Simone breaks all the ru.., p.1
Simone Breaks All the Rules, page 1
For Viviane Rigaud. Thank you, Mummy, for the many stories. You live on in them all.
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Debbie Rigaud
Sneak Peek at Truly Madly Royally
Copyright
“Psst … Anne,” I whispered out the side of my mouth as our car pulled up to Madame Honoré’s house. “Make a run for it.”
My older sister shot me an exasperated look. “That’s not funny, Simone.”
“I’m dead serious,” I declared. “Would I joke at a time like this?”
Of course, both Anne and I had to admit that it was too late to fight this battle. Our bridge-and-tunnel journey over, we had arrived in Queens to meet Anne’s arranged prom date.
Our mother set up the whole thing without Anne’s involvement. She must have cast a wide net for this catch, no doubt activating her entire tristate-area network of Haitian mamas with teenaged sons.
I wished I could say that nothing in my sister’s seventeen years had prepared her for this embarrassment. But the truth was, by then, Anne already held titles in the Overprotected Olympics. And at thirteen, I was being groomed as her successor.
“Ssssshhhhh,” Mummy hissed from the passenger seat. She was in full arrival mode. Hushing folks was to my mom what getting seats and tray tables in their upright positions was to flight attendants.
My seat belt’s metal clasp ka-klowed as I unlatched it. Anne flinched at the sound, and that was it for me.
Anne was usually as composed as Beethoven. If the flouncy Sunday dress she wore came with auto-flip sequins, she’d still seem low-key. The girl was that unfussy—in personality, not in looks, for Anne was the pretty one. I was always flattered when people mistook us for twins. Our personalities, though, could not have been more different.
My mom once joked she should’ve named us Push and Pull. Anne, like her long, straightened hair, was pulled together. And every time she started to inch a toe over to the wild side, she’d pull herself back behind the line. Meanwhile, I subtly pushed boundaries the same as I pushed back on my parents’ rules. Today, for instance, I had opted not to flat-iron my unyielding coils or to wear the corny outfit my mom had picked out for me.
“Are we seriously going through with this?” I asked my parents, leaning forward for urgency’s sake. They both pouted in that intense way only Creole-and-French-forged lips can. “Isn’t that famous Haitian restaurant nearby?” I continued. “We can order dinner to go and be back in Jersey before the food gets cold. The traffic going the other way is light—”
“That’s enough, Simone!” Mummy whisper-screamed without looking away from her sun-visor mirror as she freshened up her makeup.
“Eh bien, I’ll wait outside,” Papi said with one foot already out the car door. Poor guy. He was so overpowered by all the estrogen in his life.
After another minute of grooming (Mummy) and stalling (Anne and me), the three of us got out of the car and headed to the house with Papi.
Our host, Madame Honoré Fils-Aimé, met us at her front door with her cheek angled toward us, ready to receive our greetings. This was a cultural gesture she’d earned. To be sure, the kisser is of lesser status than the kissee. Madame Honoré was the senior woman as well as the host—not to mention (if you ask my mom) the lifesaver of the day—so it was all cheek out for her.
“Constance, Gérard, comment ça va?” She greeted my parents with a broad grin, setting a formal tone by speaking French instead of Haitian Creole.
“Allo, Madame Honoré,” my mother answered, half an octave higher than normal. Her top row of teeth was so overexposed, I imagined them drying up.
The spicy aroma tickling my nose from the front stoop and the beads of sweat on Madame Honoré’s penciled brow conjured an image of our host whipping up a tasty dish over the hot stove. It was enough to put me in a better mood.
“Allons, allons.” My mother coaxed me and Anne to step inside. Her public voice and trained personality reported to duty in all their Francophone glory. “Ah, Simone, l’as-tu laissé dans la voiture?” she asked me.
“Non,” I answered, stepping from behind Anne and showing my mom that I had not in fact forgotten the macaroni au gratin that stole my window seat.
