Birdie in Paris, page 7
Ben’s jaw tightened. “Keep going.”
The next message had the same photo, with the caption translated into English. Her shoulders sagged. “Do you see what this says about me? About us? That’s what Kayla meant when she said it was a load of crap.”
“I see they figured out your name, your first name at least, and mine.”
She set the phone on the bench and covered her face with her hands.
“Birdie, you need to keep going. We need to figure out what this is.”
She sucked in a breath and retrieved the phone.
The next post showed her with Sergei again, in Lausanne this time, at the department store window.
“I saw the guy who took this one,” she whispered. “Sergei tried to block him.”
“Doesn’t look like he succeeded.”
The post included several shots, including one of her smiling over her shoulder at the photographer.
He wants her back, but the birdie can’t stop flirting.
Call the fashion police.
She doesn’t deserve him.
What a—
She dropped the phone back onto the bench, not wanting to see any more.
Ben snatched it up and zoomed in on the posts. “You were right. They’re all coming from that same fan account, and they’re all tagged and dated.” He scowled. “The hashtag is catchthebirdie. Freaking sick.”
He hid the messages and pulled up the fan account. He tried to read it, then shook his head. “This is beyond me. We need to translate it.” He found that option and watched as everything flowed into English.
He quickly scanned the photos. “It’s really weird. A superfan started it a couple of weeks ago with the picture that old-timer posted – the one of the three of us all dressed up – and challenged people to post their best shots of Sergei. That seems pretty normal for this site. But a few days later, a fan called Umbras18 started posting and it morphed into some kind of strange vendetta against you.”
“Umbras18?” Birdie’s mind raced. “That means nothing to me. Maybe it’s an ex-girlfriend or something?”
“Because he kissed you?”
“He – he didn’t. I stopped him.”
Ben whistled as he sank back and stared at her. “So you rejected him. Bet he’s not used to that.”
“I – I… no. You were coming and—”
“And you rejected him.”
No, she hadn’t. Not exactly. But she could tell there was no way she’d convince Ben of that. “I wonder if he knows about this,” she said instead. “He’s not even training right now. His dad got him suspended from the team after what happened in Prague.” She stared at her hands. “Wait. There’s another skier, some guy – Thierry – who wants to be captain—”
“Oh, Birdie.” Ben gritted his teeth. “I’m pretty sure Sergei knows about this. You said he knew what that photographer was up to? And notice how nobody’s talking crap on him? Hate to say it, but I’d bet money he started it himself.”
“What? Ben. There’s no way. That’s crazy!”
“Is it?” He typed something into the phone.
“But why? Why would he want to spread lies about me?”
“For the attention. What does the truth matter if he grows his audience?” Ben showed her the phone. “An umbra is part of a shadow. So shadow18. It’s not even that clever. How old did you say Sergei was?” He stood and faced her.
“Ben, it could be anything. It could be a last name, or someone could have made it up.”
He pointed at her. “With all the other crap you have going on in your life, he does this? Wait until he gets here tomorrow. You just wait. He will not get away with it.”
“I just don’t think—”
“I know you don’t.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “But think about it, Birdie. It’s the only thing that makes sense. He was a royal ass that night in Prague, and then he attacked you on the stairs—”
“He didn’t attack—”
“You definitely stung him. So what does he care if you get stung back? He knew you didn’t have a phone. Probably figured you’d never even find out. He saw an opportunity, and he took it. I bet he gets a big kickback for this. Anything to make a buck, right?”
Birdie blanched. That was what Sergei had told her that night in Prague, when he was drunk. He’d said he’d left her and Ben alone because he saw an opportunity and he took it. Was Ben right? Did he know about all this? Had he been using her all along? As some kind of stupid publicity stunt?
She didn’t want to believe it. Couldn’t believe it. He’d been so nice yesterday.
But not at first.
At first, he hadn’t wanted to see her at all.
“But he apologized to me!” She dropped the phone back in her daypack and buried her face in her hands.
“I’m going to kill him,” Ben said.
Chapter ten
Birdie was still reeling from the messages when Uncle Noah pulled up in front of their hotel, a block from the main drag in a neighborhood her mom had called the Marais. She’d responded to the group, assuring them none of the nasty rumors were true, and they’d sent back love and encouragement. Except for Kayla, who’d insisted on defending Birdie on every post.
She hadn’t responded to Sergei’s message. She had no idea what to say. Her stomach hurt every time she thought about the posts, and about what Ben had said. It was too hard to imagine she’d been such a fool.
The ride from Versailles into Paris had done nothing to calm her nerves, although she’d gained a new respect for Ben’s uncle, who’d uttered only a single curse as dozens of motorcycles flew up on their bumper and buzzed past between the lanes of heavy traffic, only to swerve in front of the car and brake.
She’d been so distracted she’d barely glanced out the window at the city itself, and when she had, she’d noticed only the sea of cars, bikes, and delivery vans rushing past the stately cream-colored buildings that marched up the boulevards in all directions.
