Chapter Seven
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The[/i] young woman named Esmé was barely finished with her chocolate ice-cream when Jerome arrived at her table. He found it charming how the whipped cream adhered to the corners of her mouth, as she flashed him the most brilliant smile he had ever seen. He grinned back, hoping she wouldn’t be offended by what were only his
somewhat crooked teeth. She appeared not to notice, however, and instead went right on smiling. Then she laughed—a delightful, absolutely
contagious sound, reminiscent of a bird’s twittering—and Jerome’s hand passed over his mouth. Was she laughing at him? He studied her expression closely, searching for the first sign that would tell him she found his appearance comical. Except all he saw was a sweet, enchanting girl he hardly knew, but wanted very much to know—a girl whose face was that of an angel. And those freckles! He couldn’t remember the last time he’d
seen freckles on someone so cute.
It was on incredibly rare occasions that Jerome Squalor had the courage to speak to girls. His constant stutter and overall fear of not being accepted was what almost always prevented him from participating in conversation. He would never admit it to himself, but he was grateful to Andrew for taking the initiative to help him out. Was Esmé even aware that the two boys were related? Jerome supposed she must be, as a boy of sixteen and a boy of ten hanging out together would strike most as being a little odd.
“H-hello,” Jerome said, and extended his hand across the table to Esmé. “I’m J-Jerome Squalor.”
Esmé took no notice of his stutter, or merely chose not to acknowledge it, and instead accepted his hand. “I know.” Her tone was kind, patient. “Your brother told me. I’m just delighted you were able to find the courage to come over here and talk to me.”
Jerome’s face immediately took on a deep shade of beat-root red. Then he remembered what Andrew had said about Esmé’s feelings concerning shy gentleman, and relaxed.
“I take it your brother told you who
I am?”
So Andrew
had told Esmé they were related. Jerome nodded, admiring the way her deepening smile highlighted her dimples.
“Have a seat,” she advised. “It’s awkward talking to someone when one person is standing and the other is sitting.”
“I’m s-sorry. I d-didn’t mean—”
She shook her head. To reassure him, Jerome assumed. “Don’t be sorry. You’ve nothing to apologize for.”
He nodded again, before sliding down into the chair across from hers.
“Would you like some ice-cream?”
“No th-thanks. I h-haven’t had l-lunch yet.”
“You must be starving!” Esmé cried. Jerome was shocked by the amount of concern her tone contained over something so minor. “You should eat something.”
Jerome was about to scan the area for a waiter, when Esmé raised her arm into the air. She snapped her fingers, whose red nails he noticed for the first time were as long and as sharp as knives. This created a rather strange contrast to what had proven to be her incredibly lovable demeanor. But he had little time for deliberation, for a waiter was quick to answer Esmé’s call.
“Yes, miss?” asked the waiter, a young man who could not have been that much older than the pair of teenagers. Jerome saw by the nameplate worn by the waiter that his name was Daniel. “Is there something else you needed?”
“Not me,” Esmé replied, and Jerome took meticulous notice of the agility with which she spoke. He admired her for not showing the slightest bit of hesitation or nervousness as he tended to express with strangers. After all, his mother still ordered for him at restaurants, and he never did anything to discourage her from doing so. But like Cora Squalor’s trust in her husband did on many occasions, her son’s inability to order his own meals was about to be put to the test. As Esmé Salinger gestured with her slender, long-nailed hand to the boy seated across from her, Jerome knew what was coming. “But my friend would.”
“Ah,” Daniel said. “I see. And what would you like to start with, sir?”
Jerome was far too nervous to realize this was the first time he had been addressed so formerly. His teachers at school referred to him as ‘Jerome’, and, occasionally, ‘Mr. Squalor’, which wasn’t as formal as it could be when he was being scolded. His family and friends all called him Jerome, too—though once in a while, Maxwell Squalor would slip and call his son ‘Jerry’. Jerome had always hated the nickname, as it brought back memories from his childhood where the name had been accompanied by something unpleasant. Something along the lines of “How do you explain this C minus in math?” Any other parent would have referred to their child by their first, middle,
and last names to express disappointment—but not Maxwell Squalor. For reasons Jerome had yet to understand, he had been labeled with a nickname he’d come to loathe.
