A Nice Fling is Hard to Find (3 page)

So I wasn’t surprised when her next move on the boat was to
call Tommy over to us and away from the Pennies.

After the cruise is when things got interesting. Becca and
Harold went for “a walk,” and Tommy and I regrouped in the hostel’s courtyard,
which is insanely pretty. It has three iron benches, small round tables, and
moss growing between the cobblestones. Everything in Paris is so old and
charming. I can picture what it was like to live here centuries ago.

Anyway, guess who was in the courtyard? The Swiss/Austrians.
Except they aren’t actually Swiss/Austrians, turns out they’re Russians.
Whoospies. I would never have had the guts to talk to them on my own, but Tommy
plunked himself down in the bench right beside them and began asking them all
these questions. There were two of them: Vladimir and Mick. Vlad (that’s what
he told us to call him) is the hot one. He has blond hair and ridiculous
cheekbones. If I had spotted him in an
Abercrombie
&
Fitch
ad, instead of in the courtyard of Les Quatre Saisons, I would
not have been surprised. Although
Abercrombie
&
Fitch
is pretty American. Maybe a Beneton ad? He and Mick were
smoking clove cigarettes and laughing, and they told us about living in Moscow.
And then Vlad showed me how to write my name in Russian:
Линдсй. Or something like that. Apparently
Ruskies have a totally different alphabet. Who knew?

An hour or so later, Becca and Harold joined us and the
Russians said goodnight, but the way Vlad held my gaze longer than necessary
made me decide that he would be an attainable fling for me to focus on.

“Want to come with us to the Bastille Day parade tomorrow
night?” I blurted out.

“Sure,” Vlad said. “We’ll meet you here. To pre-celebrate.
At seven.”

After we waved goodbye, Becca started jumping up and down on
the bench. “Way to go!”

“Shush, they can still see you,” I said.

But whatever. I have a date! Kind of.

Joanna just turned off the lights. Can’t see in the dark.

A demain!

The Afternoon of Saturday, July 14
^th

My boobs hurt. I am lying on my back, attempting to write
in the air, because I cannot lie on my stomach.

Why, you might ask?

Oh, I’ll get there. First off, Happy Bastille Day. That
means it’s France’s Fourth of July.

But back to why my boobs are killing me.

Since we had a free day in honor of the holiday today, Becca
and I decided we were going to hit the quasi-beach to get some sun. Pierre and
Mike were taking the boys and some of the more athletic girls to play soccer.

We hiked down to the beach. It was kind of weird since it’s
in the middle of the city, but cool. We claimed our spot. We spread out our
towels. I pulled off my shorts and t-shirt and then looked over at Becca.

Or shall I say, Becca’s boobs. Oh, yeah, there she was,
lying on her back, topless, for the world to see.

“What are you
doing
?” I shrieked.

She gave me a devilish smile. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t talk to you when your
things
are on
display.” Not that she was out of place. Ninety percent of the women out there
were topless. And it wasn’t just the twenty-year-old locals. The tourists were
topless. The GRANDMOTHERS were topless.

“Oh come on!” she said, laughing. “We’re in France. We
must!”

“Er, we?” I crossed my arms in front of my chest.

“Yes, we. Come on, Linds.”

I was about to say no, but then I thought, well, why not? I
wanted to be wild this trip, didn’t I? I want to take risks and push myself out
of my comfort zone.

And how much would this annoy my mom?

“Just whip it off!” Becca ordered.

Now or never. I had a brief moment of cold feet (or cold boobs),
so here’s what I did. I lay on my stomach, and then unclasped the back and
slipped that sucker off. And then slowly turned around, my heart pounding. Then
I squirted some suntan lotion in my palms, and did my best to smear it on my
upper regions. But, come on, was I supposed to rub myself right there, like I
was in
Girls Gone Wild
the Paris edition?

Becca started screaming and clapping, and there we were.
Topless.

Honestly? It felt kind of cool. I mean it’s not like my
boobs have ever been allowed to see the sun before.

So I tanned. And closed my eyes. And pretended the Seine was
the ocean. I was pretty relaxed about the whole thing until IT happened.

“Allo mes filles!”

I opened one eye and then screamed.

