Isla and the Happily Ever After

It happens one evening in the cafeteria. There’s a rare conversational break between Kurt and his friends, and I pounce before I lose my nerve. “Angoulême is this weekend. You guys wanna go with me?”

Angoulême is the name of a town about three hours south-west of Paris by train, but it’s also shorthand for the largest comics festival in Europe. Its black-and-white wildcat mascot has been crunched in every advertising space not already occupied by the Olympics. It feels like a symbol of everything that I’ve lost. If Josh were still here – and if we were still together – we’d take the day trip without a second thought. I need to prove to myself that I can do it without him. And I’ve seen Nikhil and Michael reading comics, so surely this is not an unattractive offer?

“I thought you were done with leaving this city without permission,” Kurt says.

“It’s one afternoon,” I say. “The school will never know.”

Nikhil sits up eagerly. He’s tiny and excitable, a kittenish ball of energy, and he always speaks in an enthusiastic babble. “That sounds fun. Yeah, guys, let’s do it! We should totally do it.”

Michael grins at him with a full mouth of braces. “I wonder why you want to go.”

“It’s because he wants to bone Isla,” Kurt says.

“Kurt.” I’m mortified.

“Yeah.” Michael rolls his eyes. “I know.”

“Oh.” Kurt sinks. They may be friends, but they don’t have each other’s rhythms down yet. And then he immediately perks back up, because he still has the upper hand on information. “It won’t happen. She’s still hung up on Josh.”

“Kurt, I’m sitting right here.” I try to give Nikhil an apologetic wince, but he stares determinedly at his food tray. His dark brown skin has taken on a pinky-red undertone. Crushes are so awful. I wonder if they suck worse for the crush-er or the crush-ee. I consider my three years of watching Josh from afar. Yeah, definitely the crush-er.

Poor Nikhil.

Poor me.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Michael says. He speaks with a shrewd authority that’s belied by his ungroomed, sticky-uppy hair. “Saturday is the only day Arnaud can take us underground.”

“Who’s Arnaud?” I ask.

Kurt stabs a roasted potato with his fork. “Our first connection. Michael found him. He works at the sewer system museum.”

“There’s a sewer system museum?” On the upside, at least this means there are still things for me to learn about Paris. Since I’ll be here for a while. If Kurt stays interested in this stuff, I suppose someday I’ll be crawling around underground, too. It doesn’t sound so bad. Cramped and dirty, yes. But it’d be an adventure. I suppose.

“Yes, of course,” Kurt says. As if all cities have sewer museums. “Why don’t you come with us this weekend instead?”

I imagine drainage and mud and darkness. And then I imagine a train and the open countryside and a sleepy town filled with comic books.

Yeah. I’ll make friends another day.

That night, there’s a letter waiting for me. I stare into my mailbox, afraid to pick it up. I want it to be from him. I want it to be from him so badly.

My arm trembles as I reach inside and pull it out.

It’s not from him.

The blow to my chest is as strong as ever. I’m still not any closer to being over Josh. Not even a centimetre closer, not even a millimetre. People say that the only thing that heals heartbreak is time. But how much time will it take?

The return address comes into focus, and I’m hit with a second shock wave. I shred open the envelope, right there in the hall, and rip out the letter. My head reels. I read the first sentence again, but the words haven’t changed. It’s a different kind of heartbreak. On behalf of the faculty and staff, it is with great pleasure that I inform you of your admission to Dartmouth College.

The streets of Angoulême overflow with red balloons and swarms of happy readers. But their excitement can’t stop the rain. Why does it rain every time I travel? This time, I don’t wait to buy an umbrella. I haven’t seen the last one since Barcelona. Josh must have it. Or maybe we left it in the park. Umbrellas are so small and sad and easy to forget.

I wander through the town, the venues, the comics museum. Festivals like this aren’t as crazed as their American counterparts – and there are far fewer people in costume – but the Europeans in attendance are still showing less restraint than usual. I try to get caught up in their enthusiasm, and occasionally it works. Like when I discover a new-to-me author-illustrator who writes about a split life between China and America. It’s only after I purchase two volumes that I realize how much Josh would like her work, too. And the fact that I can’t share it with him makes my heart hurt all over again.

It gets worse when I find myself faced with a large display featuring only titles by Joann Sfar. And then even worse when I discover one of Josh’s favourite artists in the flesh, and I have to talk myself out of getting a book signed for him. It feels selfish, so I talk myself back into it, thinking I’ll just have something signed. No personalization. If I ever see him again, he can have it. But the moment the cartoonist asks, I blurt, “‘To Josh’, please.” And before I can correct my mistake, my ex-boyfriend’s name – at least I can say that word now – has been inked onto the front page beside an illustration of a rose.

Of all things. A rose.

I can’t win.

Back in Paris, the posters for the Olympics make me wonder if I should buy a ticket to Chambéry next month. But the thought of another crowded train, another crowded town, all of those crowded hotels…ugh. No.

That’s how I’m feeling about everything these days: ugh. No.

The city remains as cold as ever. A few days after Angoulême, I pop into one of the Latin Quarter’s identical gyro joints, seeking warmth in the form of hot frites. Or French fries, which should really be called Belgian fries, if America wants to get correct about it.

Ohmygod. No wonder I don’t have any friends.

The restaurant is empty. I sit in the back with the second volume of the Chinese-American split-life autobiography. I haven’t been able to put it down. Much of it is depressingly, satisfyingly familiar.

The door dings, and another customer enters the restaurant.

Sanjita looks as startled to see me as I am to see her. She waves, uncertain. I return the gesture. She also purchases a sleeve of frites, and I’m thankful that she’s the one who has to make the decision: leave or join me. The restaurant is too small, and we have too much of a history, for her to sit alone.