lean over to the other and whisper something that set them both laughing hysterically. Gisselle was always jabbing one or the other with her elbow and then laughing herself.

The courtyards looked darker, the shadows were deeper, the music was louder. Men and in some places, women, hawked from doorways of sparsely lit bars and restaurants entreating the pedestrians to come in and enjoy the best jazz, the best dancing, the best food in New Orleans. We stopped at a stand to buy poor boy sandwiches and Beau managed to get us all bottles of beer even though no one was of age. We sat at a table on the sidewalk and ate and drank, and when two policemen came walking down the other side of the street, my heart thumped in anticipation of all of us being arrested. But they didn't seem to notice or care.

Afterward, we rushed in and out of stores, amusing ourselves with the souvenirs, the toys, and novelties. Then Gisselle directed us into a small store that advertised the most shocking sexual items I had ever seen displayed. You were supposed to be eighteen or over to go into the store, but the salesman didn't chase us out. The boys lingered over magazines and books, smirking and giggling to themselves. Gisselle made me look at a replica of a man's sex organ made of hard rubber. When she asked the salesman if she could see it, I ran out of the store.

They all followed a few moments later, laughing at me. "I guess Daddy didn't take you in there when he showed you the French Quarter," Gisselle quipped.

"How disgusting," I said. "Why would people buy those things?"

My question made Gisselle and Martin laugh harder, but Beau just smiled.

At the next corner, Martin asked us to wait while he approached a man dressed in a black leather vest with no shirt beneath. He had tattoos on his arms and shoulders. The man listened to Martin and then the both of them walked deeper into the alleyway.

"What's Martin doing?" I asked.

"Getting us something for later," Gisselle said, then looked at Beau, who smiled.

"Getting what?"

"You'll see," she said. Martin emerged, nodding with satisfaction.

"Where do you want to go now?" he asked.

"Let's show her Storyville," Gisselle decided.

"Maybe we should just go down to the nice stores and arcades at the ocean," Beau suggested.

"Oh, it won't hurt her. Besides, she needs an education if she wants to live in New Orleans," Gisselle insisted.

"What is Storyville?" I asked. In my mind I imagined a place where people sold books and items based on famous tales. "What do they sell there?"

My question threw the three of them into another fit of hysterics.

"I don't see why you should laugh at everything I say and ask," I said angrily. "If any of you came into the bayou and went out in the swamp with me, you'd ask a lot of dumb questions, too. And I assure you, you'd be a lot more frightened than I would be," I added. That wiped the smiles and laughter off their faces.

"She's right," Beau said.

"So what. You're in the city now, not the swamp," Gisselle said. "And I, for one, don't have any intention of ever going to the bayou.

"Come on," she added, grabbing my arm roughly, "we'll take you up some streets and you tell us what you think is sold there."

Her challenge restored the smile to Martin's face, but Beau still looked troubled. Unable to cast off my own curiosity now, I let Gisselle take me along until we reached a corner and looked across the street at what seemed to me to be a row of fancy houses.

"Where are the stores?" I asked.

"Just watch over there," Gisselle pointed. She indicated an imposing four-story structure with bay windows on the side and a cupola on the roof. It was painted in a dull white. A luxurious limousine pulled up at the curb and the chauffeur stepped out quickly to open the door for what looked to be a very distinguished older man. He strutted up the short set of steps to the front of the house and rang the bell. A moment later, the large door was pulled open.

We were close enough to hear the music that poured out and see the woman who greeted the gentleman. She was tall and dark olive in complexion. She wore a dress of red brocade with what had to be imitation diamonds on her neck and wrist. They had to be imitation, they were so big; but what was most curious was she wore tall feathers pluming from her head.

Looking past her, I could see a wide entrance hall, crystal chandeliers, gold mirrors, and velvet settees. A black piano player was running his hands over the keys and bouncing on the stool. Just before the door was closed, I caught sight of a girl wearing nothing more than a pair of panties and a bra and carrying a tray filled with what looked like glasses of champagne.

"What is that place?" I asked with a gasp.

"Lulu White's," Beau replied.

"I don't understand. Is it a party?"

"Only for those who pay for it," Gisselle said. "It's a brothel. A whorehouse," she added when I didn't respond quickly.

I gaped back at the big door. A moment later, it was opened again and this time, a gentleman appeared escorting a young woman in a bright green dress with a neckline that practically plummeted to her belly button. For a moment the girl's face was hidden by a fan of white feathers, but when she pulled the fan back, I saw her face and felt my mouth fall open. She brought the man to his waiting car and gave him a big kiss before he stepped into the rear. As the car pulled away she looked up and saw us.