After handing over the pan of food, Anne and I offered Madame Honoré the obligatory cheek-kiss greeting. We instinctively walked single file, following the foot indentations in the plush beige carpeting, to an ornate sofa that looked like a double-wide throne. We were careful not to bump the gilded coffee table that was mobbed with tiny figurines of white women in hoopskirts.
I felt so tense for my sister that my scalp throbbed, as if I were wearing too-tight braids. Our hands rested side by side on the velvety seat cushion, so I gave Anne’s a poke and flashed her a grimace, minus the gross eyelid flip I’d learned from Gabby. Our cousin Gabrielle was the buckwildest person we knew. She was only eleven, but her talent for telling the world to shove off with a bawdy grimace, a well-timed belch, or the choicest Creole cuss word was the stuff of legend. Gabby would wreak the best kind of havoc if she were here right now. And Anne’s lip curl told me she was thinking the same hilarious thought.
“Jude! Vini’m pale’w,” Madame Honoré abruptly called out in Creole.
A tall, broad-shouldered teen boy barreled down the stairs and paused when he saw the small crowd in his living room.
Madame Honoré rattled off names in our seating order. “You remember Madame Gérard, Gérard, and their daughters, Anne and Simone,” she told the boy. “They came to your brother’s communion party when you were eleven.”
“H-hello,” Jude reluctantly said without much eye contact. Shockingly, he didn’t make the rounds planting kisses on everyone’s cheeks as my sister and I would’ve been obligated to do had we been in his shoes. Nor did his mother reprimand him for not doing so. He just stood there nodding in greeting.
When Jude turned to take a seat, he exposed the one wireless earbud he had plugged in his ear. The shiny silver phone that peeked out of his front jeans pocket was probably cycling through a playlist. That would explain Jude’s head nods.
Papi couldn’t stop glaring at him. It was all he could do not to leapfrog the coffee table and scare some respect into the kid. Anne’s expression stayed neutral, like she was in a Vulcan mind meld with one of the hoopskirt-wearing figurines. I wondered how she could be so still, so outwardly quiet when her fate was being decided by everyone but her. I squirmed in my seat to shake off the secondhand embarrassment. Mummy kept her feet crossed at her ankles and laced her fingers together in her lap. She spoke with a tight smile and a singsong voice in crisp Creole, as if she were being graded on etiquette.
“As we discussed over the phone, my daughter Anne needs to attend senior prom with an escort, and the good Lord pointed me to you,” she told Madame Honoré. “Jude would make the perfect companion for this event. We would love for him to attend prom with Anne. If you agree to this, that would be a grand gesture on your part, and we would be very grateful.” She smoothed down her skirt with splayed fingers to signal the end of her proposition.
I wondered if Madame Honoré would jump to her feet and kick us out, scolding us for perpetuating an old-fashioned immigrant stereotype and imploring us to get with the times.
No such luck.
Madame Honoré beamed, nodding in an I-agree-I-have-been-a-huge-blessing fashion rather than the general I’m-following- what-you’re-saying one. She obviously delighted in her good standing. A properly vetted son to our family’s dateless daughter was a gold mine to parents like Constance and Gérard Thibodeaux of East Orange, New Jersey.
Anne’s shoulders were high and tense. She finally coughed up some flippant words. “Great, thanks.”
“Of course, Anne,” Madame Honoré said tenderly. “You two will make a gorgeous prom couple. Just let us know what color you’d like to wear and my boy will make sure his cummerbund matches.”
Mummy gasped excitedly. “Oh, can’t you just see her in something bright and eye-catching?”
“Mais oui,” agreed Madame Honoré. “I was just about to suggest that—like a peach or even yellow—”
“Black,” Anne interrupted with a confident nod. She leaned forward to look around Papi at Mummy. “I’m wearing black.”
Battle line drawn, she momentarily froze in an eye lock with Mummy. Anne was giving off such Old-West-outlaw energy, a tumbleweed might have blown by. The only motion in this stillness was Jude’s head bob. Dude wasn’t fooling anyone that he was paying atte ntion.
