The Ruby Notebook Read Online Free Page B

the
fantôme
. I glance around, then stir four cubes of sugar into my tiny espresso cup with a pinkie-sized spoon and take a baby sip to make it last. That’s what French people do—savor small sips of small servings in small cups. Layla’s at an English teachers’ training today, so I’m on my own at Café Cerise. I’ve written down my goals for today in my notebook.
    1) Find the fantôme
.
    2) Buy more yogurt in those cute little jars
.
    3) Make some friends
.
    Usually after I’ve spent a week in a country, I’ve managed to form some friendships. The sooner I make friends, thelonger I have with them until Layla and I move on to the next country.
    The band Illusion starts playing about five meters away, just under the tree by the edge of the café tables. Their outfits are different today but still blaze red and gold with tiny ornaments glinting the sunlight—old coins, soda-can tops, beads. Their melodies suck me in, like a whirlpool, making my insides spin and dance.
    I look around again. I’m not usually paranoid. But now that I think about it, why wouldn’t I feel I was being watched? The Place de la Mairie is like one giant stage at the heart of town. Everyone is watching everyone else. In fact, the main occupation here at Café Cerise seems to be watching. And now, most eyes are focused on Illusion.
    People in Aix-en-Provence love street performers. Accordionists, drummers, singers, jugglers, harpists—you name it—make their rounds around town, usually lingering here in this square. It’s a prime, sunny spot, in front of the café tables that line two sides of the square like theater seating. There’s an expanse of space, perfect for performing, just between the fountain and the ancient city hall building and the historic post office. Peering out over each of the arched windows are carved stone faces bursting with expression—jovial, devilish, grumpy, snooty, angelic.
    The fountain is the centerpiece; it’s circular, with a round column shooting up high, topped with a stone ball. Water spurts out from four sides, and short, wide steps lead up toit, covered with kids and pigeons. The fountains scattered throughout town are why we chose Aix. The fountains and the light. The only thing Wendell has ever told me he saw in our future was this: a place with amazing light and fountains everywhere.
    Back in Ecuador, when we mentioned these features to Layla, she said she knew just the place. She unfolded seven crumpled, weather-worn sheets of lined yellow paper that had survived for seventeen years and seventeen moves. Her List—one of her most treasured possessions—records all the places travelers have urged her to visit over the years. She has declared them the coolest places in the world. Whenever she’s getting restless and ready to leave a country, she peruses the List to find our new home.
    There’s not too much logic to where on the List we go next; it’s usually some place drastically different from the one we’re in. Sacred sites are always a plus for Layla, especially if water rituals are involved. Last year she chose Ecuador after she heard about bathing in the Peguche Waterfall to make wishes come true. When she found out that Aix-en-Provence was built over a network of springs, she was sold. And when she learned it’s just an hour from the miraculous cave springs of Lourdes—which we visited the jet-lagged day after we got here—she was in heaven.
    Aix-en-Provence is near the top of page one of the List, which means someone must have recommended it a long time ago, before I was born. Next to it, in purple pen, Laylawrote,
fountains, light, art, ruins, underground springs, cafés, music
. And as fate would have it, there were a few summer-abroad art programs here for Wendell to choose from. It was a good choice, but for me, anywhere would have been fine, as long as Wendell was there. I can easily blend into any scene, quickly take stock of how people act, and slip right in,