Jerome looked to Esmé, wondering if she would be able to sense his anxiety. When their eyes met, she simply smiled, and motioned with her head in Daniel’s direction. Jerome had been to the Veritable French Diner at least a hundred times before, and he enjoyed the wide selection offered by their menu. But he was much too flustered to think to request a menu, or remember any of the dishes listed on it. And so, Jerome blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“Pancakes,” he said, biting down on his bottom lip to keep the approaching stutter from taking over. “I’ll have the pancakes, please.”
“Very good, sir,” Daniel replied. “And what sort of topping would you like?”
“Strawberries.”
“With whipped cream?”
Jerome nodded.
“All right, sir. I’ll be back momentarily with your order.” Turning to Esmé, Daniel asked, “Are you all finished with your ice-cream, miss?”
“Yes, and I must say it was delicious.”
Smiling, Daniel scooped up the items and then shuffled off to the kitchens. Esmé waited until he was gone, before raising her hand and pressing it to her mouth. She let out a small, girlish laugh that caused Jerome to smile and blush simultaneously. Then she said something that made his smile falter.
“Pancakes? For
lunch?”Although Jerome knew they shouldn’t have, Esmé words still had the ability of stinging deeply. “I
like pancakes.”
“But they’re not even a French dish.”
“Neither is ice-cream.”
“I ate lunch before I came. The ice-cream was my dessert.”
Jerome could always tell when an argument was brewing. He would not only hate to have one with the girl of his dreams, but to have it occur in the middle of a public place!
His eyes fell to the table as he spoke again. “Please…don’t argue with me. I can’t…I can’t stand it when people argue.”
Laying his hands down on the table, he clenched his fists together tensely. It was only a few seconds before Esmé’s hand (the same one that had been sheltering her mouth a moment earlier) extended toward his. Her hand was so small compared to his own, and warm too. It was this one simple gesture of kindness that expelled all of his current anxieties, and replaced them with something he’d never felt before.
Confidence.
Jerome raised his head and smiled at Esmé, whose hand still covered his. She was leaning to the side on one elbow, her cheek pressed into the palm of her hand. There was a profound longing in her eyes as she gazed into his own—a longing that no girl who’d looked his way before had ever disclosed. All he could do was stare back, practically drowning in the deep pools of her ocean-blue eyes.
“I’ve never met anyone quite like you, Jerome Squalor,” Esmé said, after several moments of silence had passed.
“What’s that mean?”
“What it means”—and here she gave Jerome’s hand a gentle squeeze—“is that you aren’t the typical teenage boy. At least, you’re not like any of the boys
I’ve met before.”
“And is that a good thing?”
Esmé grinned. Jerome wished with all his heart that he could lean across the table and kiss those incredibly adorable dimples. “A
very good thing,” she said.
She laughed, except this time Jerome wasn’t worried. Although he had been acquainted with Esmé for only a short while, he felt that was long enough to form an opinion. Obviously she liked him, or else she would never have invited him over to her table. She wouldn’t have expressed concern for his nutrition, or shown him kindness when his anxiety had revealed itself. She was exactly the type of girl he’d always wished would like him back. And perhaps those other girls
would have liked him, had it not been for all the handsome, athletic gentlemen strolling the hallways and grounds of Blue Melody Academy. Jerome had felt so invisible, as if he had no business asking out girls who were out of his league, or competing against boys who were more handsome and cleverer than he could ever hope to be.
Now, here she was, the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, gazing at him as Juliet had gazed at Romeo. Jerome would never dream of comparing himself to Romeo, except Esmé clearly had an entirely different opinion. What she could possibly find alluring about his round face and goofy smile Jerome had no idea. Could it be that he’d been looking at himself in the wrong light all these years? Had it taken someone like Esmé Salinger, whose sincerity and sweetness had shone on him the proper light of which had revealed his own self worth?
“I wasn’t trying to argue with you before,” she went on. “I was just curious why someone would come to a French restaurant, then order something they can get anywhere in the world.”
