Epilogue
Now
Dad’s walking me to my first day of school at école Jarret.
We talk about my classes and the gorgeous early-September weather.
He asks me, once again, if I’m sure I can handle this.
I don’t roll my eyes. I don’t tell him I killed a vampire, bathed in his blood, ashed his heart, and ate his grave dirt, so going to school in French holds no terrors for me.
Instead, I say yes, I can handle this. And I thank him, again, for letting me stay in Paris.
“Madame Dupuy will meet you right here after school,” he says when we get to the school gate. He’s told me this like five times.
“Okay,” I say. That’s also part of our bargain. Madame Dupuy walks me to and from school. And I get to stay in Paris, where I belong.
“Be careful,” he says, because he still wants to protect me. I say I will, and he hugs me, then watches me go into the schoolyard. I turn around once I’m inside and wave. He waves back, then starts down the street, and I relax, the weight of his worry slipping off my shoulders.
The school’s courtyard is filled with students, their voices bouncing off the stone walls of the buildings in a clamor of shouts and laughter.
I see Noor standing near the entry doors, and I hurry over and hug her.
What with vacations and getting me reenrolled in school after Dad had unenrolled me, we haven’t seen each other since we cured ourselves.
“I got you something from Turkey,” she singsongs, and pulls a palm-sized box out of her backpack.
“Yay, a souvenir.” I clap excitedly. “Is it cheesy? Is it the cheesiest?”
She nods sideways, scrunching her face up. “Maybe not so cheesy. But I thought you would like it.”
I open the box, and inside, nestled in tissue paper, is a chain with a round, dark blue glass pendant on it. On the pendant are concentric colored circles: white, then pale blue, then black.
“It is a charm against the evil eye,” she says, taking it out of my hand and motioning me to turn so she can fasten it around my neck.
“I love it. And on a silver chain, too. So thoughtful. So vampire-resistant.” I hand her a packet printed with Swiss flags.
“I got something for you, too.” She opens it and lifts out a cowbell keychain, the gaudiest one I could find.
The bell is painted all over with cows, edelweiss flowers, and Swiss flags and hangs from a wide leather strap with absurd blue, red, green, white, and yellow fringe along its edges.
“It is perfect,” she says, holding it up.
“I love it. What is it?” I tell her, and she rings it, producing a clonk, clonk that sends us into giggles.
She attaches it to her backpack, and every time she moves it clonks and we dissolve into laughter.
“Are you ready for this?” she asks when we’ve finally exhausted the comic possibilities of cowbells.
I do the one-shoulder shrug. “Yeah.” We watch the other students as they talk and joke and show each other things on their phones. “Madame Dupuy talked to her family yesterday,” I say quietly. “They were really interested in the cures. They want to run some experiments.”
Noor looks shocked. “There are enough”—she hesitates, then drops her voice—“vampires to do that where they are?”
I nod. “Not just where they are.” The man I bit is still weighing on me. And Le Bec’s victims, too—the ones who didn’t die.
“I will be interested to know the results of their experiments.”
“Imagine if they find a nonhorrible way to cure v mode,” I say.
“Oh, that would be so wonderful.”
Nick comes through the gate, followed by Martine and Youssef, and we wave, smiling tentatively. He sees us and lifts his chin in a guy wave, without quite making eye contact. Martine waves, and Youssef raises his hand in a half wave, happy to see us, I think, but also following Nick’s lead.
“Should we go over?” I ask. “I don’t want to make Nick uncomfortable.”
Noor gives me a look. “I think it is okay if Nick is a little uncomfortable.”
“What do you mean?” I watch a cluster of students smoking under a plane tree. Noor and I would be standing with them now, wary and worried about v mode, if we hadn’t gone after Le Bec.
“I know he thinks that you hurt him that night, but he should allow you to make amends.”
“I’ve tried.” I shrug helplessly. “I mean, we cured ourselves, and he knows that because I told him. We took responsibility. I’m not sure what else I could do to persuade him how awful I feel about what happened.” I glance over at him. He and Youssef are laughing. He looks happy and carefree.
Noor follows my gaze. “He also did something terrible to you without intending to when he introduced you to Le Bec. You accepted his apology. Does he think his pain is worse than yours was?”
