Mira's Diary by Marissa Moss Page B

describing a literary magazine she and Degas were working on when a woman walking down the street caught my eye. Something about the way she moved was deeply familiar. As she came closer, I could make out her deep blue dress, her hat, her hair. It was Mom!
    I slid down in my chair, turning so she wouldn’t see me. I held my breath, waiting for her to come closer, ready to run after her if she walked by. Maybe I could at least slip her a note? I wanted desperately to hug her, to hold tight and never let her go, but all I could do was sneak glances at her.
    â€œÃ‰mile! There you are!” she called out to Zola. Her familiar voice stabbed me. I couldn’t help it. I burst into tears.
    â€œMira, what’s wrong?” Claude took my hand. I kept my head turned away, but Mom must have heard my name. She froze where she stood, so close I could almost reach out and grab her.
    â€œI’m so sorry, Émile! We’ll talk later. We have much to discuss.” Mom’s voice cracked with fear. She was terrified. Of me? I hated to think that. It had to be the stupid rule. Whatever it was, she turned and dashed away, disappearing between the ragpickers, vegetable peddlers, and washerwomen with baskets of clothes.
    I felt sick to my stomach. I wanted to help Mom, but I’d made things worse. I’d gotten in the way of her convincing Zola of anything, which meant now I’d have to do it instead. I had to figure out how he could support Dreyfus. What could he do that would make a difference? I tried to focus on the problem, but first I needed to calm down. I wiped away the tears and drank the water Claude offered me.
    â€œMira, your hands are shaking. You aren’t well. Should I walk you home?”
    He was so sweet to me that I wanted to lean into his chest and let him comfort me. But he couldn’t really be my friend. And I had to help Mom.
    â€œI’m fine,” I told him. “I just swallowed something wrong, got some dust in my eye.” I was the master of the lame excuse. Next I’d tell him the dog had eaten my homework.
    â€œSo strange for Serena to act that way,” Zola was saying. “She was supposed to bring me some useful information, but it’s just as well. I don’t want to think about writing anything for a while.”
    So that’s what Zola needed to do—write something about Dreyfus. Surely not a book. Those took too long to be printed to make much of a difference. Unless publishing was a lot quicker in the nineteenth century than in the twenty-first. I was trying to think of a clever way to bring up the Dreyfus case when Whistler did it for me.
    â€œYou know, the English press thinks a charge as serious as treason should be tried openly. None of this secret evidence you French are so fond of. What’s fascinating to me is the way your newspapers report the whole thing, as if there’s no question but the man must be guilty.”
    â€œBecause there is no doubt of it!” Degas snapped, his face suddenly rigid. He’d transformed into a cold aristocrat in a second. Maybe this was why he had a reputation as such a grump.
    â€œThere’s precious little proof, seems to me,” Whistler insisted. “There’s the handwriting that some experts say is Dreyfus’s while others say it isn’t. There’s no motive, since the man had independent financial means.”
    â€œBeing Jewish with ties to Alsace-Lorraine is motive enough!”
    â€œThen accuse all the Jews in the military!” Whistler laughed. “It’s ridiculous!”
    â€œHow many Jews do you think there are in the service?” scoffed Degas. “Theirs is a vile race of cowards.”
    I’d never seen this side of Degas. It was like learning that somebody you liked and admired advocated slavery or thought women shouldn’t be allowed to vote. Could I like someone who said such hateful things? I looked at Claude, wondering if he