Sara-Louise’s apartment is hardly amazing—it’s so tiny and drab that I can’t really fathom how four people manage to cohabitate here without killing each other. But from Sara-Louise’s host parents’ bedroom, you can see the Eiffel Tower, all lit up.
“It’s almost worth it, sharing a room, just to look at that all day and night,” George jokes as we sit on the bed and take it in. I recognize the bright blue bedding we are sitting on from Ikea. I’d never been to Ikea until my cousin Emily went to college and I went with her and her mom to the one in Elizabeth, New Jersey to help Emily load up on dorm supplies. I run over the silk-screened fabric with my fingertips, wondering what it would be like to get under the covers with George.
“Imagine looking out this window on Bastille Day,” I say. “With all the fireworks going off over the Seine. I bet it’s to die for.”
“Totally bitchin’,” George agrees. He’s just inches from my face. I’m drunk, that’s for certain, but I also can’t take it anymore. His musky smell is drawing me in. I turn and plant my lips on his, kissing him softly and slowly.
George kisses me back, just as softly. I love how confident he is, how good his lips feel on mine. “Hey,” he mutters when our lips part for a second. “Are you trying to take advantage of me when I’m drunk? Is that why you brought me in here?”
I giggle at his teasing. “It’s not like I had to beg,” I say. “You followed me in here of your own volition.”
George takes a swig of the whiskey sour he made himself in the kitchen. “That I did,” he concurs. “That I did.” He kisses me again, this time with more fervor. He obviously wants to take it to the next level.
I don’t want to be trashy
, I reason to myself as we settle back onto the bed. I stare up at the dimmed light fixture and the fan coming from the ceiling above us, trying to decide how far to go, as George kisses my neck.
But this feels amazing—I’m finally getting what I want. And if I don’t do it, he’ll find a girl who will.
Patty’s overly painted face pops into my head
. Patty will get him if I don’t.
No matter how chaste I am trying to be, I always choose my lingerie carefully—you never know when passion might overtake you, after all. I had worn a light yellow, very girly bra under my polo shirt. George is pawing at the front clasp clumsily. He gives up and peels off my skirt to reveal the matching yellow thong instead. I pull his shirt off, running my hands up and down the smooth skin on his back, slipping my hands around his waist and undoing his belt and his cargo pants.
“Man, Alex, you are
sexy
,” George breathes as he starts to struggle out of his boxers.
“Wait,” I say, hating to interrupt him. “We need a condom.” I jump up to get my bag, tingling with excitement.
I can feel George’s eyes on me. I stretch out the task of finding a condom in the side pocket so that he has to wait, just those few aching moments of wanting me so badly that
he
can’t take it anymore.
I’m shaky with nervous expectation.
Be brave,
I tell myself as I crawl back onto the bed. I kiss him again to quell my nerves.
“Al,” George says, holding my waist. “Let’s wait. Let’s not do this right now.”
The fan spins above us, whirring and ticking. Beyond the door, I can hear shouts and music from the party. It sounds like the twins are trying to organize a game of beer pong, and the French kids—those of them still left at this lame, too-crowded party—are not understanding the rules.
“Why?” I fret. “Do you want to wait because you like me . . . or because you’re too drunk right now?”
George, his eyes already closed, smiles. “Both. Now, come here.” He spoons me, circling me into his arms.
“Oh,” I whisper back. Within seconds, he’s snoring right into my ear.
When I wake up, George is gone. There’s just a bunch of wrinkles in the bed next to me. I stare at the blue sheets for a minute. Then, gathering the blanket around me, I hobble around collecting my polo shirt, my jean skirt, and the little yellow shoes worn in an effort to appear down-to-earth and unaffected.
At least a walk of shame is better in Paris than in New York. The sun is just starting to rise, and with the bakeries all opening their doors, letting out the delicious smell of fresh bread and croissants, I could
almost
convince myself everything with George is just as it should be.
Back at my homestay in the Cambronne, I try to call my mom’s cell phone. In her last email, she told me she’d be on a trip to San Francisco researching a story for
Luxe
all week. It’s still early evening in San Francisco—she shouldn’t be sleeping—but she must be out already because she doesn’t answer.
