Get Out If You Can

Emilie | Le Manoir

"Maman, this is hilarious. Can't you even—?"

"Non," she says, steel in her voice. The red envelope is the only thing she's been looking at since the last forty-eight hours. And I don't like that. Don't like that at all.

"It's still October," I groan, knowing all this is fruitless. "Can't you tell something's wrong with all this? Why on Earth would the French Association call me today? Why on Earth would they call me at all?"

"Because," Maman says, setting out my white evening dress, "today is a regular day. And it might have been convenient for them. Honestly, Em, you need to stop applying some vandal's logic to everything. Two whole weeks have passed."

It isn't just some vandal, I wanted to say. But nobody would appreciate that. Once forgotten, forever forgotten.

To be honest, I don't understand the deal. The French Association in Callenfield's simply a joke. Just a bunch of septuagenarians who talk about shit like lexicography and that sort of thing. I'd been to a 'cultural get-together' with Papa once and all they spoke about was the phrase 'quand le vin est tiré, il faut le boir.' Ugh.

Maman thinks they'll get me a language scholarship or something, and that's why she's so worked up about the whole deal. I know they won't, but it's hard to convince parents when they've got an idea in their head. Which is sad.

Maman exits the room, leaving me alone with the dress and a pair of ridiculously high heels. I chuck them out in the corner and set a pair of white Adidas shell-tops in front of me.

I sigh, and then realize that what's got to be done, is got to be done.

I get in the dress.

***

I check the clock on my wall. A good thirty minutes to go.

I'm in my dress, and if I wasn't so pissed, I would actually appreciate how nice it looks. It's sleeveless and off-white, and ends just a few centimeters above above my knees. Maman tied my hair back in a semi-messy bun and for all I could say, I look like the models you see holding balloons on birthday cards. Not my idea of nice, but pretty, all the same. I brush a stubborn lock of hair behind my ear and steady myself.

I can't hear a sound. Maman and Papa are probably fixing up the car so it looks showy when we drive in Calleja manor's driveway. Works to my advantage at the moment.

I tiptoe across the hallway and take a few sharp turns, and voilà, I'm in the basement store. I shuffle through the dust, which is disgustingly caking at the borders of my feet, to get to the drawer I'm aiming for. I'm not supposed to be here, but — honestly, there's no way around it.

When I get there, the light is so dim I can hardly see. But it's adequate. I pull on the handle, hoping desperately for it not to be locked...

And it opens. Amazing.

I shuffle through the contents. Pill bottles, pill bottles, and still more pill bottles – Maman was definitely lying about not needing migraine medication anymore. But that isn't what I'm here for.

My fingers clasp round a little black, molded box; and with a subtle smile on my face, I pull it out and stuff it in the sling bag round my shoulder.

***

Calleja manor is definitely a long way off from where I live. Papa's taken us enough twists and turns in the path enough to last a lifetime, and I'm not sure if our little Honda is going to make it.

I think I've heard the name of the place before, but I don't remember where. If I did, it must've been a long time ago. It was, apparently, a grand, luxurious sort of mansion owned by Torrez-level people, but then something happened and it started falling to pieces. I guess someone came along with a huge stack of money and decided to redo the place. Nobody knows who, and in true Callenfield fashion, nobody cares.