Chapter XLI. Papillon de Nuit.
XLI.
PAPILLON DE NUIT.
LOS ANGELES.
Julien has a girlfriend. A pretty blond from Bancroft.
The same one I spotted him doting over the night we lost Leelou.
He’d spent hours chatting with her on the phone from France, all throughout August. When I’d asked him who was demanding all his time, he’d said it was “no one” or “just a friend.” But Ava, as I eventually learned, is a fellow ninth grader who shares a love for soccer, Minecraft, and Seth Rogen.
She is a budding baker, and often shows up to the house with freshly baked matcha-and-white-chocolate cookies, or carrot cake with cream-cheese frosting.
Once, a dozen impressive Ispahan macarons.
Some divine concoction of raspberry and lychee.
Many a Friday night, the two of them will camp out in our media room watching questionably appropriate films like Knocked Up, Superbad, and Neighbors.
But the fact that Julien is home, under our roof, and not in situations that could go terribly wrong brings me some peace of mind.
On one such Friday, when Francois is at a business dinner, and Julien and Ava are watching The 40-Year-Old Virgin, I cannot be bothered to cook.
After a number of guarded texts, Anouk and I planned to lunch at Fig earlier in the day, but she bailed at the last minute.
Claimed she had a conference call for a P.S.
Arts fundraiser. It is the third time she’s canceled our plans since her return from the .
She is avoiding me. Avoiding us. I suppose I cannot blame her.
But I fear that the more time that goes by without us discussing it, the more fractured our relationship.
And that, perhaps, I’ve already become one of those “favorite people” she won’t even reach out to when Paris is burning.
She’s already moved on. Like a papillon de nuit.
And so, with the hope of both temporarily lifting my spirits and making the kids happy, I order pizza from our favorite spot in the Palisades.
Julien and Ava take their slices into the media room, but Lucie and I sit around the kitchen island sharing a pepperoni-and-sausage pie and an arugula-and-artichoke salad from Il Piccolo Ritrovo. I am looking forward to the distraction of conversation, but my daughter is unusually quiet.
I watch as she picks at her food—a small plate of salad, three bites of her pizza—before pushing it aside.
“I thought you loved this pizza, Luce. Changed your mind?”
She shrugs in response. Her pointy shoulders barely registering beneath her large sweatshirt.
“There’s nothing quite like American pizza. We’ll miss this when we move back.”
She shrugs again, and then, after a moment, “Do I have a Black girl’s butt?”
“A what? A Black girl’s butt?”
Was this a trick question? A land mine, really.
Black girls’ butts are suddenly in high demand, unlike when I was young, thanks in part to the Kardashians and America’s obsession with reality television.
There are even surgeries now. Lucie’s isn’t quite there, yet, but it isn’t nonexistent either. Does she want it to be?
“Well, at least half,” I say, splitting the difference.
“Less than half, because you have all that Asian.”
I smile. “So maybe a quarter, more or less? Do you want a Black girl’s butt?”
She shrugs again.
“Did someone tell you you had one?”
She’s quiet. Pushing the pizza plate farther away.
“Luce?”
“Daisy and Mackenzie.”
It takes a second for it to register. Her “friends” from ballet. And just like that, it all starts to make sense.
“When did they say that, Luce?”
“When didn’t they say it? All the time. That the reason Miss Margaret is always telling me to tuck my hips is because I have a Black girl’s butt. And Black girls’ butts aren’t good for ballet—”
“They said that?”
“—and that it ruined the line. And that Black girls had big butts and boobs and everything about that is against what ballet is supposed to be and that’s why there aren’t any Black ballet dancers.”
I can feel my blood pressure rising. “And you believed that?”
“There aren’t many, Mom.”
“There’s like … all of the Dance Theatre of Harlem. And Alvin Ailey. There’s Misty Copeland.”
“But I’m not Misty Copeland. I don’t want to be Misty Copeland. Everyone compares me to Misty.”
“That’s a huge compliment, Luce.”
“That’s just what they go to because they can’t think of anyone else.
