Status: 36/51 chapters!

Music Girl

La Nuit du Celebration

Sneaking out was tricky when not only Father was home, but Rachel was spending the night as well. Luckily, Tomas was out with Aravic at someone’s house (Kevin’s, maybe?), so as long as I could make it down the house noiselessly…

I dressed in mostly black boy’s clothes. The hood of the jacket covered my hair and obscured my face, the gloves hiding my feminine hands. Once I was sure my guitar was completely secured on my back and my fake I.D. was in my pocket, I threw the rope out my window and began climbing down the West side of the house. The architecture of the marble building was perfect for climbing, and I made it down without any problems. Then I made sure the rope wasn’t obtrusive, smirked at the house, and took off into the night.

It wasn’t too far of a walk to get in to downtown, though it was freezing cold and therefore, miserable. And then once I got there, it was a matter of finding this place…

I check the directions Alex had given me five times, got lost twice, and ran into several groups of hobos before I finally found the entrance. No wonder I had passed it before – the sign that hung over the stairwell down into the ground wasn’t lit and the street lights weren’t proving to be very helpful. So I took the stairs very carefully, readying my I.D.

The outside door didn’t prove to be a challenge, but inside the small, almost-waiting room was a bouncer, and not one I would want to fight.

Parlerz-vouz Français?” he asked.

Oui, Monsieur.

Quelle age as-tu?

Vingt et un ans,” I replied, holding up my I.D. I hoped my voice was low enough to pass as a man’s.

Donnez-le moi,” he said, and took the plastic to examine it. After a few moments, he nodded, handed it back, and said, “Entrez.

Merci, Monsieur.

I walked in through the door and took in the sights, fighting a grin. The bar was filled with life, talk, music, laughter. People drank and told jokes, cheered the musicians, and told stories, all in French. I caught snatches of conversations, but only understood half of it. That was fine. I was in a new world now.

I set down my guitar and pulled out some cash to buy a drink.

Quest-ce que vous desirez?” the bartender asked, pulling out a glass and pushing loose strands of brown hair behind her ears.

Je voudrais… uh… une cocktail du rume, s’il vous plait.

She walked off to grab a coke for the rum. I leaned against the counter, eyes closed, and listened. The couple two stools down from me was (I think) discussing travel plans… at least, they kept saying, “Paris.” The musician was playing a tune I recognized, Rhapsody in Blues, on the clarinet.

The bartender came back and set the glass in front of me. “Tu jouer au guitar?” she asked, pointing to my guitar.

I took up the glass and replied, “Oui, Madame.” The drink went down nice and bubbly, tickling my throat and warming my stomach.

The clarinet player ended their song and was met with applause. The bartender waved her hand, saying, “Jouer! Jouer!” I gulped down some more of my drink before nodding and starting towards the musician stool. At least there was a mic and an amp already there. I unpacked carefully under the watchful, hopefully just curious gaze of the French people, my stomach twisting with nerves. What if they figured out I wasn’t a boy? What if they hated me?

Once I had sat down, then came the even more awkward feeling of having to think about what I was going to say instead of just letting the words roll off my tongue. “Bon nuit, Madames at Monsieurs,” I began shakily, trying to appropriately position everything so I wouldn’t knock over the mic or drop my guitar. “Uhh… excuse moi prou mon pauvre Francais, Anglais c’est mon language premiere. Donc, je chantais don Anglais.

The shadows in front of me politely nodded. I took this as a sign to go ahead, so I took a deep breath and started strumming. Everything sounded much cooler in my head, bass lines and drum beats written and playing in my imagination. To the audience though, it probably didn’t make much sense. I was used to that, though admittedly not in a musical sense.

I played Harlot, the most recent song I was working on, and they enjoyed that, so I played Say Goodbye, which I had recently made some alterations to, before leaving the stage for a trio of middle-aged women. I put my guitar back in its case and finished off my drink. I set enough cash for the drink and more on the counter and was just about to leave when the bartender said, “Vous etes une bonne musiqucan.

Merci baucoup Madame. Bon nuit.

Bon nuit, Mademoiselle.

Right as I was about to walk out the door, the TV in the corner caught my eye. Luckily, the audio of the news cast was still in English.

“…And here’s Michelle in D.C. with that report.”

“Yes Chuck, it’s been confirmed. The Secret Service has just transferred the alleged assassin to a secure location for interrogation. The suspect, twenty-eight year-old Antonio Arrajino, was apprehended in Denver, Colorado by local police after receiving an anonymous tip on the shooting. He was then taken into Secret Service custody and moved here to D.C. just days ago. A spokesperson for the White House, who asked not to be filmed, assures the public that this case is top priority for everyone and will be brought to a speedy conclusion. Back to you.”

I didn’t even bother listening to Chuck’s comments. My own were creaming in my head.

Antonio had been arrested.

We—no, Aravic, had done it.

Justice would finally be served.
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So, this chapter has apparently been sitting on my computer for a long, LONG time. But it's here, and I'm working on this again xD So hopefully new chapters in somewhat timely manners? (haha, right, this is me we're talking about)

Also, here is a blog post which contains the translation of the dialogue in this chapter. And thanks to my high school French teacher for helping me with this!