Again, But Better

by Christine Riccio

  “Oh boy, more strangers for us.” I chuckle nervously and test out a locker.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine,” Pilot says, dropping the map down onto his lap.

  Pilot and I don’t have locks.

  Babe reads my mind. “They have locks you can buy downstairs! I got one for me and Chad to share. You guys can get one.”

  “Cool, cool,” Pilot says, rolling off the bed. He hangs his backpack in one of the lockers, and I shove my carry-on into another.

  * * *

  After we sort out our lock situation, the four of us find a Chinese restaurant that’s still open and grab dinner. My chest feels tight as we head back to the hostel, and my pits are sweating up a storm.

  We’re sharing a room and bathroom with random strangers who could be ice-pick killers. And I’m going to be sleeping in a bed a foot away from Pilot. What do I do about makeup? Do I sleep with my makeup on? I’m not ready to be makeup-less around Pilot. I’ve never been without makeup, close up, around a boy I like. I’m going to have to take it off when I know it’s dark and he can’t see me, and run to the bathroom in the morning to put it on before he wakes up.

  Babe and Chad get off at the third floor, leaving Pilot and me alone in the elevator as we head up to six. When we get to our room, the lights are dimmer than before, and there are bodies asleep in two of the beds in the far left corner.

  Pilot sighs and collapses onto his bed with a grin. “I’m gonna crash. I’m knackered.”

  I snort. “Knackered sounds so wrong without an English accent.”

  Quietly, I maneuver my suitcase out of the locker and roll myself to the other end of the room. There’s another door here, and it must lead to the bathroom. When I push it open, heavenly light blazes out into the sleeping area. I stumble in as quickly as possible and lock the door behind me.

  It’s a restroom. There’s another door across from this door, which suggests that you can enter from another room as well. Joy. I lock that door too before catching sight of myself in the mirror. My mass of blond hair looks matted and disheveled.

  I strip down and switch out my boots for flip-flops before stepping into the shower with my travel soaps. It’s a tiny claustrophobic white rectangle. I imagine this is what it’d be like to stand vertically in a casket lined with white tile. I close the flimsy plastic curtain behind me and look for a shower dial. There’s only a button. One button. A giant, rounded silver dome amongst the tiles. What the fudge?

  I step as far out of the way of the showerhead as possible (not far at all; any oncoming water will be inescapable) and smash my hand against the button. Water sprays out of the showerhead right onto my face. It’s warm, but nowhere near comfortable levels. I sigh, speeding through my cleaning ritual. About twenty seconds into wetting my hair, the water goes off.

  And now I’m freezing.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Oops, I didn’t mean to say that out loud. I smash my hand against the button again. More lukewarm water falls over me. I soap up my hair. Forty-five seconds later, the water turns off again. Deadpan, I smack the button. What the heck is this shower that only turns on in forty-five-second spurts?

  Five minutes later, I step out, seething, and pull on a tank top and sweatpants. Do I have to wear a bra? I bra up. I’m not ready to be walking around braless in a room alone with Pilot and two strangers. After brushing my teeth and taking several deep breaths, I exit the bathroom.

  It looks like I had nothing to worry about. Pilot’s already asleep. He lies on his side, facing the door. I tiptoe over and slide into the bed next to his, shifting myself into a comfortable position, facing his back, when suddenly Pilot turns to look at me. I nervously yank the thin white blanket up to my neck.

  “Night, Shane,” he murmurs sleepily.

  “Night,” I whisper as he turns back toward the door.

  14. Sail?

  I’m up at 7:00 a.m., washing my face and doing my makeup in the bathroom. I pull on dark blue jeans and a black turtleneck, because it’s freezing outside, and leave my hair down. Back in the room, one of the strangers is gone, but the other is still asleep. He looks oldish, in his forties or something, and he’s wearing a sleep-apnea mask.

  I’m sitting on my bed playing Angry Birds, dressed and ready to go, when Pilot stirs awake a little before 8:00 a.m.

  “Morning,” he says, sitting up.

  I drop the iPod in my lap. “Morning.”

  “What’s that?” He yawns, nodding at it. His eyes narrow. “Are you Angry Birding without me?”

  “Um.” I smile guiltily.

  He laughs, bringing his legs over the side of the bed and pulling on jeans. “How dare you?”

  Pilot grabs his bag from our gym locker. He eyes me with surprise. “Are you already ready?”

  * * *

  “So, guys, I signed us all up for Paris Pass,” Babe explains as we walk toward the Metro. “It’s this all-inclusive thing that gives us unlimited access to the Metro for the next two days and includes tickets to the Louvre and Versailles. We have to go pick it up first, but maybe then we head to Versailles and do the Louvre and everything else tomorrow?”

  “Saturday night, we hitting the club scene for my birthday, yo! It’s gonna be sick,” Chad adds.

  “Sounds good,” Pilot says. “I took a look at the map. Our hostel is kind of far from everything, but we’ll make it work.”

