The Casquette Girls (Book 1)

7. Ciao, bella

October 11th

I leaned so close to the vanity mirror, my nose nearly touched it. The natural light poured through the open curtains, directly onto the cheek I was examining. Like magic, the crow's slash had stopped hurting overnight. What's in that ointment? Regardless, there was a disgusting scab forming from the base of my neck almost to my eye. Thank God the crow didn't tear another inch. I could've been blinded in one eye. The scab was gross, but at least now I could lose the bandage. My hand dressing was downgraded to a couple of large Band-Aids.

In better news, listening to my father and not staying up all night meant signs of life were slowly coming back to my face. No more bloodshot eyes, and the puffy, dark circles from switching time zones had mostly faded.

After showering, I slathered on an assortment of fancy French crèmes my mother had stocked my dorm room with. She must be doing something right, to stay so young looking. As I breathed in the lavender moisturizer, I wondered if she used the same scent. Too lazy to do much else, I ripped a brush through my tangles, spritzed in some leave-in conditioner, and hoped my mop of brown waves would dry in a decent manner.

Black leggings. Gray T-shirt. Shit-kickers. Long chain with the sun charm.

It was unsettling that my old routine felt only vaguely familiar. When will things start to feel normal again?

My brush handle spun, knocking something off the vanity that hit the floor with a clank. It was the silver medallion I'd found in the disintegrated lace. In the morning light, I could now see there was something underneath the impression of the burned star. Initials. I breathed heavily on the silver and rubbed it with my towel, vowing to clean it properly later in my father's studio.

The letters ASG had been etched in a sweeping calligraphy that matched the ornate border.

I flipped it over to see if I'd missed anything else last night. Blank. Then I found myself slipping it onto the silver chain next to the sun charm. My collar slouched off one shoulder, revealing the gris-gris ribbon.

Who was ASG?

***

My father looked depressed, blindly dumping stuff into a large garbage can. I stood in his doorway, holding my second café au (powdered) lait, wondering whether I should stay and help him.

"Morning," I said.

"Hey, baby." He walked over and took a hard look at my injured cheek.

I looked around the room as he moved my chin around and decided that having to unexpectedly throw away piles of your own work was something an artist would want to do alone. "I'm gonna go for a walk, check out the grocery situation, and swing by Café Orléans. I didn't get a chance yesterday."

"All right, let's go for a run when you get back, before it gets too hot?"

"Ugh, sure." It had been weeks since I'd done any real physical activity.

"That's the spirit, honey."

I smiled and left the coffee for him on his workbench.

In the foyer, I stopped to grab my bag, but before I could reach my keys, they shot up into my palm.

I stopped short.

Instinctively, I looked around to see if anyone else had just witnessed the strange occurrence.

Breathe.

My eyes slipped shut as phantom ticks from the grandfather clock pounded in my chest. I racked my brain for a reasonable explanation, but nothing came to mind. I felt strangely at odds, like my subconscious was trying to fight back—fighting the part of me that was desperately trying to suppress yesterday's memories as if they were a bad dream.