“Your what?”
He explained what a bidet is for.
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Seriously.”
“Wow.” Leave it to the French to invent a genital-and-bum washer!
“Do not piss in it again,” he said.
I promised I would do no such thing.
* * *
—
Just before nine o’clock we left for the day. Charlie wore a hot pink minidress with white tights. I wore a pair of Sal’s suit pants and one of his shirts. Charlie showed me how to wrap my dark green sweater casually yet jauntily around my neck. She also said, “These clothes suit you very well.” On the way out I put my red beret on again, which brought the whole outfit together in my opinion, but Charlie again plucked it from my head and tossed it into the living room with a firm “Non.”
Guillaume gave me an airmail envelope and a stamp so I could send my letter to Sal. Charlie and I walked all the way to the Eiffel Tower, where we joined the others. It was incredible, standing underneath it and getting a true sense of its scale. Alex, Fabrizio, and I filled each other in on our billets’ apartments and neighborhoods. “There are actual prostitutes on our block!” said Fab. We couldn’t help but notice that Mademoiselle Lefèvre seemed to be actively ignoring Mr. P, who stared at her with sad puppy-dog eyes.
“Uh-oh,” said Alex. “I think we’re witnessing ghosting in action.”
Tyler stood farther back in line with his billet, Antoine. As we neared the front, he suddenly butted in front of me to stand next to Charlie. “Do something,” hissed Fabrizio.
But I’d just caught sight of the elevator, which had big glass windows.
My knees started to tremble.
When it was our turn to board, I almost bolted. But Alex and Fabrizio took my elbows and guided me inside. They took me to the middle of the elevator. “Close your eyes,” Alex murmured. “I’ll tell you when you can open them.” So I did. And I’m pretty sure I kept my whimpers to a minimum.
But when we got to the top, Kertz had the advantage. He boldly stepped right off and steered Charlie to the very edge of the viewing platform.
Everyone else got off the elevator, jostling around the boy who stood frozen in the center. “You can do it,” Alex said. He and Fab held out their hands. I gripped them. They guided me out. I got closer and closer to Charlie….
Then I made the mistake of looking down.
I crumpled to my knees.
Alex and Fab had to help me crawl back on all fours from the edge through throngs of annoyed tourists, and I had to sit with my head between my knees in the middle of the elevator on the way down, while above me, Tyler chatted to Charlie in French that was so much better than mine.
It was not my finest moment.
* * *
—
We spent the afternoon at the Louvre, which was huge and crowded. I was disappointed to see how small the Mona Lisa was. Most of us were still squiffy with jet lag and our feet were sore, so it was a relief when we were told we could go home.
Guillaume made us dinner again. The smells were astounding. “I am making cassoulet,” he said. “Avec une salade verte.”
Charlie spoke to him in rapid French. I caught the word végétarien. “But duck is not really meat,” he said. “It is…bird.”
They started to argue again in French, but I interrupted. “Please, I would like to try the duck. I promised myself I would be open to new experiences while I’m here.”
Guillaume smiled triumphantly. “Good for you, Wilbur. Anyway, it is mostly white beans and tomatoes.” He gave me a small portion of the cassoulet to start with. It was out of this world. I asked for seconds. Then thirds. Guillaume beamed.
“Wilbur, tell me, are you a reader?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. That is very good. I am suspicious of people who do not read. What are some of your favorite novels?”
I was going to mention Charlotte’s Web, as well as the Great Dune trilogy, Lord of the Rings, and anything by Kenneth Oppel, but suddenly I felt uncertain. Guillaume was a Famous French Intellectual; would he be dismissive of my favorites?
“I’ve read a number of Margaret Atwood’s books and I think she’s a genius,” I said, which was true.
Guillaume’s eyes lit up. “She is a genius. A Canadian treasure.”
“And I read a lot of poetry. Leonard Cohen’s poems in particular blow my mind.”
“Ah, you are a romantic.”
I probably should have stopped there, but what can I say; I wanted to impress him. So, even though I’d found the book baffling and impenetrable, I said, “Also I loved The Stranger. By Albert Camus.”
Charlie and Guillaume both started to laugh. “Wilbur, it is pronounced CAMOO,” said Guillaume. “It does not rhyme with anus.”
I coughed. “Good to know.”
“Other books?”
“Um, I also really liked The Hunchback of Notre-Dame.” This was a white lie, because I hadn’t had time to read it before the trip, so I’d watched the animated Disney movie instead.
“Ah, it is one of my favorites, too,” said Charlie.
“What did you like about this novel?” asked Guillaume.
“I liked the character of Quasimodo. He wasn’t traditionally handsome, but he still wasn’t afraid to sing. Oh, and I loved the talking gargoyles.”
Guillaume looked at me. He looked at Charlie. He said, “C’est un gentil garçon mais je pense qu’il est peut-être un peu simple.”
I looked to Charlie for translation. She coughed. “He says you are a very nice boy.”
* * *
—
Later that night I lay in bed, my feet sticking out well over the end. Charlie was lying in her bed, next door. If I listened closely, I could hear her snore.