Pierre. Back from soccer. Followed by a bunch of the other
kids from the trip. Including Harold, Abby and Tommy. The latter who was,
thankfully, covering his eyes.

I rushed to flip over onto my stomach and immediately
grabbed my shirt for cover. My cheeks as well as other exposed parts of my
body, were surely deep red.

I contemplated jumping on one of the passing tour boats.

“Are you covered yet?” Tommy asked, hands still over his
eyes.

“Yes,” I squeaked.

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” he said, and I could see
he was smiling. “It’s my sister. Gross.”

“Oh, shut up,” Becca said, putting her top back on.

“All ze women are topless in France,” Pierre says. “It’s no
good to be ashamed of your body.” Pierre was definitely not ashamed. Like most
of his countrymen, and unlike any of the American teen tour boys in their roomy
swimming trunks, he was wearing a suit that was only slightly bigger than a
Speedo.

For the record, I am NOT ashamed of my body. Or my boobs. I
am perfectly happy with my boobs. But that doesn’t mean I want my crush, my
best friend’s brother, AND my best friend’s boyfriend to have free cable access
to them.

“I’m happy with my body,” Abby said in a singsong voice. And
that’s when she untied the straps of her bikini top and tossed it to the
ground.

Even I couldn’t help but stare. They. Were. Huge. And
perfectly tanned. Apparently this wasn’t her first time setting those babies
free in the sun.

Pierre’s jaw dropped.

I might have to give up on Pierre, and focus all my
attention on Vlad. There is NO way I can compete.

Anyway, it’s a good thing I put on my top when I did. Why?
Because a few minutes longer might have given me first-degree burns. As soon as
we returned to the hostel and I stepped into the shower and let the water (the
low- pressure-barely-there-water) dribbled onto my left boob, I shrieked in
agony. And then noticed that it was bright red. Lobster red. As in, the worst
sunburn of my life. Post shower of pain, I gingerly applied aloe vera.

Okay, now I have to get dressed for the parade. Yippee.

No, no, no. I will not let my burnt boobs get me down! I am
in France! I will enjoy myself! I have plans with Vlad! There will be
fireworks! Tonight is going to be the best night ever!

Sunday morning, July 15
^th
, 2:00 A.M.

OH. MY. GOD. This is a disaster. A GIGANTIC disaster. My
life is ruined.

I don’t even know where to start.

Okay, so after we got dressed in our finest (almost finest—I
was in too much agony to wear my adorable red strapless sundress, so had to
settle for a loose black cotton shirt over leggings instead). I put on the
guava and dragged Becca outside to meet the Russians.

“What if Vlad’s sketchy?” Becca asked, “Is it really a good
plan to hook up with him? You barely know him.”

“You’ve only known
Harold
for a few days.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“He’s American!”

Oh, please. “What is up with you? You’re usually encouraging
me to do crazy things.”

“Am I?”

“Um, yeah. I’m in France aren’t I? And have you seen the
color of my boobs?”

Anyway, regardless of what Becca thought, the smile Vlad
gave me when I stepped outside . . . well, it made me feel quite confident that
he would be Mr. Fling. There would be some kissing action tonight, no doubt
about it.

There would not, for obvious reasons, be second base action.
My second bases were quite furious with me at the moment.

Tommy, freshly showered and sporting a pale brown button
down shirt and beige pants, had already joined them, so I sat between them and
said, “Hello boys.”

And then I noticed the bottle of cheap Champagne on the
table.

“Cheers,” Tommy said and poured me a glass.

“Be careful,” I told him, glancing around the garden.
Alcohol was definitely not allowed on the trip.

“There is no drinking age in France,” Vlad said in his cute
Russian accent as he took a gulp.

A second later Joanna popped up and we all froze. “I see
you,” she said, covering her eyes. “But I’ll pretend I didn’t. Since it’s a
holiday.” She wiggled her index finger. “One
glass and that’s it.”

I’ve never actually had champagne, but this seemed as good
as any time to try it. Since I’m in France. Where Champagne comes from and all.
I think. We all toasted and clinked and sipped.

Then Harold and the Pennies joined us so we clinked and
toasted and sipped some more.

I tried to focus on the plan—chatting up Vlad.

He told me he was backpacking across Europe for the entire
summer, and that his next stop was Zurich. Then he was planning on going to Juan-les-Pins in
the Riviera.