“Fair question.” I watch a clump of kids approach Nick and Youssef. I recognize them from that night at Le Shopping. I think they’re cataphiles.
“I think we should not let his discomfort keep us from our friends. And in any case, cataphiles do not leave each other behind.”
Martine glances over at us and smiles, and it seems like a welcome. We cross the schoolyard toward her, and the smile turns to a grin. She embraces us both. “I am so happy to see you,” she says.
“Me too,” I reply. “I thought I’d never be able to leave our apartment again. I thought I’d have to do school online. But we worked it out, and Dad even agreed to let me do an extracurricular activity.” He kind of had to. It’s a graduation requirement. “So I’ll be doing Model UN with you.”
“Super!” Martine hugs me, and I hug her back, hard. I missed her so much. When I finally let go, she tries to persuade Noor to join the team with us.
Noor shakes her head, smiling. “I am joining the rock-climbing group.”
I can tell Martine is as surprised as I am. Noor’s never mentioned anything about climbing. “I didn’t know you were into that,” I say. “Except for, you know.” I point at the ground.
Noor nods. “That is a benefit. But if I want to do pieces on big buildings—if I want my work to really be seen—I will need the skills I can learn doing rock climbing.”
Martine and I agree that it’s a brilliant idea, although I can tell she’s a little disappointed that we won’t all be doing Model UN together.
Noor asks her about her vacation and shows off the cowbell, making Martine laugh.
We compare notes about beaches and hiking trails and the street-art scene and food.
It feels comforting and happy, and I’m so glad to be exactly where I am at this moment.
Exactly where I should be. Youssef asks Martine a question, and she turns to answer.
I look around the schoolyard, noticing faces, wondering if I’ll see them in my classes.
On one side of the yard, the blank white side of a narrow building rises sixty feet above us.
I nudge Noor with my shoulder. “That would be a great place for a piece.” She follows my gaze and laughs.
“I’m serious,” I say. “Nobody could paint over a building-sized Headscarf Girl.” She pulls her sketchbook out of her backpack, and I know I’ve hooked her.
I watch as she fills a page with thumbnail sketches, working out the composition.
She turns the page and makes a bigger drawing, of two figures.
I recognize myself from the nimbus of curls that surrounds the head and spills over the shoulders of the second girl.
I look up at the building again, imagining what the sketch would look like big enough to fill the blank space, and I can see it, faint gray outlines emerging from the flat, white expanse.
Then color blooms across the figures: Noor’s scarf shimmers with the colors of a forest, from the gold-green of new leaves to the dark blue-green of a stand of fir.
My hair takes on the tones of a fall forest, all oranges and reds and russets.
Our faces come to life, just as I’ve seen other faces take shape under Noor’s spray can.
We look happy. We look strong. Our bodies start to resolve.
Noor is wearing tones of violet—pale for her jeans, darker for her long-sleeved tee and Chuck Taylor high-tops.
Splashes of color are scattered across her shirt, like she’s been painting.
My clothes are the color of the sea. Greeny tropical blues shimmer and swoop over my loose top and leggings, darkening to cobalt and lightening again as restlessly as waves.
On my feet, I recognize my favorite checkerboard Vans.
We’re standing on a pedestal of block letters that spell out “Nosh.”
The mural continues to develop as I gaze awestruck at it.
Shapes gain dimension, colors gain depth.
Mural Noor is now holding a spray can, its nozzle pointed straight out like she’s painting the air in front of her.
There’s a quirk to her mouth that wasn’t there a minute ago.
She looks ready to step off the wall and into the world.
I look at Mural Tosh and notice she’s holding a padlock in the palm of her hand—an old-fashioned one, with the lock on the front.
The shackle is open. Her other hand holds a pick.
“It’s spectacular,” I say. I imagine showing it to Mina and Lily when they come to visit next summer.
It almost seems to be breathing. There’s a clatter of wings, and a pigeon rises in front of it—just a normal pigeon being itself, plump and gray and real.
The sun catches a patch of iridescent feathers on its neck as it wheels and disappears.
Noor is still beside me drawing the mural into life, and I know that soon enough, everyone will see what I’m seeing—two badass girls, sixty feet tall and unstoppable.