I looked out the window and I could just see a pocket of stars. For some reason, Fulton popped into my mind. I texted Sal on WhatsApp.
I am wide awake and staring at the stars outside my window in Paris. Maybe they’re the same stars you will look at in a few hours. Maybe they’re the same stars Fulton looked at back in the day. It’s a tremendous thing to think about, isn’t it? I hope you are well! Love you, Sal.
Minouche wandered in and leapt onto the bed. She kneaded her paws into the covers and purred, then she settled in on top of my stomach.
I kept staring at the stars. I had no idea what would happen during this trip, but in those moments before I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, none of it mattered.
I was simply happy.
Paris, Days 3–4
Dear Sal,
I am writing you a second letter, but maybe I will just deliver this one by hand when I get home as it may not make it back before I do. Sorry this is rushed. Barely any time to write. Yesterday we went to the Centre Pompidou and later the science museum. I’ve never walked so much in my life. Today we spent the morning at Musée d’Orsay and in the afternoon we went to Mademoiselle Lefèvre’s conservatoire in Saint-Germain-des-Prés to rehearse for a concert we are going to put on for the parents on our last day. Charlie and Guillaume are hosting it in their courtyard!
Charlie showed me some of her favorite paintings at the Musée d’Orsay, including one called Starry Night over the Rhône by Vincent van Gogh. “He only sold one painting while he was alive, can you imagine? And now his paintings sell for millions.” I told her I hoped I’d sell more than one poem in my lifetime, and she said she’d like to read some of my poetry! We were still gazing at the painting when Tyler walked up and said, “This looks like it was painted by a toddler. I could do a better job than that.”
Charlie told him he was an idiot.
I told him he was a putz.
Later we had lunch at a falafel place in the Latin Quarter. Tyler went to the bathroom, and w
hen he came back, he looked horrified. “The toilet’s a hole in the ground! What are we, in the dark ages?”
Charlie looked at me and rolled her eyes, and I did the same.
Although I also decided that I didn’t need to go that badly, after all.
At dinner Guillaume asked how my day was and I said, “J’ai bien joui.” His eyebrows shot up, and Charlie spit water out of her nose.
“What do you think you just said?” he asked.
“I said I enjoyed myself.”
“Non. You said you have had an orgasm.”
My French still needs a lot of work, Sal.
Paris, Day 5
Setbacks. We spent the morning rehearsing for our concert again. In the afternoon we toured the Panthéon and climbed the stairs to the viewing area at the top. Tyler pointed at the gargoyles and said it must be nice for me to be reunited with my long-lost relatives. I wanted to push him off the edge, but of course I was too scared to go anywhere near the edge.
This evening we went to a classical music concert at L’église de la Madeleine. I stood staring at the beautiful interior, and by the time I found Charlie, Tyler was sitting next to her. I had to sit behind them, and the seats were really close together, so I knew their legs were pressed against each other the whole time because my leg was pressed against an older French man’s leg the whole time. Tyler whispered to her throughout the recital, and she whispered back, until the old man beside me leaned forward and shushed them.
She was quiet on the way home, and so was I. I didn’t know what to say, or how to say it.
Later, after everyone was in bed, I tried the bidet for the first time.
It felt good, Sal. Very, very good.
J’ai bien joui.
Your BFF,
Wilbur
The definition of bravery
Isn’t wielding a fist or a sword
Sometimes the definition of courage
Is simply using your words
From “Bravery” by Wilbur Nuñez-Knopf
“I love you. You are an incredible person. You are a winner!” I repeated my mantra over and over in the bathroom mirror the next morning, until Guillaume finally knocked on the door and told me I wasn’t the only one who needed to have his morning merde.
We met the others in the Tuileries Gardens. Alex and Fabrizio—who were both sporting their new Parisian scarves and looking fabulous—took me aside. We stood underneath a statue by Auguste Rodin. “How’s it going? Have you made any progress with Charlie?”
“I thought I was. But now, I’m not so sure. I think she might still like Tyler.”
“We only have a few days left,” said Alex.
“Why don’t you just tell her how you feel?” asked Fab.
“Because. I might be a more confident version of myself than I was before, but that doesn’t mean I want to get knifed in the heart.”
“But don’t you want to know, one way or the other?” asked Fab.
“I’m not sure. Do I? I’m having a good time. A really good time. I don’t want to blow it by suddenly making things super awkward.”
We walked through the Tuileries along with the others, toward the Place de la Concorde. That’s when it occurred to me that Tyler hadn’t gone anywhere near Charlie all day. He was keeping to himself.
An ancient obelisk stood in the center of the Place de la Concorde, to mark the place where the guillotine had been during the French Revolution. “Thousands of heads rolled here,” Charlie told me. “Including those of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette.”
I tried to block everything else out and imagine what it must have been like back then, the history, and the blood that had been spilled, right where I was standing. But it was hard to do, because a large group of tourists was standing nearby, gathered in a circle, laughing at something and taking photos. So I gave up and went to see what everyone was looking at.