After the disaster of last night—George fell asleep, and he
snores
, for God’s sake—all I want is some affection, my mom’s careless laughter in my ear. I want some fabulous piece of advice, like,
You will have many lovers, Alex darling. Some of them are bound to be disappointing.
After listening to my mom’s voicemail greeting for the fourth time, I dial Zack’s cell phone.
“What are you doing?” I ask him when he yawns a greeting. “I found a place that does American brunch on Sunday, just like you’ve been wanting. I’ll text you the address—meet me there?”
We meet at the restaurant, comically called Thanksgiving and kitschy the way American diners are. Zack is chirping happily about funny things at the party—Tallis, the pixie girl; how Tina’s polyester miniskirt had unsightly static cling all night; how wild Olivia had gotten dancing with me on the table, even though she was stone cold sober.
Zack howls with laughter. “I had no idea how bad Patty was jocking George before last night but now—now she might as well broadcast herself on France 2’s evening news! So what happened with George once you got him away from her?”
“Hmm,” I say blithely. “We hooked up.”
“Girl!” Zack says. “It is a
scandal
that I’ve been sitting here all this time, just waiting for my pancakes and watching you smoke those God-awful Gauloises, without knowing that you and George did the
deed
! How could you keep me in the dark for such a very long time about it? Are you in
heaven
?” He looks at me, his dark brown eyes gleaming and expectant.
“Oh, Zack,” I say heavily. “I think I put too much on the table last night.”
“I’ll say!” Zack guffaws. “Sounds like you put
everything
on the table.”
“Shut it,” I say grumpily, even though he’s right. “We didn’t even have sex. We want . . . we want to wait.”
“Wait for what? “ Zack says, getting confused. “Wait a second . . . is George into you or what? Why on earth didn’t y’all go all the way?”
I can’t tell him the truth. “George likes me a lot. I can tell. We’re going to do it, but that isn’t the important thing going on here. He might even—he might even love me too much to go all the way yet.” I don’t know why I’m saying all this. It just sounds really perfect as it comes out. I pick up my mimosa and take a sip.
“Right,” Zack says skeptically. “You know . . .”
“What?” I demand. I stub out my cigarette and immediately light another.
“Watch yourself. I mean, all you really have is some drunken fumbling in the dark. You’ve got a breakable heart,
ma poupette
. Be careful with it. Just sayin’.”
Our waiter sets down our plates of pancakes and eggs in front of us with an abrupt clatter.
I glare at Zack. He’s wrong. And jealous, most likely.
I’m not letting George get away just because I’m embarrassed he passed out on me, not when we’re so close to being boyfriend and girlfriend. The old me, the Brooklyn me, would have been too embarrassed after that episode, but the Parisian me knows it’s not over. This is going to happen, whatever it takes.
10. PJ
Promises, Parties, and Problems
I
wouldn’t have missed Sara-Louise’s party for all the châteaux in France,” Alex says superciliously Monday morning, leaning against the locker next to mine just before M. Paton’s Algebra 2 class (thankfully for all of us, taught in English) starts off our day at the Lycée. She’s still wearing her sunglasses, but I can see her arched, disapproving eyebrows.
Zack nods his agreement as he digs out his Algebra 2 textbook from his leather book bag. “It was out of this world. I mean,
Olivia
was dancing on a
table
. How can you
ever
forgive yourself for missing it?”
“And we met French kids,” Alex boasted. “We did shots with them. It was
amazing
.”
I grab my own math book, as well as some books on Ingres that I wanted to show to Jay for our project. We should probably do some more research on our painter before we actually go on the Louvre field trip in a few weeks. Plus, I really want to try and do a painting for extra credit. It’s been so long since I had an art project to work on, not since before the aborted wedding and the trip up to Canada.
I slam my locker door shut. “Sounds like it. So, where is Olivia this morning, anyhow? Too exhausted from her table dancing escapades this weekend to come to school?”
Zack purses his lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Is it just me or does Zack get the teeniest bit femme when he and Alex are together? “Olivia—get this—
fell off
the table and tore up some ligaments in her ankle during her little show on Saturday night. She’s going to be out for a few days.”