It was Annie Gray, the quadroon girl who had ridden on the bus with me to New Orleans and used voodoo magic to help me find my father's address. She recognized me immediately, too.

"Ruby!" she called and waved.

"Huh?" Martin said.

"She knows you?" Beau asked.

Gisselle just stepped back, amazed.

"Hello," I called.

"I see you found your way about the city real good, huh?" I nodded, my throat tight. She looked back at the front door. "My aunt works here. I'm just helpin' her out some," she said. "But soon, I'm gettin' a real job. You find your daddy okay?" I nodded. "Hello, boys," she said.

"Hi," Martin said. Beau just nodded.

"I've got to get back inside," Annie said. "You just wait and see. I'll be singin' someplace real soon," she added, and hurried back up the steps. She turned in the doorway and waved and then disappeared within.

"I don't believe it. You know her?" Gisselle declared.

"I met her on the bus," I started to explain.

"You know a real prostitute," she followed. "And you said you didn't know what was here?"

"I didn't," I protested.

"Little miss goody-goody knows a prostitute," Gisselle continued, addressing herself to the boys. They both looked at me as if they had just met me.

"I don't really know her," I insisted, but Gisselle just smiled.

"I don't!"

"Let's go," Gisselle said.

We walked back quickly, no one speaking for quite a while. Every once in a while, Martin would look at me, smile, and shake his head.

"Where should we go to do it?" Beau asked after we all got back into his car.

"My house," Gisselle said. "My mother is probably off at a tea party and Daddy is surely still at work."

"To do what?" I asked.

"Just wait and see," she said. Then she added for the boys, "She probably knows all about it anyway. She knows a prostitute."

"I told you, I don't really know her. I just sat on a bus with her," I insisted.

"She knew you were looking for your daddy. Sounds like you two knew each other real well," Gisselle teased. "You didn't work together someplace, did you?" she asked. Martin spun around, his face full of laughter and curiosity.

"Stop it, Gisselle," I snapped.

Beau pulled away from the curb and shot down the street, leaving her laughter falling behind us.

Edgar greeted us all at the doorway when we returned to the house.

"My mother at home?" Gisselle asked him.

"No, mademoiselle," he replied. She threw a conspiratorial glance at Martin and Beau and then we followed her up the stairway to her room.

"What are we doing?" I asked when she cast off her beret and opened the windows as wide as they would go. Beau flopped on her bed and Martin sat at the vanity table smiling stupidly at me.

"Close the door," she ordered. I did so slowly. Then she nodded at Martin who dug into his pocket and produced what to me looked like the cigarettes Grandpère Jack often rolled for himself.

"Cigarettes?" I said, a bit surprised and even a bit relieved. I knew some kids in the bayou who had started smoking when they were ten or eleven. Some parents didn't even mind, but most did. I never liked the taste nor the feeling that my mouth was turning into an ashtray. I also hated the way some of my school friends' clothing reeked of the smoke.

"Those aren't cigarettes. They're joints," Gisselle said.

"Joints?"

Martin's smile widened. Beau sat up, his eyebrows raised, a look of curiosity about me on his face. I shook my head.

"You never heard of pot, marijuana?" Gisselle asked.

I made a small O with my lips. I had never actually seen it this close up, but I did know of it. There were some small shack bars in the bayou in which such things were supposedly taking place, but Grandmère Catherine had warned me about ever going near them. And some of the kids at school talked about it, with some supposedly smoking it. But no one I had been friendly with did.

"Of course, I've heard of it," I said.

"But you never tried it?" she asked with a smile. I shook my head.

"Should we believe her this time, Beau?" she asked. He shrugged.

"It's the truth," I insisted.

"So this will be your first time," Gisselle said. "Martin." He got up and passed one of the cigarettes to each of us. I hesitated to take mine.

"Go on; it won't bite you," he said, laughing. "You'll love it."

"If you want to hang out with us and the rest of my friends, you can't be a drip," Gisselle said.

I looked at Beau.

"You should try it at least once," he said.

Reluctantly, I took it. Martin lit everyone's and I took a quick puff on mine, blowing the smoke out the moment I felt it touch my tongue.

"No, no, no," Gisselle said. "You don't smoke it like a cigarette. Are you pretending or are you really this dumb?"

"I'm not dumb," I said indignantly. I looked at Beau who had lain back on the bed and inhaled his marijuana cigarette with obvious experience.

