The Invisible Circus - Jennifer Egan [55]
“Hel-lo, hel-lo, hel-lo,” they called, as if it gave them pleasure to say it.
“Hello,” Phoebe replied. She offered them her chocolate bar, but the boys shook their heads and turned shyly away. Their bicycles leaned near the door of the shop, and the oldest boy mounted his and rode a few paces ahead. The smaller boys clambered onto their own bikes and followed him. When they looked back at Phoebe, she waved good-bye, relieved to see them go. Children made her nervous. She was used to being the youngest herself, noticed only sporadically, following others’ examples rather than setting one herself.
She continued through the village. The road swung out of town and plunged downhill. The cyclists weren’t far ahead. Phoebe slowed, waiting for them to ride out of view, but the boys, too, slowed down, until it was clear they were waiting for her. “Hel-lo, hel-lo,” they called as Phoebe approached.
She forced herself to smile. “Avec moi?” she asked with feigned incredulity, hoping to discourage them.
The boys surrounded Phoebe in a kind of pack. Alarmed, she wondered if her “Avec moi?” had been mistaken for an invitation. She left the town with her five companions in tow. They chattered among themselves, weaving their bicycles in S patterns over the crushed silver pavement so as not to outpace her. It was strange, not being able to speak to them. Phoebe felt like a bad hostess.
The road ducked under tall trees, and soon they were inside a forest. Wind hissed and gushed in the leaves.
“Dinant?” Phoebe asked, pointing downhill.
“Oui, oui,” the boys chanted.
The oldest rode close to Phoebe. “Pourquoi est-ce-que vous êtes seule?” he said.
“Je ne comprends pas,” Phoebe said, so haltingly that the boy couldn’t possibly have doubted her. She’d abandoned French for Spanish in eighth grade.
“Pourquoi est-ce-que vous êtes seule?” he repeated more slowly.
Phoebe shook her head, embarrassed, and forced a smile. “I don’t understand,” she said.
“Pourquoi est-ce-que vous êtes seule?” said another boy, loudly now, obviously sharing in the misconception that repetition combined with volume would get the message across. Phoebe racked her brains. She’d known the word “seule,” but what did it mean? Then she remembered. Alone. The boys were asking why she was alone. Phoebe pretended not to understand. She felt as if they had glimpsed something shameful in her.
The littlest boy rode close to Phoebe and smiled up at her, revealing a black hole where four front teeth would eventually be. He said something in French, lisping the words, still grinning his toothless, open-mouthed smile. When Phoebe didn’t answer, he kept talking, mocking her, she thought, showing off for the older boys at her expense.
“I don’t understand!” she cried. “I don’t understand. Please stop talking to me!” She was shouting, on the verge of tears.
The child’s face went entirely blank. He stopped pedaling abruptly and so did the others, in one motion. They gazed at Phoebe with dark, serious eyes. Instantly she saw that what she’d taken for mockery was no more than high spirits, excitement at the adventure of escorting an American girl into Dinant. Now they looked stung, as if Phoebe had turned on them without warning. Her sharp words hung there, trapped under the trees.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She wanted to say it in French but could not find the words. “I’m sorry.”
The boys watched her with sad, solemn faces. “I’m sorry!” Phoebe cried with more urgency, but at the sound of her raised voice all five boys turned as one and began pedaling quickly away, back up the hill. The youngest, who was barefoot, lagged behind the rest. He glanced fearfully back at Phoebe, tiny legs straining frantically on the pedals. Finally he stood up to get more leverage, rounded a bend and was out of sight.
Phoebe burst into tears. For several minutes she stood weeping in the middle of the road, the choking, gulping sobs of childhood. Something was wrong; something was wrong but she didn’t know what. She