The American Girl by Kate Horsley Page A

gravelly road. I sat in the back with Noémie, stroking her hair while she puked out the window. Up front, Raphael’s neck was straight as a telegraph pole.
    When we got home, we carried Noémie upstairs and laid her carefully on her side in case she was sick again.
    As he closed the door, Raphael said, “At least Maman is not here. If she knew about this she would be furious.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œShe’s not in a great mood.”
    â€œI guess that’s my fault, too,” I shot back. “’Night.” And I turned from him before he could say any more.
    Needless to say, I can’t sleep. I blog, check Facebook, delete the worst of my photos from the day with Noémie, and zoom in on others (here’s one)—from the club—to see if anyone looks like they might attack her. But they’re all pretty blurry and actually everyone looks kind of suspicious, don’t you think?
    As soon as I do get to sleep, a text noise wakes me. My phone tells me it’s 3:11 in the A.M. , and before I even look, somehow I know.
    There’s no video this time. Just French words that when I type them into Google Translate come out as, You will be the next.
    I fling the phone on the bed, run to the bathroom, and retch until clear strings of part-digested vodka glisten between my lips and chin. My skin shakes.
    I tiptoe downstairs to get a glass of water, hearing the timbers of the house tick and creak around me. Even the hum of cicadas outside freaks me out. I turn all the downstairs lights on and stand in the kitchen, taking little sips.
    Through the kitchen window, I glimpse something silhouetted against the moonlight. A man. From the glint of his eyes, I can see he’s watching me. I let out a little shriek and drop the glass. Its contents spill down my T-shirt before it shatters on the floor.
    â€œQuinn!” Raphael’s face moves into the light.
    â€œShit. You scared me.”
    â€œIt’s okay,” he says with exaggerated calmness. “I’ll get the brush.”
    â€œI’ll . . .”
    â€œNo, don’t move,” he says. “You have bare feet. You’ll hurt yourself.”
    He sweeps up the glass and goes to the porch door to tip it in the trash. Not wanting to be alone for even a second, I follow him out into the dark garden. As I watch his tanned legs move through the grass in front of me, a little shiver goes through me. Around the back of the house, the trash cans nestle in a little sort of hidden space with a bench and a trellis and dog roses climbing up. The petals of the roses are closed against the night but their scent is heavy and sweet.
    â€œYou smoke?” he asks.
    â€œSometimes.” Like earlier tonight, I think, when I was out-of-control drunk.
    He takes out a pack of Gauloises and hands me one and we sit on the bench, shivering in the night air. Above us the moon has bloomed an angry orange.
    â€œâ€˜Bad Moon Rising,’” I quip. “Blood moon, even.”
    â€œSomething has frightened you,” he says. “You want to talk?”
    I take a drag of my cigarette, trying to think where to start, shifting from thigh to sticky bare thigh on the metal bench. My stomach is full of pins.
    â€œI’ve been getting these weird texts. Videos and shit from a withheld number,” I say, going for my usual jokey tone. Instead, it comes out sounding forced. All of a sudden I feel horribly homesick.
    But he’s leaning in now, eyes wide, as if I’ve sparked his interest. “What do they say, the texts?”
    â€œBad stuff.” The lump in my throat grows bigger. I’m about to spill my guts. Should I be spilling my guts? “First the video. God, it was horrible, like a snuff movie. And then the texts saying, You’re next . . .” I tell him all of it.
    â€œYou think it was a bad joke, maybe?” he says slowly. His voice sounds completely calm, as if everyone gets texts like