And Rat feels doubly bad, because she knows if it weren’t for her, Vanessa could have been any one of those things she dreamed of—artist, actress, singer, fashion designer.

Because Vanessa’s missed so many chances on Rat’s account, she feels extra guilty for giving her mother a hard time. When Rat grows up, she’s going to buy the two of them a big house with a walk-in closet, and a bathroom with a full-size bathtub and mirror walls and vanity lights with a dimmer. She’s going to take Vanessa to Venice and Africa and the Greek Islands, all the places she loves to read about, and she’s going to bring her breakfast in bed every morning.

Rat isn’t easy. That’s what Vanessa tells her friends, she isn’t easy. Other times, she says, “You’re the love of my life.”

Chapter 2

Summer evening. The sky is pale blue, but already an egg-yolk moon is hovering above the still, mirrored sea. The rising moon is orange with harvest dust.

Rat and Jérôme have been building a fort in the long dune grass of Saint Féliu Plage. Rat wishes they could spend the night, but Jérôme’s supposed to be home by nine.

Their fort is an observation post, positioned to spy on the tourists having dinner at Chez Ernest. It’s Saturday evening, and the beachside restaurant’s terrace is flush with elegant blonde women, glittering with makeup and jewelry. Tanned men. Vacationers who speak in the hard clipped accents of the North. Jérôme calls them all “Parisians.” “Parisien, tête de chien, Parigot, tête de veau.” Behind the restaurant, big cars with out-of-state license plates—Bordeaux, Toulouse. There is even a Mercedes-Benz with a Belgian plate.

Some of the grown-ups Rat recognizes as local—pals of Ernest and his wife—the local men are beefier than the “Parisians.” They talk about rugby and boats and how much things cost. I paid deux mille balles for this, he paid dix mille balles for that. Normal things—the grown-up’s equivalent of the way kids boast at school.

The “Parisians” are a race apart. It grates on Rat, how cosset-ted their children are. In the day, they are slathered in suntan lotion and made to wear hats so their skin won’t burn. On the beach, they wear sandals so their feet won’t get cut by broken glass. As soon the sun goes down, their mothers ease them into hooded sweaters, knitted cardigans.