And I don’t want to dance for Alvin Ailey—I know you love them—or the Dance Theatre of Harlem.
Or Auntie Jane’s company. Please don’t tell her that.
I want to dance for the Paris Opéra. Or the Royal Ballet in London.
Or New York City Ballet. I don’t want to do modern or contemporary or anything else. I want to do classic ballet.”
She is so worked up, she’s beginning to sweat. Her cheeks flushed, her eyes enlarged.
“But I guess it’s a nonissue now, because my body is all wrong.”
“Your body is not all wrong.”
“It is. You don’t have to lie to me. It is.” She bites her lip, hard. Her eyes are brimming. Oh, my sweet little Ladybug.
I move to hug her, and she lets me.
“Your body is perfect because it’s your body.
And it’s strong, and flexible, and capable and incredibly well-conditioned.
And you can do things with it most of us have only ever dreamed of doing.
And when you get to my age and attempt to do an arabesque, but your leg only comes this high off the ground and you’ve lost all flexibility in your lower back, you will say, ‘Wow. I used to be able to do amazing things with this body. Why was I complaining?’”
“No, I won’t.”
“Yes, you will. Trust me, you will.” I move forward then, holding her heart-shaped face in my hands.
“Forget about Daisy and Mackenzie. If you want to take a break from ballet for a bit and focus on something else, that’s fine.
But when you’re ready, I’d like you to try to go back.
Maybe we find a different school, a different teacher.
But ballet is something that used to make you very, very happy.
And I don’t want you to throw it away because of something a couple of mean girls said.
Don’t let them win. You’re thirteen. You have decades in the future to give up your dreams.”
She takes a moment to respond. “Did you have dreams you gave up?”
“Nope. Not really. I wanted to make art. I wanted to be a mom. And I wanted to live in France. So”—I smile—“for the moment it’s two out of three. Not so bad.”
She smiles then. Her first in a long while. “Not so bad.”
I don’t see Anouk until a week later, at a cocktail party Kennedy is cohosting for a nonprofit organization. The event takes place in Brentwood at the home of a friend of hers on Carmelina Avenue, situated on a large lot below Sunset.
Hayden and I arrive together at the secluded Mediterranean-style manse and are greeted with glasses of Moet & Chandon in the oversized living room.
There are servers proffering trays of Parmesan-stuffed bacon-wrapped dates and new potatoes dolloped with crème fra?che and caviar.
An Agnes Martin over the fireplace. A Damien Hirst on the opposing wall.
The crowd is a sea of similar faces. Ones that I do not individually recognize but at the same time feel familiar. Frozen, filled. The Westside Tribe.
Champagne and canapés in hand we spill out into the backyard with its beautifully cultivated garden. The sky a muted purple. Magnolia and olive trees lit from below.
Kennedy spots us and waves us over to where she is standing with Brooke and another blond I don’t recognize.
“You gorgeous women, you, thank you for coming!” she greets us. “Meet Aurora, my cohost. Aurora, you know Hayden Altschul, Ryan’s wife. And this is Cecilia Chen, the artist friend I told you about. She’s showing at the Hammer. Cecilia’s husband is Francois Charlot.”
“Yes, of course, lovely to meet you, Cecilia.”
Aurora resembles a fortysomething Candice Bergen.
Enviably thick bob, clefted chin, ski-jump nose.
Her navy sheath dress and pearls feel decidedly un-LA.
More north of the Merritt than north of San Vicente.
For a brief moment, Lorry Kenter comes to mind, his Waspy mother with her Fair Isle sweaters and her worn duck boots, and the countless times I drove the verdant parkway to his family’s home in Greenwich.
Mostly eager, happy. Once, crying so hard I could not see.
“You have a beautiful home,” I say.
“Thank you. So glad you ladies could sneak out on a school night. I know people are distracted with the election next week, but this organization is doing such great work, Kennedy and I wanted to do something special. So many important causes in the world. But we’re women, we can focus on more than one cause at a time.
