Belle Rousseau's Arc

Chapter 3 of 6

Saturday came. Belle rode to the pink cottage by the sea, but not in Mr. Phillips's car. She drove alone. She would not sit in the back while Zip claimed the front. When she arrived, the cottage glowed in the sun, its wide windows shining. Belle had a new plan. She would show Mr. Phillips a warmer Belle. Not the strict teacher he had heard about. Someone easy. Someone kind. Inside, the teachers stood around a strange white couch that glowed blue at its base. Mr. Phillips sat on one end. Belle walked over and smiled. It felt tight on her face. "This is a lovely place," she said. "So cheerful." Mr. Phillips barely looked up. "The literature teacher," he said. "Careful, you might smile and crack something." A few teachers laughed. Belle's face went hot. Her reputation had beaten her here. He saw the strict woman who killed field trips. Nothing she said moved him. Belle tried harder. She laughed too loud at his joke. She complimented his shoes. Each try made her stiffer. Mr. Phillips answered short and turned back to Zip. The warmer Belle would not come out. It stuck in her throat like a bone. Moana Waialiki found her outside, alone by a fence. Beyond it, a black-and-white cow chewed grass and stared at nothing. Moana ran the ice cream shop in town. She had told Belle once to make Mr. Phillips see her, not tear down Zip. Now she leaned on the fence beside her. "You're performing," Moana said. "He can smell it. Honestly, nobody warms up to a person trying to look warm." "Then what do I do?" Belle's voice cracked. "He decided who I am before I said a word." "Stop selling yourself to him." Moana nodded at the cow. "You wanted this trip because you love books, or because he does?" "Because he does," Belle admitted. It hurt to say. Rapunzel came around the cottage then, carrying a tray of flowers for the window boxes. She had run the whole outing without fuss. She stopped when she saw Belle's face. "You look like the garden did Friday," she said. "Half pulled up." She set the tray down. "You keep aiming at one man. Art's no good aimed at one person. Neither is a Saturday." Belle stood there. Two women had told her the same thing from different sides. She had spent the whole trip curved toward Mr. Phillips, and it had made her small and false. She walked back inside. She did not go to Mr. Phillips. She sat on the glowing couch beside a young teacher and asked what she was reading. She listened. She laughed at something true. For an hour she forgot to watch him. When she finally looked up, Mr. Phillips was watching her. Curious. Belle's plan had failed completely. But something better had cracked open. She had stopped needing him to see her, and only then did he.