It was a “pop-up” statue; it must have been placed there, stealthily, in the night. It depicted a life-sized rendition of a former U.S. president, and it was very unflattering: he was naked, with rolls of fat and wrinkles, and a saggy old-man bum. He also had what Fabrizio called a “micropenis.” Tourists were lining up to have their photos taken with the statue.
Suddenly Tyler was beside me. “Hey, Wank. Somebody made a statue of your grandpa.”
I tensed up but said nothing.
“Oh, wait. He’s not your grandpa. He’s your best friend. You couldn’t get anyone your own age to be your friend, so you got one from the Paleolithic age.” He started to laugh. “He’s probably just some sick old perv who likes to see young boys naked in the locker room—”
I punched him.
I wanted it to be like the movies. But I’d never thrown a punch in my life, so it wasn’t like the movies at all. There was no awesome sound effect or anything like that.
“That’s the best you’ve got?” he smirked.
I hit him again.
It still didn’t have much of an impact. But now he looked mad.
He punched me back.
His punch packed a lot more wallop than mine—so much so that it knocked me to the ground. I looked up and saw, with a mixture of confusion and horror, that he was about to launch himself on top of me.
But before he could, Alex and Fab grabbed him from behind. They wrestled Tyler to the ground and sat on his chest.
Jo Lin stared, wide-eyed. Then she started to slow-clap. A moment later, almost all of the others joined in. Laura shouted, “Yes!”
Jo Lin held her hands out to me and pulled me to my feet. Charlie glared down at Tyler. “Sal Goldstein has more decency in his little finger than you have in your entire body. He is twice—no, a hundred—times the man you are! And so is Wilbur!”
And that was the scene Mr. P and Mademoiselle Lefèvre came upon when they pushed their way through the crowd.
* * *
—
Alex, Fabrizio, and I were sent home for the rest of the day, along with our hosts, even though they hadn’t even been involved. “You represent our school. And Canada!” Mr. P shouted, his voice cracking, sweat stains forming on his shirt. “You’ve brought shame on our nation!” This seemed like a gross exaggeration, but we agreed that it likely had less to do with us and more to do with the fact that Mademoiselle Lefèvre was still ghosting him.
We wouldn’t get to see the Musée de l’Armée. As added punishment, we weren’t allowed to attend the big group dinner that night, either. Incredibly, Tyler was still allowed to go; he’d used his reptilian charms to convince Mr. P that he’d been the victim, not the perpetrator.
“He is such a jerk,” Charlie fumed as the six of us walked home along the Seine—which, even as she ranted, still made me want to pinch myself—I was walking along the Seine, in Paris!—“Sometimes, the more you discover the true nature of a person, it changes how you see them. Even if they are good-looking on the outside, if you do not like their insides…they become sort of ugly. Do you know what I mean?”
Fab and Alex both elbowed me so hard I thought I might actually fall into the Seine.
“I take it this means you don’t like him anymore?” Fab asked.
She shook her head. “Ugh, not at all. He was trying to, how do you say? Hit on me? Last night in the church. In the church! I told him I was not interested.” That explained so much. His sullen behavior, even his lashing out at me. “I can’t believe I ever found him attractive.”
Alex and Fab had to hold back squeals of delight.
“Anyway, I am glad to be free of all the official sightseeing,” said Charlie. “Allow me to show you all my Paris.”
“We’d love to,” Alex said, “but Léo and Christophe are going to take us to an outdoor flea market.”
“Vintage French clothes!” added Fab.
They b
oth murmured good luck to me before they left.
Charlie and I were on our own. It was still only eleven in the morning.
“Wilbur,” she said solemnly, “I am about to make your feet very, very tired.”
* * *
—
First, we crossed over to the Left Bank and wandered through the Latin Quarter and Saint-Germain-des-Prés, stopping at a restaurant called Les Éditeurs for a café allongé. We sat inside, under a big clock. The walls were lined with books, including three of Guillaume’s, all in a row.
Next she took me to Ladurée, where she bought us a small, elegant box of macarons. We strolled to the Luxembourg Gardens, which was just…wow. The cherry blossoms were in bloom. We sat on a bench and ate the macarons, which had flavors like salted caramel and vanilla bean and pistachio—it was like biting into sweet heavenly clouds. We watched boys and girls launch wooden sailboats in the man-made pond and old men playing boules. It made us both think of Sal. “Next time you come, you can bring him, too,” she said.
I told her I thought this was a marvelous idea.
We walked back toward the Right Bank. On the way, I bought a tea towel with French cooking phrases on it for Mup, little baguette earrings for Mum, and a notebook with a drawing of the Eiffel Tower on the cover for Sal.
On Île de la Cité, Charlie took me down a street called Quai aux Fleurs, to see a plaque. ancienne habitation d’héloïse et d’abélard, 1118.
“Who were they?”
“Who were they?” she replied, astounded that I didn’t know. “It is the most romantic story of all time. He was a philosophy teacher, she was his student, and they fell madly in love. They lived together in this very building and wrote beautiful love letters to each other. But her uncle was furious. He had her sent to a convent, and Abélard was castrated and became a monk.”
I felt my testicles shrivel. “I bet Abélard didn’t think it was romantic,” I said, and she agreed that that was probably true.
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