Mira's Diary by Marissa Moss Read Free Book Online

course,” said Renoir. He hadn’t paid much attention to me before but now he beamed at me. “Perhaps I could paint you. You have a dark, olive skin, almost Algerian. You would make a splendid model!”
    I could feel my checks turn hot and red. Posing for an artist, even a famous one like Renoir, sounded totally embarrassing. Besides, I wanted to do the drawing, not be drawn.
    â€œDon’t tease her like that, Renoir,” Mary chided. “You’re tormenting the poor child. Come, Mira, I think it’s time for us to go. And not to Algeria.”

    Besides Renoir, I’ve met ballet dancers, café singers, and one of Degas’s closest friends, Ludovic Halévy. Who is Jewish! That meant Degas didn’t think of me as a token Jewish friend, and he couldn’t be that anti-Semitic. Degas had known Halévy since they went to school together, and he ate dinner with the whole family once or twice a week.
    He doted on their children and stayed at their country homes, and Halévy’s wife developed his photographs. (Degas is really into the new art of photography. I couldn’t help thinking how much Dad would love to meet him.) Degas had many friends, but nobody was as close to him as the Halévys. Mom’s note had said to keep an eye out for intolerance so I was relieved that I didn’t have to think of Degas as prejudiced against Jews anymore. I could just enjoy him as a friend.

    Today we went to the races. Degas sketched the horses; Claude sketched the crowds; and I sketched it all—horses, people, Degas, and Claude. Mary Cassatt loaned me a parasol and dress since I only had one, and I felt elegant with my hair pinned up and white silk gloves making my fingers look tapered and slender.
    â€œDon’t move. Stay just as you are,” Claude said.
    â€œYou’re drawing me?” My cheeks flamed.
    â€œYou’re the most lovely thing here. How can I resist?”
    I lowered my eyes. If that was true, why hadn’t he kissed me yet? I’d given him so many chances.
    â€œAre you an artist now?” I asked instead. “Not just an artist’s assistant?”
    â€œI am trying to be an artist,” Claude corrected. “Which is why I am an artist’s assistant. Who better to learn from than Degas? And I saw you sketching yourself, so you too, are an artist.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I was taking notes, that’s all. Things that pop into my head. It’s kind of a hobby, I guess.” I gripped my sketchbook tightly.
    His fingers moved quickly over the paper. The rasp of chalk on paper, horses snorting, hooves drumming on the dirt track, people murmuring and cheering—I let the sounds wash over me, along with the lemony sunlight and the grassy breezes. It was a perfect moment. Time could stop right now, I thought, and I’d be happy like this.

    But of course time doesn’t stop. It moves, backward I suppose as well as forward, but it moves. I began to wonder if Mom was still in this time and place. And if she was, what was she doing here? More importantly, what was I doing here? And when would we both go home? Paris was beautiful, but I missed Dad and Malcolm. And as nice as everyone was to me, I didn’t belong here. I wanted to click my heels together like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz and magic my way home again.
    I could feel tears of homesickness prick my eyes—and that’s when I saw her, with my vision blurred by tears. It was Mom, there in front of me for real! I wanted to rush up and hug her, hold her tight so she couldn’t get away, but I was afraid she’d run away again. Maybe if I came up slowly and quietly, the way you try to get close to a wild animal?
    I stood watching her, trying to figure out what to do. She walked alongside the track in a melon-colored dress, her arm linked with that of another woman wearing lilac. A man in a military uniform stood at the lilac woman’s side,