Running Back (New York Leopards 2)

I grabbed Mike’s arm, not intending to let him go. Mike slid me a smile. “And yet here we are.”

The man let out a puff of air, his cheeks inflating and deflating in exasperation. “Only because you are with Mademoiselle Bocharov.”

“It’s Sullivan,” I corrected.

His nose crinkled again, and I half expected him to say something along the lines of “how plebian.” How bougie? Instead, he walked us to the end of the hall. “This is the kitchen. Each girl has a small fridge.” He gestured at a wall filled with what looked like cubbies, and opened one to reveal a one by one foot space packed with milk and fruit.

The rest of the room was pretty spartan, with just one small table by the windows. Two hot plates. One microwave. No toaster, no oven. “And they eat here?”

“Mostly they eat downstairs. But they can keep snacks here.”

He led us across the hall, and opened the door to a common room. Two couches sat on beige colored carpeting, and a bookcase filled with worn paperbacks stood against the far wall. Closer to us, a flat screen TV played a British show to the three girls in the room. They looked up briefly when we entered.

Our guide waved. “The common room.”

The smallness and gray walls would have been depressing, except that out of the corner of the window, you could just see part of the Eiffel Tower rising into the sky.

How surreal.

For the first time, I actually tried to picture Mom here. Here, in this room, which looked like it hadn’t changed since the eighties. Sitting on those flat cushions of the brown tweed couch, staring at the screen, or out the windows, at the rooftops and wires and the metal structure rising above all of it.

What did she want out of life when she was here? How did she think her life was going to end up?

Mike tugged on my hand, and I realized the man was off again, down the hall with unexpectedly fleet feet, until he reached the end of the hall. He rapped on a door. “C’est Carl.”

The door opened, and a tall, skinny girl stood before us, with prominent cheekbones and a long, thin blade of a nose. She’d bound her hair up in a sleek bun, like a ballerina. “Quoi?”

“C’est la fille de Madame Bocharov.” To me, he said, “This was your mother’s room.”

I could hardly believe he remembered her actual room, but I still found myself looking past the teenager to the tiny, boxy space. Clothes were draped over chairs and th

e two twin beds, black stretchy things with sparkles and oversized sweaters that confused me.

On the opposite wall, the window looked out toward another building. A tree waved its leaves at us. Above the beds, photos and posters formed colorful wallpaper.

It wasn’t depressing, exactly. It was just... I couldn’t help looking back at the girl. She watched me with narrowed eyes. They weren’t like Anna’s, who must have a year or two on this girl. Anna’s eyes were angry sometimes and young at others. This girl just looked watchful. “I didn’t know she had children.” Her accent was thick and strange.

“Just me.”

“You have her email? Her agent’s?”

Fourteen or fifteen and trying to network.

Carl scowled. “Don’t bother Mademoiselle Bocharov.”

“It’s okay.” I swallowed and smiled at the girl. “Where are you from?”

“Ukraine.”

“And how long have you been here?”

“One year.”

“And do you like it?”

Her gaze flickered to Carl. “I love it. I have a good job, good friends. I live in the best city in the world. Though I would like to go to New York.”

I had no idea if I believed her. She sounded sincere. Maybe she was. Maybe my mother had been, when she recalled her memories here. I’d always thought my mom couldn’t have been old enough at fourteen to know what she wanted.