Free Mira's Diary by Marissa Moss Page A

stomach clenched as I read about Dreyfus being found guilty of treason. Then the writer described the ceremony I’d seen. Except according to the newspaper, Dreyfus was barely human, more demon than man. If I was supposed to make Degas like Jews, then I guessed my job was to make Degas help prove he was innocent. But seeing anti-Semitism in person, it didn’t seem like changing people’s minds would be easy.
    These were real people, real lives being ruined. How could people read about such injustice and not be outraged? Even if they believed that Dreyfus was guilty, how could they present him as a demon? To the newspaper writer, he seemed barely human.
    If I couldn’t clear Dreyfus’s name somehow, that would be my job—to show the public that Dreyfus was accused simply because he was Jewish. And that he was a man like any other, not some kind of evil monster. I had no idea how I would do that, but I was so angry I had to figure something out. I didn’t care about changing something in the future. What mattered was this right now, this ugly anti-Semitism.
    â€œOf course, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. It will be nice to have the company.”
    I looked up from the newspaper, from the horrible caricature of the demon Jew to Mary’s kind face. She’d never said anything about me being Jewish, and suddenly that really mattered to me.
    â€œThat’s so generous of you!” I said, folding over the paper so I couldn’t see the ugly drawing. “You must have thought me rude, leaving like that without saying good-bye or thanking you after all your kind hospitality.”
    â€œActually I thought you must have run off with a young man. Claude thought so too.”
    I blushed hotly. “Nothing like that! My aunt called for me urgently, and I had to hurry to catch a train. I did write to you from Italy, but it sounds like you didn’t get my letter. The post can be so unreliable,” I lied.
    â€œYes, terrible really, since your letter to Monsieur Degas was also lost.” Mary’s eyes twinkled. She clearly didn’t believe a word I’d said, but she didn’t seem to care that I was an ungrateful liar.
    I’d dug myself a hole and felt myself falling deeper. What a nuisance this time-travel stuff was! How did Mom handle all the lame excuses and clumsy lies? If I didn’t care about these people, it wouldn’t matter, but I wanted Mary, Degas, and Claude to like me. Or at least not think I was a horrible person.
    I could almost hear Mom’s voice in my head saying, “Stop worrying about your reputation. It doesn’t matter what other people think of you—it matters what you think of you.” Right now I thought of myself as someone who wanted very much to be friends with Mary. And Degas. I wasn’t sure about Claude. After all, I’d disappeared just as he was going to kiss me (wasn’t he?). That would be pretty hard to explain away.
    Degas had moved to a bigger place, not far from his old apartment, and when I got there he was sketching a woman crouched in a tub washing herself. His marks were looser and thicker than I remembered. I could lose myself in their energy and beating pulse, as his fingers skated over the paper. He leaned into the drawing, peering closely at it as if he needed glasses, even though he was already wearing a pair perched on his nose.

    â€œMira?” he asked, turning toward me. “It has been years! I thought you had decided to stay in America and abandon your French friends.”
    â€œI’m so sorry that I left the way I did. You must think I’m awful.” I watched the colors bloom under his fingers as if I was in a trance. I’d never seen him draw like this before. It felt intensely private and magical.
    â€œI would say it is good to see you, but as you can tell, I do not see well at all these days. My eyesight has long been poor, and now it is so