Uncle Noah clicked on the hazard lights and threw his door open as they all extracted themselves from the car. He handed his bag off to Ben, who stood on the sidewalk next to Birdie, then slammed the hatch closed. “I’ll be back as soon as I return this death trap.” He dug in his pocket and handed Ben his credit card. “Use this if they ask for it, but we should be all paid up.”
Ben took the card and pocketed it as Uncle Noah turned back to Birdie’s mom, who was adjusting her purse across her shoulder and reaching for the suitcase handle. He dipped in for a quick kiss, then straightened. “See you soon.”
Birdie was so surprised she had to tamp down a giggle as Ben’s gaze darted to his sneakers. For a heartbeat she wondered if she should be mad at Uncle Noah, or maybe even at her mom, but for some reason she just… wasn’t.
Mrs. Blessing’s cheeks flushed pink as Uncle Noah jumped back into the driver’s seat and pulled away. She watched the taillights for a second before squaring her shoulders and marching past Ben and Birdie, her suitcase rolling behind her. “Come on, you two. Let’s get checked in.”
Birdie swallowed her smile. “Uh, Mom?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Okay. But how will he get back?”
“The rental car drop-off is at the train station. He can take the metro from there.”
“Does he know how to ride it?”
Her mom stopped and stared at her.
“I just… They don’t have subways in Texas, do they?”
Mrs. Blessing laughed and relaxed her shoulders. “Let’s just say this isn’t his first rodeo. Now come on – it’s so much hotter in the city. Let’s get inside.”
The four-story hotel’s cozy lobby was only marginally cooler than it had been outside, and by the time they’d checked in and hauled their luggage up the stairs to their rooms, Birdie was sweaty and tired. She plopped down on her twin bed with her daypack as her mom went into the bathroom to freshen up.
She felt the urge to sketch, but she didn’t know what to draw. Every idea reminded her of Sergei, and it hurt too much to think about him living forever on the page.
She bypassed the sketchbook and reached for the phone, wrinkling her nose as she picked it up, knowing she shouldn’t. But she had to know if there had been any more posts, any more messages.
She was sorry she looked.
She tossed the phone onto the thin duvet as her mom emerged from the bathroom.
“Your turn,” her mom said as a knock sounded on the door. Mrs. Blessing opened it, and Uncle Noah and Ben crowded into the small room.
“Ready for dinner?” Uncle Noah asked.
“I’m not hungry.” Birdie wasn’t sure she’d ever eat again. “Sorry. I’m just not feeling great.”
Uncle Noah and Mrs. Blessing exchanged a glance.
“I don’t mind staying here,” Ben said, “as long as you bring me back something to eat.”
Mrs. Blessing hesitated, looking at Ben, then back to Birdie. “You do look a little pale. We won’t be long. We’re going to a little Italian place just around the corner. Can we bring you something back too?”
Birdie shook her head. The thought of the rich food made her feel worse.
Mrs. Blessing leaned in for a small hug, and then she and Uncle Noah left.
Ben hovered just inside the door as Birdie cradled her knees against her chest. She nodded toward the phone. “There’s two more.”
Ben picked it up and entered the password.
“This is from last night, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Sergei took me to a concert on the pier.”
He skipped to the next tagged message. “What the hell?” Ben tossed the phone onto the bed, scowling as he met her gaze. “So today. Someone snuck a shot of us today. And decided I was mad at you when I pointed at you?”
“Yep.”
“This has to stop.”
“How? Paris is so crowded and it could be anyone with a phone. Someone’s bound to see me if I leave the hotel.”
“Call him.”
“What?”
“Call Sergei. He’s the only one who can stop this.”
She bit back tears as she placed the call and clicked on the speaker.
“Birdie?” Sergei sounded surprised, concerned.
“Call off your hounds, buddy,” Ben rumbled.
“Ben?”
“Yeah. You need to call it off.”
“Where is Birdie? Is she okay?”
“I’m here.”
Sergei was silent for a moment. “Let me see you.”
“Why?” Ben scoffed. “So you can see her cry? What the hell’s the matter with you? You get off on kicking people when they’re down?”
Sergei ignored Ben. “Birdie. Please. Let me see you.”
She picked up the phone and switched to video, shifting on the bed so he could see Ben looming behind her.
“What’s going on?” His video came up, his handsome face a mask of worry.
“You tell us—”
“Ben. Stop.” She glanced over her shoulder and her look quieted him. He scowled deeper and folded his arms across his chest.
“The photos, Sergei. The posts.” She closed her eyes. “About us. About all of us.”
His voice went rigid. “Show me.”
“I don’t want your dad to see.” She hiccuped back a sob.
“My father?” Sergei shook his head. “He is not here.”
“He watches your phone—”
“No, Birdie. He doesn’t. Show me.”
Birdie fumbled with the phone and forwarded him post after post after post. She watched his anger grow the more he read, and when he spoke, it was through clenched teeth. “I swear I did not know they were doing this.”
“Yeah, right,” Ben said.
Birdie swallowed as she swiped away her tears. “You knew that photographer in the street was taking photos of us. That’s why you wanted to leave.”
Sergei touched his forehead with his fingers and then looked back at her. “There have been some problems since the photo shoot.”