“Oh, no!” I stop and stare at them. “You’re kidding!”
Zack nods and puts his hand on the chest of his light blue sweater. “I swear. Honest to God.”
“Poor Liv,” I say, filling with sadness. Of all the nasty things to happen to someone so kind and good! You’d think, the way Alex likes to party, that it would have been
her
falling off a table. “How long does she have to stay off her ankle?”
“At least six weeks,” Alex informs me casually, finally pushing up her Gucci shades. “She gets to miss school this week, too, lucky bitch. She’s all doped up on painkillers. Anyway, you really should have been there. Was the Dordogne worth it?”
My heart skips a beat at the mention of pharmaceuticals. It always does. How could Alex and Zack treat this like just some other piece of gossip? Olivia must be heartbroken—not to mention scared out of her wits. What if she screwed up her ankle permanently and won’t be able to apply for her UCLA scholarship?
And not to sound selfish or anything, but the thought of a whole week without Olivia at school is dizzying. She’s my only ally here. Moreover, I’d been wanting to see if she might like to go to an African folk dance and drumming performance I’d heard about. Of all the kids at the Lycée, I thought she might actually be interested in seeing a band not in heavy rotation on MTV Europe.
“The Dordogne was fine,” I answer Alex carefully. She doesn’t respond. She’s reapplying her lip-gloss.
I’d tossed and turned all night on Saturday, wondering if I’d greet Sunday morning with an exposé on the mysterious American foster child living with the magistrate of Perigeaux. I’d thought for sure a reporter would want to cash in with a big story on me, about my parents, and how the Marquets’ good name would be forever tainted. At the Perigeaux train station Sunday afternoon, I’d scanned all the Sunday papers, making sure there weren’t any photos of me taken by the paparazzi from the day before. There was nothing, of course. I laughed at myself. I’m getting paranoid on top of everything else.
“It was great, actually,” I tell Alex, reminding myself to act normal above everything else. “The château is incredible.”
I take my seat and start unpacking my homework to turn it in to M. Paton. I’d had trouble concentrating on it last night; I know it isn’t my best work. I’d been anxious to speak with Dave again. I still am. He hasn’t been answering his cell phone the past few times I’ve tried to call him.
“Olivia told us that your apartment blew her mind when she came over,” Alex says, grabbing a chair in our first class right next to mine. She never does that. “She said it was positively
massive
.”
Zack takes a seat on the other side of me. “I can’t wait to see it!” he gushes. “Olivia told us it’s a mini-Versailles. Living there must be to die for. Who decorated it? Has it been featured in any magazines?” He crosses his leg and clasps his knee, all ears for more descriptions of the apartment.
Okay,
definitely
getting a gay vibe from him today.
“A mini-Versailles?” I say doubtfully. “No. It’s more like . . .”
“A faded empire?” Zack says, almost panting.
“Well, yes,” I say. That’s exactly right. The apartment feels like a museum, a relic.
The château is like that too, though to a greater degree. Its many rooms are in various stages of upkeep. Certain wings of the house seem to be off limits. When Mme Marquet had given me a tour Friday night, we’d skipped over the rooms she was in the process of remodeling, which was many of them.
“I know just what you mean,” Zack says. “I bet it’s all just divine. I can’t wait to see it for myself.”
“Are you going out of town again this weekend?” Alex asks pointedly. “It’d be such bad form to isolate yourself again so soon. I mean, our program hasn’t even bonded together yet. People are going to start thinking you don’t
want
to be friends with them.”
“That’s not true,” I protest. “I just really wanted to get to know my host family. But no, I’m not going away again this weekend. Even if they invite me I don’t think I am going to go back at all until after our trip to the Louvre. I really feel like I need to catch up on my studying. I’m behind in almost everything.”
“Well, that’s good,” Alex says. “I mean, everyone is so busy getting to know each other that after awhile they might forget about you entirely. And you don’t want to risk that.”
Zack shakes his head. “No, you wouldn’t, girl. Our program is just starting to gel. I bet you don’t even know everyone’s names yet.”