Debbie Rigaud - Simone Breaks All the Rules

Psst Anne, I whispered out the side of my mouth as our car pulled up to Madame Honors house. Make a run for it.

My older sister shot me an exasperated look. Thats not funny, Simone.

Im dead serious, I declared. Would I joke at a time like this?

Of course, both Anne and I had to admit that it was too late to fight this battle. Our bridge-and-tunnel journey over, we had arrived in Queens to meet Annes arranged prom date.

Our mother set up the whole thing without Annes involvement. She must have cast a wide net for this catch, no doubt activating her entire tristate-area network of Haitian mamas with teenaged sons.

I wished I could say that nothing in my sisters seventeen years had prepared her for this embarrassment. But the truth was, by then, Anne already held titles in the Overprotected Olympics. And at thirteen, I was being groomed as her successor.

Ssssshhhhh, Mummy hissed from the passenger seat. She was in full arrival mode. Hushing folks was to my mom what getting seats and tray tables in their upright positions was to flight attendants.

My seat belts metal clasp ka-klowed as I unlatched it. Anne flinched at the sound, and that was it for me.

Anne was usually as composed as Beethoven. If the flouncy Sunday dress she wore came with auto-flip sequins, shed still seem low-key. The girl was that unfussyin personality, not in looks, for Anne was the pretty one. I was always flattered when people mistook us for twins. Our personalities, though, could not have been more different.

My mom once joked she shouldve named us Push and Pull. Anne, like her long, straightened hair, was pulled together. And every time she started to inch a toe over to the wild side, shed pull herself back behind the line. Meanwhile, I subtly pushed boundaries the same as I pushed back on my parents rules. Today, for instance, I had opted not to flat-iron my unyielding coils or to wear the corny outfit my mom had picked out for me.

Are we seriously going through with this? I asked my parents, leaning forward for urgencys sake. They both pouted in that intense way only Creole-and-French-forged lips can. Isnt that famous Haitian restaurant nearby? I continued. We can order dinner to go and be back in Jersey before the food gets cold. The traffic going the other way is light

Thats enough, Simone! Mummy whisper-screamed without looking away from her sun-visor mirror as she freshened up her makeup.

Eh bien, Ill wait outside, Papi said with one foot already out the car door. Poor guy. He was so overpowered by all the estrogen in his life.

After another minute of grooming (Mummy) and stalling (Anne and me), the three of us got out of the car and headed to the house with Papi.

Our host, Madame Honor Fils-Aim, met us at her front door with her cheek angled toward us, ready to receive our greetings. This was a cultural gesture shed earned. To be sure, the kisser is of lesser status than the kissee. Madame Honor was the senior woman as well as the hostnot to mention (if you ask my mom) the lifesaver of the dayso it was all cheek out for her.

Constance, Grard, comment a va? She greeted my parents with a broad grin, setting a formal tone by speaking French instead of Haitian Creole.

Allo, Madame Honor, my mother answered, half an octave higher than normal. Her top row of teeth was so overexposed, I imagined them drying up.

The spicy aroma tickling my nose from the front stoop and the beads of sweat on Madame Honors penciled brow conjured an image of our host whipping up a tasty dish over the hot stove. It was enough to put me in a better mood.

Allons, allons. My mother coaxed me and Anne to step inside. Her public voice and trained personality reported to duty in all their Francophone glory. Ah, Simone, las-tu laiss dans la voiture? she asked me.

Non, I answered, stepping from behind Anne and showing my mom that I had not in fact forgotten the macaroni au gratin that stole my window seat.

After handing over the pan of food, Anne and I offered Madame Honor the obligatory cheek-kiss greeting. We instinctively walked single file, following the foot indentations in the plush beige carpeting, to an ornate sofa that looked like a double-wide throne. We were careful not to bump the gilded coffee table that was mobbed with tiny figurines of white women in hoopskirts.

I felt so tense for my sister that my scalp throbbed, as if I were wearing too-tight braids. Our hands rested side by side on the velvety seat cushion, so I gave Annes a poke and flashed her a grimace, minus the gross eyelid flip Id learned from Gabby. Our cousin Gabrielle was the buckwildest person we knew. She was only eleven, but her talent for telling the world to shove off with a bawdy grimace, a well-timed belch, or the choicest Creole cuss word was the stuff of legend. Gabby would wreak the best kind of havoc if she were here right now. And Annes lip curl told me she was thinking the same hilarious thought.

Jude! Vinim palew, Madame Honor abruptly called out in Creole.

A tall, broad-shouldered teen boy barreled down the stairs and paused when he saw the small crowd in his living room.

Madame Honor rattled off names in our seating order. You remember Madame Grard, Grard, and their daughters, Anne and Simone, she told the boy. They came to your brothers communion party when you were eleven.

H-hello, Jude reluctantly said without much eye contact. Shockingly, he didnt make the rounds planting kisses on everyones cheeks as my sister and I wouldve been obligated to do had we been in his shoes. Nor did his mother reprimand him for not doing so. He just stood there nodding in greeting.

When Jude turned to take a seat, he exposed the one wireless earbud he had plugged in his ear. The shiny silver phone that peeked out of his front jeans pocket was probably cycling through a playlist. That would explain Judes head nods.

Papi couldnt stop glaring at him. It was all he could do not to leapfrog the coffee table and scare some respect into the kid. Annes expression stayed neutral, like she was in a Vulcan mind meld with one of the hoopskirt-wearing figurines. I wondered how she could be so still, so outwardly quiet when her fate was being decided by everyone but her. I squirmed in my seat to shake off the secondhand embarrassment. Mummy kept her feet crossed at her ankles and laced her fingers together in her lap. She spoke with a tight smile and a singsong voice in crisp Creole, as if she were being graded on etiquette.

As we discussed over the phone, my daughter Anne needs to attend senior prom with an escort, and the good Lord pointed me to you, she told Madame Honor. Jude would make the perfect companion for this event. We would love for him to attend prom with Anne. If you agree to this, that would be a grand gesture on your part, and we would be very grateful. She smoothed down her skirt with splayed fingers to signal the end of her proposition.