The Casquette Girls by Alys Arden Page A

leaned on the back of my chair, but looked at his sister. “Why do I see that turning into m e tutoring Adele in al l of her subjects while you conveniently get stuck at school?”
    I flicked his arm as hard as I could, even though he was right; Jeanne didn’t have the attention span to tutor me in subjects as elementary as pre-cal and chemistry. At this point, I was more her practice partner with French.
    “Ouch! You know I’m kidding! Don’t worry , mon chou , we won’t let your dad send you back to Paris. Whatever you need—”
    “Pre-cal!”
    “You cover my shift tomorrow, and I will teach you everything I know about function derivatives.”
    “Deal!”
    “No, cover my shift tomorrow afternoon!” Jeanne yelled, grabbing my arm.
    “Too late!” he said.
    “Don’t worry. I’ll cover both of your shifts. I have to get into a school first before I can attend one. And for the record, I don’t need to know everythin g you know about function derivatives, just enough to get, like, a B.”
    “Slacker,” they said simultaneously.
    I turned to Sébastian. “So, I’ll come by tomorrow morning?”
    “ Ou i . But I’m not sure if we’ll be open for business, so don’t wake up early on account of the café.”
    “I’m still waking up early on account of crossing the Atlantic.”
    I was so excited to be back in action, I kissed all of their cheeks goodbye before skipping out the door. “ À demai n ! ”
     
    * * *
     
    “Dad?” I yelled as I entered the house through the broken kitchen door. “Dad, are you home?” I tried a little louder; sometimes he wore protective earphones if he was using loud equipment in his studio.
    “In the living room, Adele,” he responded, his voice beckoning me to come hither.
    My hand froze as I dropped my heavy bag on the kitchen counter. We never used the living room. It was usually reserved for formal circumstances, like Christmas morning or the occasional spot of tea with a wealthy patron of the arts who was viewing my dad’s work.
    As I walked down the hallway, I heard a second, vaguely familiar male voice talking about the curfew, and then the electronic beep of a walkie-talkie. I stopped short in the doorway. Oh, shit.
    Thank God the words hadn’t slipped out of my mouth.
    My father was sitting on the couch, tapping his foot, and Officer Terry Matthews was sitting in a wingtip chair, sipping coffee from the strawberry-shaped mug I had scored at a thrift store last year.
    “Hi, Officer Matthews.” My voice reached an unusual octave. I sat on the couch next to my father but directed all of my attention towards the uniformed man.
    “Actually, Adele, it’s detective now; just got the promotion this morning,” he said sheepishly.
    The New Orleans Police Department had lost a lot of officers to the Storm… meaning many had fled with the evacuees and then stayed in greener pastures. I had to give credit to the ones who had stayed behind to defend the city and its inhabitants.
    “Adele, Detective Matthews is here to follow up on the police report you filed yesterday. Remember, the dead body you found?” His tone indicated that I had some serious explaining to do once the detective left.
    “Congratulations on the promotion!” I smiled as innocently as I could.
    “Thank you, young lady. Wow, are you looking more like your mama every year.” He leaned in and gave me an awkward, one-armed hug.
    Whenever I met someone who actually knew my mother, they were never able to resist mentioning how we could be twins. Even though Brigitte and I do share an uncanny resemblance, it still grated my nerves. I tried not to let my jaw clench as I asked him how his family was.
    “The family is good. They’re in Houston right now. We’re waiting on a timeline from our insurance agent, plus their school was wiped out.” Just when I hoped he might ramble for a while, he stopped and asked, “So, what’s this business about a body you reported?”
    “Well…”
    “Don’t be