Erased

8

BEFORE
Early July
(Eighteen months ago)

The long sleeves of my shirt were damp with sweat and stuck to my arms. I knew summers in Paris could get unbearably scorching, but I somehow underestimated the sun today. Entering through the glass double doors of a shop, I breathed out freely once again, as the cool breeze from an air conditioner came in contact with my skin. I enjoyed the sun, yes, but what I really didn't like — more of despise — was the heat. It could just get unbearable during the summer, and this is one of the few days that it is.

No one was in the store, but it isn't too surprising to me. With the Internet, and all, no one would really bother to come here at Films Galore to borrow DVDs. It's the last of it's kind here in our tiny corner of suburban Paris. My dad, however, tells me a lot of stories on how he grew up with his VCR player, and how often he would be in a similar place to get tapes. He would pick up some microwave popcorn at the nearest 7Eleven, a couple bags of Starbursts, then he would go home to watch the movies with his siblings. Which makes me remember, I haven't seen Aunt Martinique and Aunt Bethany. Dad tells me I would remind him of them because of my bright blue eyes. He spent his childhood days in a small town in Lyon. Moving here was a risk he had to take, but he met my mom, and everything clicked to place — until she disappeared, anyway, but I rather not care much about people who just vanish to thin air.

Even though there wasn't a line in the checkout, I could hear a faint sound of shuffling going on near the counter. There was something unusually cool about the place, it had a vintage-hipster-ish vibe written all over it. Reluctantly, I pulled out my phone, ready to face the twenty bombarding messages from my dad, probably to remind me of the list of movies he wanted me to bring home for our customary father-daughter movie nights. Or maybe one of twenty texts from Alya, spilling the beans on her third getaway this summer.

She sent me a photo of the bluest beach I have ever seen with her figure sitting on the sand, her reddish dip dyed hair cascading over her bare back. I almost cannot remember her hair before she dyed it. She makes it look like she was born with it. The second photo was a swirl of pink and blue soft ice cream on her hand, overlooking a boardwalk. This girl knows exactly how to blow up an aesthetic ovary.

I scrolled to the end of our conversation. Not even a single Hello or maybe a Missing you! or Wish you were here! which, I don't really expect from Alya, to begin with. That girl is so friendly, practically she is friends with even the lowest of the low in our school. Not that I envy her, but I sometimes wish I had that much guts in myself for adventure and discovery. Sadly, the only place I'd always be is in the music room, or in some obscure vintage vinyl record shop around the corner. Squinting even closer into the photo, I see a distant blonde girl smiling back, and without a doubt, I knew the girl would be none other than Chloe Bourgeois. Yes. Even Alya could gather up enough confidence and blind loyalty to be friends with that girl. Something just happened between us during the fifth grade, and I was sure that there was no going back after what she had done.

After scanning just a few shelves of DVDs, I gave up and decided to talk to the clerks here on what to watch. Shoving my phone back to my pocket, I walked on over to the counter to get myself enlightened.

"Hey, welcome to Films Galore!" The boy exclaimed... a little too happily to be normal. "How can I help you?"

I just spaced out for a second before I could think of a reply to him. My mouth hung open, and he gave a light chuckle — sending a thousand watts chilling up my spine.