“I wasn’t planning on having pancakes for lunch,” Jerome explained, and blushed. “I was just nervous, so I ended up saying the first thing that came to mind.”
“Are you
always nervous?”
“Mostly.”
“Are you nervous
now?”Jerome shook his head.
“I didn’t think so. Your stutter stopped a while ago, in case you didn’t notice.”
Indeed he hadn’t. “Who’s that man you came in here with?”
“You mean Fernald? Oh, he’s just my friend.”
“I know,” Jerome said. “Andrew told me. When I first saw you with Fernald, though, I thought perhaps he was your boyfriend.”
Esmé giggled. “Fernald isn’t my boyfriend. If anything, he’s more like the big brother I never had. Besides, at twenty-one, he’s much too old for me.”
In addition to being single, Jerome Squalor learned a great deal else about Esmé that afternoon. For example, he learned that her full name was Esmé Gigi Genevieve Salinger, and that she had grown up in Paltryville. Her parents had both died in a car crash when she was thirteen, and as a result she’d been sent to live with a close family friend. She lived not far from their current location, and often spent her weekends at the cemetery visiting her parents. She adored books and fiction in particular, her favorite author being J.D. Salinger. She had been an actress from the time she was very young and had performed in several plays—including the lead role in four musicals. But her dream, she explained passionately, was to go on to college and study fashion design.
Jerome was surprised by how easy it was to listen to Esmé without his mind wandering. Normally when a person talked on and on to him like this, he would do his best to listen just to avoid seeming rude. However, when it came to Esmé, Jerome was genuinely interested in all she had to say. He was pleased as well that she was such a chatterer, as it relieved him from having to carry on too much of the conversation, which was something he’d never been very good at. He was still more than willing to share with her the details of his own life, including his school, family, and friends. Of course, he made sure to leave out certain details, such as his strained relationship with his father. He didn’t mention, either, how he was currently undergoing private tutoring sessions, to ensure his chances of getting into boarding school. He remembered what his parents had told him about V.F.D. being a ‘secret’ organization, and how revealing its existence was comparable to someone on jury duty revealing the information of the trial.
Jerome was nearly finished with his pancakes, when the two back doors leading out onto the veranda flew open. Into the restaurant walked Fernald, bringing with him a brusque November wind. He was smiling as he approached the table, pausing just beside Esmé.
“I hate to interrupt,” he said, “but it’s time we headed back now, love.”
It hadn’t occurred to Jerome that Fernald wouldn’t be a native of America. So when the older man revealed his British accent, Jerome couldn’t help but be a little bit surprised.
Esmé looked sad upon receiving Fernald’s news. “Do we
have to?”
“Unfortunately.” As if to express his regret, he turned his eyes sadly to Jerome. “You know how the boss gets when we’re late.”
“The boss?” Jerome asked. “Who’s that?”
But Fernald did not appear to have heard, and Esmé was too busy shrugging into the coat he held out for her to reply. Not wanting to annoy either of them with what might come across as meddling, Jerome decided to let his question go unanswered.
“Thank you for the lovely conversation,” Esmé smiled, as she buttoned up the front of her coat.
Jerome grinned back. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again,” Fernald added. “Considering how often Esmé and I visit this place, we’re certain to run into one another.”
Jerome was getting ready to agree, when suddenly Esmé leaned forward and kissed him. It was quick, and no more than a peck on the cheek, but even so it was still a kiss; a kiss which left him blushing like the schoolboy he still very much was.
“See you soon,” Esmé said. Linking her arm with Fernald’s, she pivoted and began strolling toward the pair of front doors.
Jerome could not believe his good fortune. At any other time, a girl like Esmé would have been snatched up by a dashing Prince Charming, long before Jerome even got the chance. He had always seen himself as the Quasimodo-type, while boys like Lemony Snicket filled the role of Phoebus all too perfectly. Lemony even had a girlfriend, a young woman named Beatrice Taylor, who was expected to be attending the V.F.D. Training School. Jerome had met Beatrice at the country club and at several of the Snickets’ soirées. He had found her to be a very amiable and refined individual, whose warm smile and sense of humor everyone around her could appreciate.
Jerome had a strong feeling that, like Lemony, his time to shine was just around the corner.