We make our bagel stop at the famous Saint-Viateur and head up Avenue Mont-Royal to one of Montreal’s most famous streets: Boulevard Saint-Laurent. At night, it gets packed with partygoers and bar staff trying to hustle people into the dozens of pubs and clubs. During the day, little boutiques and cafes draw in crowds of tourists and locals out for a walk.
We pass by a side street where a piano has been set out for public use. The city puts a few of them around this part of Montreal every summer, and I’m surprised they’ve left this one out so late. An old man in a velvet hat is playing some Beethoven. I recognize the piece right away.
It’s the one my sister used to play in auditions.
My feet stop me against my will. DeeDee and Ingrid continue a few feet down the sidewalk before they realize I’m not with them. I see them come to stand beside me out of the corner of my eye, but I can’t look away from the piano.
It’s like I can see her sitting on the bench, practicing on the upright piano we kept in the living room while I waited for my turn to play. Those were the moments when our house felt most like a home. My mom would sit there watching us, smiling for once, and my dad would come stand by her instead of hiding away in the kitchen or the basement like he did whenever she and I were fighting.
We didn’t fight much when I was little. Back then, I kind of liked when she got Isabella and I all dressed up and let us try a bit of makeup. Back then, we both wanted to be just like her. I’d sneak into Isabella’s room after we were supposed to be asleep, and we’d stay up late talking about being singers on TV like our mom was in Vietnam.
Everything changed when we got older.
Ingrid walks up to give the man some money when he gets to the end of the song, but he just smiles and shakes his head before shuffling his sheet music.
“Paige?” she says when her and DeeDee are ready to get moving again.
I blink a few times, clearing the memories away. They’ve been coming up more and more now that I have Youssef around all the time.
“I’m coming.”
We walk another block, and DeeDee points to a store across the street with three mannequins in sparkly black dresses in the windows.
“Oooh, let’s start there!” she shouts before charging over the crosswalk.
Ingrid chuckles. “At least they have stuff in black.”
I shudder. “But itsparkles.”
Ingrid pretends to gag, and I join in as we follow after DeeDee.
I feel even more out of place once we’re inside. There’s only one other customer in the whole store, and it’s so small you can’t hide behind any racks to stay away from the salespeople—which is my first instinct when one of them comes up to us.
“Bonjour, mesdames! Est-ce qu’on cherche pour quelque chose en particulier aujourd’hui?”
Ingrid and I shuffle around like idiots while DeeDee starts chatting away in French so fast it’s hard for me to follow. The saleswoman leads us past a few clothing displays, pointing to things and making comments about the fabric or quality.
I doubt I’d understand any better if she was talking in English.
“Oooh, Paige!” DeeDee lunges for something off the nearest rack and waves me over. “What about this?”
I get a little hopeful when I see the dress she’s clutching is a soft charcoal colour. The fabric is some sort of floaty, drapey stuff that I could actually see myself wearing.
Then she pulls it all the way off the rack, and I get a look at the front.
“Um, no.”
The whole torso of the dress is taken up by a giant bow.
“But it’s cute!” DeeDee lifts the corner of the bow. “It’s all big and saggy, kind of like your hoodies.”
Ingrid bursts out laughing. “Are we trying to find her a dress that’s saggy? I don’t know much about it, but that doesn’t sound like a good goal.”
DeeDee frowns. “Okay, fine. Let’s keep looking.”
The saleswoman is still standing there like she’s not sure what to do with us.
“English is better?” she asks.
