The Girl Who Shook The Skies

Chapter 4

            Life in a tiny Parisian apartment would not be the same without Ginny Early. I remember that really stupid student ad I’d posted on the shabby university board, in which I try to sound fun and easy to live with, before begging all English speakers interested in flat-sharing to give me a quick call.     

The French-born-and-bred side of me did not appreciate the thought that I found English-speakers to be more fun to live with on the long run. But soon enough I realized it was probably because I addressed myself in English on most pondering occasions, so it probably meant I was more comfortable and more myself speaking it.     

Ginny was the last person who called, well after I had lost all hope of finding anyone normal. The others seemed too weird – “So… what’s your intake on pet snakes?” – too spoiled – “Hold on. Daddy!! What’s a lease?” – or too clingy – “Here’s my mobile and landline number, my mother’s email address, and my dad’s lawyer’s coordinates, just in case.” All Ginny did to make an impression was present herself as an American lost in Paris, then offer to get together and start looking for a place right away. Straight to the point, just the way I like things.   

  The pixie purple hair was the first ice-breaker. I was actually jealous; no shade of violet would look good on a red-head. And cutting my hair that short would be like flashing a bright light on my weirdo skin, for everyone to notice and stare at. But on her, it looked like she had upgraded from whatever imposed natural shade was underneath, to one that showed her true self.   

  Surprisingly, the girl turned out to be anything but extravagant. She works part time as a translator for a local television production house, while completing her masters in Applied Foreign Languages at the same university I go to. The only bizarre thing about her is her adamant refusal to say “Hi”. Ginny does not say hello, good day, good morning, good evening, and whatever other part of the day one would wish to be good. To her, such greeting is too formal, and she would only use it with people she has just met, or that she dislikes and would prefer to stay formal with. The rest of the population can enjoy a truly remarkable greeting on her part: one of Ginny’s original quotes.  

  No one knows when this all began. As long as I’ve known her, she’s been able to pop out a new quote every single day. They aren’t all good, but they help me guess what is on her mind. After a safe period of “hellos”, we became close enough for her to give me her first quote: “You shouldn't feel dumb about doing dumb things if you're actually aware they're dumb.”    It lacked entirely of context, and she chose to say it to me one morning, as I groggily dragged myself from the bed to the kitchen table. After a few seconds of bewilderment, I grinned and told her she should write a book. I still insist she do that, from time to time.   

  Which brings us back to today: it’s precisely this sort of witty, straight-to-the-point wisdom I need right now, to forget my new invasive obsession.   

  I noisily turn the keys as a warning, worried I might walk in on her with company. But she’s there on the sofa, with her back turned to me, and her laptop on her crossed legs. She only twists around halfway to say, “Patience is a necessary form of masochism”. 

  It stops me dead in my tracks. Hmm! Spot on, Miss Early!   “Hah! This is actually good!” I say. I know she’s expecting a reaction. It’s like she’s testing those quotes on me.  

              She winks at me sideways, then goes back to typing. But just as I think she’s totally ignoring me, she asks without any eye contact, “So? How’d it go?”   “Weeeell….” and I leave it hanging. In a fraction of a second, her laptop is shut, her whole body twists around and her eyes search mine, intrigued. She knows me too well…