"It's not bad," he announced.

"You inhale the smoke and hold it in your mouth for a while," Gisselle instructed. "Go on, do it," she commanded, standing over me with those stone eyes riveted. Reluctantly, I obeyed.

"That's it," Martin said. He was squatting on the floor and puffing on his.

Gisselle put on some music. Everyone's eyes were on me so I continued to puff and inhale, hold the smoke and exhale. I wasn't sure what was supposed to happen, but soon I had a very light-headed feeling. It was as if I could close my eyes and float to the ceiling. I must have had a very funny expression on my face, for the three of them started to laugh again, only this time, without even knowing why, I laughed, too. That made them laugh harder which made me laugh harder. In fact, I was laughing so hard, my stomach started to ache, and no matter how it ached, I couldn't stop laughing. Every time I paused, I looked at one or the other of them and started in again.

Suddenly, my laughing turned to crying. I don't know why it did; it just did. I felt the tears and the expression on my face change. Before I realized it, I was sitting there on the floor, my legs crossed under each other, bawling like a baby.

"Uh-oh," Beau said. He got up quickly and ripped the marijuana cigarette from my fingers. Then he dropped mine and what was left of his own down Gisselle's toilet.

"Hey, that's good stuff," Martin called. "And expensive, too," he added.

"You better do something, Gisselle," Beau said when he saw my crying hadn't ended, but in fact, had gotten worse. My shoulders shook and my chest ached, but I couldn't stop myself. "The stuff was too strong for her."

"What am I supposed to do?" Gisselle cried.

"Calm her down."

"You calm her down," Gisselle said, and sprawled out on her back on the floor. Martin giggled and crawled up beside her.

"Great," Beau said. He approached rue and took my arm. "Come on, Ruby. You'd better go lie down in your own room. Come on," he urged.

Still sobbing, I let him help me to my feet and guide me out the door.

"This your room?" he asked, nodding toward the adjacent door. I nodded back and he opened it and led me in. He brought me to my bed and I lay back, my hands over my eyes. Gradually, sobs grew smaller and wider apart until I was just sniveling. Suddenly, I started to hiccup and I couldn't stop. He went into my bathroom and brought out a glass of water.

"Drink some of this," he said, sitting down beside me and helping me to raise my head. He brought the glass to my lips and I swallowed some water.

"Thank you," I muttered, and then I started to laugh again.

"Oh, no," he said. "Come on, Ruby, get control of yourself. Come on," he urged. I tried to hold my breath, but the air exploded in my mouth, pushing my lips open. Anything and everything I did made me laugh again and again. Finally, I grew too exhausted, swallowed some of the water, closed my eyes, and took deep breaths.

"I'm sorry," I moaned. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right. I've heard of people having a reaction like that, but I haven't seen it before. You feel a little better?"

"I feel all right. Just tired," I added, and let myself fall back to the pillow.

"You're a real mystery, Ruby," he said. "You seem to know a lot more about things than Gisselle does and yet you seem to know a lot less, too."

"I’m not lying," I said.

"What?"

"I'm not lying. I just met her on the bus."

"Oh." He sat there for a while. I felt his hand brush my hair and then I sensed him leaning over to kiss me softly on my lips. I didn't open my eyes during the kiss, nor did I open them after, and later, when I thought about it, I wasn't sure if it really had happened or it had been just another part of my reaction to the marijuana.

I was sure I felt him stand up, but I was fast asleep before he reached the door and I didn't wake up again until I felt someone shaking my shoulder so vigorously, the entire bed shook along with it. I opened my eyes and looked up at Gisselle.

"Mother sent me up to get you," she complained. "What?"

"They're waiting at the dinner table, stupid."

I sat up slowly and ground the sleep out of my eyes so I could gaze at the clock.

"I must have passed out," I said, shocked at the time. "Yeah, you did, but just don't tell them why or anything about what we did, understand?" she said.

"Of course I won't."

"Good." She stared at me a moment and then her lips softened into a sly smile. "Beau seems to like you a lot," she said. "He was very upset over what happened."

I stared back at her, speechless. It was like waiting for the second shoe to drop and then she dropped it. She shrugged.

"I'm getting bored with him anyway," she said. "Maybe I’ll let you have him. Later on, you can do something nice for me," she added. "Hurry up and come down."

I watched her leave the room and then I shook my head and wondered why any boy would like a girl who treated his affection so lightly she could give it away at a whim and look for someone else.

Or was she pretending to give away something she was already losing? And more important, was it something I wanted?