“Eh bien, black it is, chérie,” Madame Honoré murmured. Anne blinked in slow motion and then wedged back into her spot on the crowded sofa.
The particulars were then discussed—the date of the prom, transportation arrangements. It was agreed that after prom, Jude would sleep at a cousin’s nearby house in East Orange.
The room relaxed after everything had been decided. Both mothers appeared happy. Anne looked resigned. All went as was expected.
That is, until a boy my age tore through the front door, reeking of grass and sweat. He was shadowed by an older man I assumed was Madame Honoré’s husband, Honoré. The boy was gnashing on some gum and wearing a dirt-stained baseball uniform.
I sat up, because baseball’s my favorite sport.
“We won!” the boy exclaimed to Madame Honoré, who raised her proud chin and smiled.
He scanned the room for another reaction, and his eyes landed on mine.
“You play?” he interrogated me as my parents greeted the older man, our host’s husband.
The nerve. I felt exposed at a time when I was trying to fly under the radar. The neck swivel was a reflex I couldn’t rein in when I spit out the only comeback I could think of. “Do you?”
Confusion crumpled every corner of the boy’s brown face.
The sight of our interaction prompted Madame Honoré to break out in a gleeful chortle. “And when it is Simone’s turn,” she squawked, gesturing to Baseball Boy, “my younger son Ben will be ready.”
Nope. Not gonna happen. No way was I ever going through with an arranged prom like Anne. With this vow ringing in my heart like a fire alarm, I glared at Ben. And the weirdo he was, he pleasantly smiled back.
Plum lip stain with a hint of metallic gloss. Yup. It’s working nicely with my deep brown complexion and my metal-frame glasses. Only, under the bus shelter’s fluorescent lighting, the shade looks … extra. Way glossier than I’m comfortable with for 6:30 a.m. at a headlights-streaked intersection. What if I see Gavin on the bus? He’ll think I’m trying way too hard. It doesn’t have to be that obvious that I want him to notice me. I dab my lips with a square I yanked from Mummy’s Marie-Antoinette-looking tissue box before I left the house.
“Typical Simone, dulling her shine,” shouts a familiar voice. I close out of the camera mirror and brace for the storm that is my cousin Gabby.
“I knew all this quiet wouldn’t last long,” I call out to Gabby, who is powering up the flat city street like it’s a hill. She heaves out a breath cloud when she reaches the bus shelter. The few commuters trailing behind her arrive with far fewer theatrics.
Despite the March chill in the air, Gabby’s black puffer coat is unzipped and sliding down one shoulder. Her navy-blue uniform skirt is identical to the one I have on, except hers is extra crinkled. An early riser Gabby is not. It takes all the tools in her bag—including a bangin’ morning playlist and bacon-scented candles—to get the girl up and out the house.
“Hey,” she says, louder than necessary, because her earbuds are no doubt on full blast. I give her a wave.
Gabby nods across the street at the bus picking up passengers headed to Newark. “Just imagine! That’ll be your bus next year.”
I purse my lips and give my cousin a side glance. “Hmmph, no, it won’t,” I protest, not willing to concede that I’ll be commuting to the Rutgers Newark campus for my freshman year of college.
“So you’ve spoken to your parents about living on campus?” she asks, and then leans an ear toward me to catch my non-answer. My silence rings loud and clear. Gabby gives a shoulder-bounce chuckle and plugs her earbud back in.
“For your information, I’m planning on talking to them … soon,” I mumble to myself. The first and only time I brought up my desire to live away from home for college, things didn’t go over so well. Thankfully, the paramedics had been called off in time, and blood pressures went back to baseline. For now, I’m letting things breathe for a while before I mention it again. It’s only been a few weeks—er, months. Okay, fine. It’s been a year, but who’s counting?
Mummy’s old-fashioned like oatmeal. If you don’t believe me, check my life—it’s sealed in a boy-proof container, down to the no-dating-until-college rules and the all-girls Catholic high school I go to.