“What kind of problems?” Ben’s tone made it clear he had no interest in cutting him any slack. “And why do your problems now involve Birdie and me?”
“I did the photo shoot before I went to Prague. I told you, Birdie – it was a favor to Maman.”
“Sure it was—”
“Let him speak, Ben.”
Anger flashed in Sergei’s eyes, and his accent grew thicker before smoothing out again. “It is not my thing. At all. But the shoot was set and the skier never came. Maman was frantic. So I agreed to do it.” He closed his eyes for a moment before continuing. “I made a big joke out of it on my team account – private team account – showing the whole ridiculous process – clothes, hair, make-up, waiting around for hours doing nothing. But someone leaked it to the fashion media, and they started pushing it all out. Maman was” – he paused as if searching for the right word but failing to find it – “not happy? I deleted everything from the team account, but it was too late. Ski and fashion people kept sharing it. By the time I left for Prague, the attention was dying down, but some people were still taking photos of me to boost their own fame.”
“Which is why that old photographer was so happy to take our pictures.” Birdie’s heart sank. “He knew he could post them.”
Sergei took a deep breath. “It was a mistake. I should not have made that offer. But we needed the clothes.”
“The rest of these posts aren’t from a fashion site,” Ben said. “They’re from some kind of fan account. And you have lots of fans.”
Sergei growled. “This account is not good. It is known for lies and has been shut down more than one time.”
“Can you stop it?” Her voice was quiet. “Because people are following us around Paris.”
Sergei swore.
“Call it off.” Ben’s voice grew heavy with accusation. “Now. We know you started this, that you’re Umbras18. You need to shut it down. And kill that tag, you bastard. It’s sick.”
Sergei’s face contorted in a mix of rage and shock, and Birdie was suddenly glad he was six hours away. “You think I did this?” he said. “On purpose?”
“Who else would?” Ben opened his hands. “You’re the only one who benefits. Boosts your numbers, right?”
“Birdie. I swear to you. I did not do this. I – I swear on Emma’s life. I would never do such a wicked thing to you.”
“They are stalking us,” Ben barked and Birdie flinched. “Ruining Birdie’s reputation. Can you stop it or not?”
Sergei clenched his jaw. “I won’t let that happen.”
“Much more of this and it will be too late,” Ben shot back.
Sergei was silent for a full minute. “I will try to get it shut down. And I will tell Maman. Maybe she can do something in the fashion world, but beyond that, I don’t know.”
“Just try to fix it. Please,” Birdie said.
“I promise you, Birdie, even if Maman does nothing, I will fix this. I will go now.”
The phone disconnected, and Birdie met Ben’s hard stare.
“You believe him?” he asked.
She nodded. “I do.”
Ben ran his fingers through his hair as he flopped into the rickety desk chair.
“What a mess,” Birdie said. “And now his mom is going to know.”
“She may already know. Are you going to tell your mom?”
Birdie shook her head. “Not unless I have to.”
The conversation had been taxing, and the day had been long. When Mrs. Blessing returned to the room without Uncle Noah, Ben quickly excused himself to find his dinner and let Birdie settle in for the night.
She changed into her lightest pajamas, but the tiny room was terribly hot, even with the meager air conditioning pumping and a large oscillating fan pointed on high at the beds. Sleep proved elusive and, when it finally arrived, it was jerky, disrupted by emergency sirens and lights that flashed against the walls through the open windows. On the street below the boisterous conversations and laughter of partiers passing by rang out late into the night.
Birdie tossed and turned, whipping off the sheet only to yank it back up again, feeling like a nameless bee crammed in a hot, buzzing hive.
The hum expanded in her brain as she dozed, and in a flash of white light, a flurry of images and sensations flooded her mind, cascading through like pictures in a flip book, so fast she barely comprehended them.
Jonah
Dad
Alexey
Uncle Noah’s kiss
Sergei on the pier
a heavy beat pounding her bones
Her breath hitched, and still the images came.
her house
her room
the chalet
hotel lobbies melting into strange places she didn’t recognize
Another spark of white light, and the images spun faster.
a dark tunnel
a black lake
Ben’s angry face
a magician on a bridge
the sparkling pawns
She startled in her sleep, helpless to stop them.
her mom with the glittering glass
Kayla among the flames
the view from the asylum window,
flashing again and again and again and again
the woman in the mural,
screaming... screaming... screaming...
reaching for her…
Birdie jerked awake, sitting up in the bed, a cry strangling in her throat.
She had no idea where she was, and she began to shake.
Her mind whirred through all the places she’d slept, searching for an anchor. She drew her knees to her chest, afraid to leave the bed, not sure which side to get out on, if there would be a floor beneath her feet at all. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she slowly, slowly, registered the sound of the fan, the blue flashing lights streaming through the window sheers, her mom asleep in the other bed, the bathroom door ajar.
Paris.
She shuddered and wept, gathering up the sheet again and yanking the blanket from the bottom of the bed only to crush them into a ball and cling to them tightly, burying her face until she could cry no more and exhaustion overtook her.