“You should come to Nice instead,” I said, extra flirty.
“We’ll be there next week.”

“Maybe I will,” he said, inching closer to me. He smelled
smoky and sexy.

“I heard the beach in Juan-les-Pins is much better,” Tommy said, out of nowhere.
“Do you know the beach in Nice is all rocks?”

Um, hello? We’re trying to encourage him to join us not
convince him to stay away. I gave Tommy my best butt-out-annoying-boy glare,
but he totally ignored me. Then he tried to convince Vlad to skip the Riviera
all together and go straight to Spain.

Why, you wonder, was he talking crazy? Oh, you shall see.

Joanna returned with Pierre and Mike and then the entire
Teens Tour France! Group, plus the two Russians headed down to the wide Champs
Elysees for the parade.

Big mistake.

Why did I think it was a good idea to invite my potential
fling out with the Pennies? They sidled up to him immediately, and started
yapping about who knows what. Pigtails, maybe? I wanted to claim him in some
way, but what was I supposed to do, grab his hand? Put my arm around him? Pee
on his shoe? That’s what Ralph does to trees when he marks his territory.

I scouted the area to see where Pierre was at, and as I
suspected, he was in a conversation with Abby who was bursting out of her
bustier. Yes, it seemed that Vlad was my only hope.

The people in the streets cheered in French, the fireworks
exploded into ribbons of red, white and blue above the Eiffel Tower (who would
have thought that France’s flag used the same colors as ours?), but I couldn’t
concentrate. Instead, I watched the Pennies hog my fling.

“What is wrong with me?” I complained to Tommy. The two of
us were standing together, squashed on the street between random celebrators
wearing French flags. “I want to have a fling! Why aren’t any men interested in
flinging with me?”

“Lindster, I promise there are men interested in flinging
with you. Maybe they just don’t know that you’re interested. Maybe they want to
know they’re not going to get shot down before trying anything.”

“You are so right,” I said, nodding emphatically. “I have to
be more like your sister. Brave.”

He cocked his head to the side, and half-smiled. “Maybe it’s
not the fling that you’re afraid of.”

“Sorry?” I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. My shoe
got caught in a leftover streamer and I tried to scrape it off with my heel.
The ground was such a mess. Bottles and gum and plastic glasses.

He looked right at me and took a second to respond. “Why do
you think you want to have a fling so badly?”

“What do you mean?” I said and tried to laugh. I looked down
at the ground and kicked one of the wine bottles. “Because it would be fun.
Romantic. Adventurous.”

“Is that the only reason?” he asked, and his forehead
wrinkled. “Why are you only considering foreign guys? Why write off everyone on
the trip? Why not try for something real?”

Now I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure I liked where he was
going with this.

“I think you’re afraid of getting hurt,” he said from right
beside me. His voice was low, but I could still hear him.

I kicked another bottle. “Aren’t you?”

And that’s when—

Oh God. I can’t even write it.

Deep breaths.

And that’s when—Tommy tried to kiss me.

Oh, yeah.

And no, it wasn’t the glass of Champagne playing tricks with
my brain.

He stepped closer to me, and then closer and then I noticed
that his face was moving toward mine.

At first I didn’t realized what was happening. I thought one
of the tourists had accidentally pushed him into me, and I shot out my arms to
protect myself in case I fell. But then I realized that his eyes were closed
(!) and that his big lips were not only pursed (!), but were coming straight at
me.

So I ducked.

Unfortunately, since Tommy’s eyes were closed, he didn’t see
that I was no longer there. So he kept moving his face forward. My not being
there to receive said face threw him off balance, which cause him to trip over
himself, and the next thing I knew he was splayed flat on his back in the
middle of the Bastille day parade.

Of course everyone in our group, as well as quite a few
strangers, came rushing over.

And me? I was frozen. I was shocked.

My best friend’s brother just tried to kiss me.

To KISS me.

What was that? Honestly, I don’t know what to make of it. I
don’t know, TJ, maybe YOU saw it coming. What with all his talk about why I
wouldn’t give someone on the trip a chance. But I thought he was being more . .
. theoretical. I mean, he, Becca, and I talk about this kind of stuff all the
time. You know, fears and psychology and philosophy and life.