Please drink, eat. There’s a short presentation inside in fifteen minutes. ”
Hayden leans into me, the moment Aurora’s out of earshot. “You know, this is their party house. They actually live in the house next door.”
“Vanessa did the interiors. We used her for our place in Punta Mita,” Brooke adds.
“Their party house?”
“Yep.” Brooke nods. “Aurora and her husband own houses on adjacent lots. One they live in, and the other they use for parties and fundraising events. Great tax write-off.”
My expression must read incredulous, because she follows that up with, “Seriously.” And then, “He’s the CEO of a tech company. She’s from Connecticut.”
I am downing a caviar-covered potato when I spot Anouk making her way toward us through the crowd. She is stunning in a sage wrap dress, tanned skin, coral lips. Heads turn in her direction. The familiar expressions of recognition and awe.
“Salut, les filles.”
She greets me as she greets the others—with a French bise, casual kisses on each cheek—revealing nothing.
“?a va?”
“?a va,” I respond.
She is not wearing our necklace.
“Beautiful night tonight,” she says, and then little else, before she excuses herself to greet someone she recognizes across the yard.
My heart sinks. The idea that I am no longer the center of her world. That she has flitted on to something shiny and new.
Kennedy and Aurora share presentation duties and introduce the director of the nonprofit, who speaks to the value of providing aspiring female artists of color with meaningful mentorships and internships in the film and television industry.
Following, two twentysomething Latina filmmakers and one African American screenwriter share stories about their difficulties gaining entrée despite their respective degrees and credentials.
I note that once again, with the exception of the mentee screenwriter, I am the only noticeably Black woman in attendance. In a group of perhaps fifty.
The elephant in the room.
If I notice it, surely all the other women do.
And I have to wonder what they are thinking.
Is it as awkward for them as it is for me?
Do they wish they had more Black friends to dot the audience?
Or would it have been less uncomfortable to have none at all?
Or maybe, just maybe, none of the above had crossed their minds.
I try to catch Anouk’s attention, where she’s standing on the opposite end of the living room, beside an impressive fiddle-leaf fig, because I know she will appreciate the irony. But when I look in her direction, she casually turns away.
The slight is clearly intentional.
When the speaking is over and our group is once again congregating out back, I notice Anouk heading into the house, her gait deliberate, her eyes on her phone. I know her well enough to know that this is how she avoids engaging. How she ensures a quick exit.
I disentangle from the others to follow her, catching up just as she’s heading through the foyer and out the front door.
“Are you leaving? Already?”
She turns her head on hearing my voice but slows only slightly.
“Yes. I promised Kennedy I’d stop by. But I have a business dinner.”
The valet guy at the driveway’s edge scrambles to get her ticket, and she politely dismisses him.
“I’m waiting for a ride, thank you.”
“I’d like to see you,” I say, when he is out of earshot. “I mean, not like this.”
She takes a moment to respond, her eyes scanning the suburban street. Finally, she turns to me. “I don’t … I’m not ready. Not yet.”
A slight breeze blows over us. The day had been unseasonably warm, and the evening is wonderfully balmy. Still I can see the goosebumps rising on Anouk’s neck. Like an invitation.
“Our conversation brought up a lot,” she says, without looking at me.
“The retreat brought up a lot.…” She trails off as headlights appear at the top of the road.
The Maybach, with the Longmores’ driver.
And as it comes to a stop, she finally turns and looks me in the eye.
“Everything is just different now, Cecilia. Because I know. And I can’t unknow.
And seeing your face only makes it more clear. ”
I have become the reminder. The trigger of the awful thing that happened to her. Regardless of whether I could or could not have prevented it, I am guilty by association.
“I’m so sorry, Anouk. I’m sorry for what happened to you. I’m sorry I didn’t say something sooner. I am so sorry.”
“You’ve said that already,” she says, as her driver steps out and holds open her door.
And then, just before she steps in, she turns to look at me one last time, the wind whipping through her hair. “You did nothing,” she says. “You did nothing.”
And then she gets into her car, and leaves.