At my ripe old age of seventeen, I’ve never had a boyfriend. And the only time I’ve kissed a boy was during the Christmas play when I was fifteen. Technically, Mary and Joseph weren’t scripted to kiss, but the choir boy was so moved by the Holy Spirit, he went for it. No one noticed, though. A woolly lamb scampered in the way at just the right moment. If I’d known that would be my only lip-lock so far, I would’ve used more tongue.
A New Jersey Transit bus pulls up, but it’s not ours. Why is the number 60 always the last to come? I guess it’s a “perk” of going to a tucked-away school most people in our neighborhood have never heard of. Just because Anne graduated from St. Clare Academy, I’m expected to, too. And I will, in just a few months. My mother convinced her kid sister—Gabby’s mom—that Gabby should go here as well, and I’m grateful for that.
Pretending to be unbothered by the long wait, I lean against the bus shelter’s plexiglass. Instead of making contact, though, I fall right through an empty frame! Status update: The plexiglass is missing! My butt meets the concrete and my legs hang over the low metal bar.
That’s when it goes off like a firecracker: the cackle and pop of Gabby’s unbridled laughter. She is the last person you want around when something embarrassing happens.
“Ohmygod, I’m done! Bye!” she screams, stomping away, and then jogging right back.
“Really?” I hoist myself to a standing position, right my glasses, and smooth down the strands of my puffy blowout. Thank God I’m wearing my New York Mets boy shorts under my skirt. But I’m sure the sight of my spindly long legs slung over the hollowed-out frame is forever etched in my fellow commuters’ minds.
“My bad,” Gabby says. The vein on her forehead gives away that she’s fighting another outburst. “I should’ve asked if you’re okay first.”
“Whatever,” I mutter, dusting off the back of my coat.
“Aw, come here, my clumsy cuz,” Gabby coos, walking over with her arms outstretched. I want to duck, but I don’t trust myself not to trip over my feet because I’m feeling unlucky. My ego’s too wounded to hug her back. My one solace is that Gavin wasn’t around to witness my literal downfall.
My face still feels tight with embarrassment moments later when we finally board the 60 bus. I follow Gabby absentmindedly and almost bump into her when she stops halfway to grip a pole. No more seats. I grab the pole and stare neck-brace rigid out the window. I get so lost in the passing city scenery that I almost miss it when Gavin boards the bus.
I hold my breath and watch as he makes his way down the aisle. His broad shoulders, intense eyes, and the glistening waves in his hair instantly make my heart go beat-beat-beat all through the town. Gavin looks over my head, scanning the back of the bus. Not seeing any space there, he claims a standing spot. Right next to me.
I can’t believe my sudden change in luck. As more commuters climb aboard and pile up behind Gavin, I mentally rehearse my intro.
Gavin peels off his backpack and rests it between his feet. He’s wearing his Millwall Prep Lions jacket, which gives me an in. He may not be aware that I know he just started at Millwall this semester. His uniform and his bus stop have been dead giveaways. Plus, he seems to have a lot of friends—some of whom are loud talkers, which is how I learned his name. Thanks to his school jacket, it won’t seem so creepy if I start a conversation with “Oh, cool—Millwall is our brother school.” Maybe then he’ll ask if I’m coming to the basketball team’s house party tomorrow. (Answer: St. Clare’s varsity basketball team is invited, so all the seniors plan to crash.) And then bam … love connection! Next stop: kissing.
Before I speak up, I let my neck go slack and do a tongue check for anything in my teeth.
“Step all the way in, people!” The bus driver is eagle-eyeing his ginormous rearview mirror like a detention monitor. “The sooner you make room, the sooner we can get going.”
Gavin takes a step toward me, and we are now only inches apart. The dangling gold “G” pendant at the end of his necklace swings back into place.
I catch a wonderful whiff of coconut and argan oil, and recognize the hair product he must’ve used this morning. Does that mean he smells me, too?