  It takes us an hour to get to the convenience store and pick up the Paris Passes. Pilot wasn’t exaggerating when he said we were far from everything. But once we get there, it only takes Babe a minute to run in and emerge with our tickets. She hands us each a pass.

  “So, how do we get to the palace now?” I ask with a hop.

  “Now, we catch the RER,” she answers cheerily.

  “The what?” Chad interjects as Babe leads us away.

  “What is this, RER?” Pilot questions in a ridiculous French accent.

  “It’s a bigger train that goes to farther places,” Babe explains as we trot behind her down the street.

  “So we’re taking the Rerr?” I say goofily.

  Babe laughs. “The R-E-R,” she repeats.

  “The Rerr,” I repeat back.

  “We’re hitting up the Rerr,” Pilot backs me up.

  “I’m so pumped for the Rerrr, you guys,” Chad pipes in. I laugh, and Babe starts chuckling along.

  “Okay, the Rerrr,” she concedes loudly.

  Babe leads us to another underground platform much like the Metro, except cleaner. We stand in a little circle, waiting for the train. There’s a distant rumble as it approaches, and with a rush of wind, the RER pulls into the station. It’s a double-decker, and we’re all thoroughly impressed by it. The seats are arranged in groups of four, a set of two across from a second set of two. Pilot takes the seat next to me, and Babe and Chad sit across from us.

  “How long is the ride?” I ask Babe.

  “I think around thirty minutes,” she answers. Chad leans his head against the window and closes his eyes. Babe pulls a brochure for Versailles from her bag and starts to read. I watch them for a moment before Pilot turns to me.

  “Angry Birds?” he says with quiet excitement. I smile and dig my hand into my purse.

  * * *

  Versailles doesn’t look real. A massive stretch of gravel spans before us. Is this a driveway? Maybe for a family of giants with twenty cars. It leads to an endless sprawl of gold building.

  When we get inside, a tour guide escorts us up to the second floor. On the way up the stairs, I catch sight of the backyard (if you can call it that) through the windows.

  “Holy crap, do we get to go out there?” I look to Babe anxiously.

  “Yes, don’t worry!” She giggles.

  Pilot’s mouth quirks up his right cheek. “I’m excited about this.”

  We come to a stop in an overwhelmingly lavish foyer area that leads into the legendary Hall of Mirrors that everyone talks about. After snapping a few pictures (Babe snaps
one of Pilot and me, and Pilot takes the camera to get one of Babe and me while Chad hangs to the side), we stroll on in.

  It looks like a ballroom. Gorgeous chandeliers drip from the ceilings. Tall golden candelabra line the edges of the room, and mirrors decorate the walls. Are they mirrors? They’re more like old, decorative reflective glass.

  “Wait, this is the Hall of Mirrors?” I ask hesitantly as we make our way across it. “Where are all the mirrors?”

  “Right there!” Babe points to the decorative glass panels along the wall.

  “But those aren’t mirror mirrors, those are like glass … that reflects you,” I fumble. That didn’t come out right. Pilot starts laughing.

  “Glass that reflects you? Like a mirror?” Chad asks sarcastically.

  “But there are no real mirrors!” I protest.

  “Is this the real Hall of Mirrors? Are we in the faux Hall of Mirrors?” Pilot exclaims, pretending to be outraged.

  “This is it!” Babe cackles.

  “I was expecting, like, a fun-house maze of mirrors…” I explain, full-on laughing now. I guess I heard about this when I was really young, and that’s the image I conjured in my brain. Pilot appears on my right, grinning broadly.

  “No, I was expecting a fun house too,” he says quietly.

  “Right?” I exclaim.

  “I mean, when you think Hall of Mirrors you think hall full of mirrors—mirror maze.”

  I snort. “They should add a mirror maze for, like, Halloween.”

  Pilot’s expression goes blank. “I’d be so down for that.”

  “Maybe they have a suggestion box,” I add. His head kicks back with a laugh. I bite down a pleased smile.

  Babe veers off toward the blurry, foggy-ish mirrors, and the three of us beeline after her. Once we’re all in front of a mirror, Babe frames up a mirror pic. In the Hall of Mirrors. I stick my hand up and do a queen’s wave.

  “It’s like the Mirror of Erised!” I grin.

  Babe laughs. “I’m not seeing what I desire.”

  Room by room, we wind through the palace. We see Marie Antoinette’s bedroom, and where King Louis the somethingth slept. We see a painting that literally takes up a ballroom-sized wall! I’ve always thought of palaces like castles, I guess. Stone and cold, ancient-looking—nothing like the ridiculous grandeur we tour through.

  Then comes the backyard. I know backyard isn’t the right word—it’s more like an endless expanse of park, complete with a lake, fountains, hedges, and statues. It looks like photo-shoot heaven. Park heaven. It’s like an ocean in park form; you can’t see an end, there’s no edge! It just keeps going.

  I don’t know how long we’re out there making our way through the jumbo-sized courtyard and taking pictures with the different landscapes. We meander farther and farther in until we reach a café where we stop for lunch. I could frolic around this place forever.

  * * *

  “So are you, like, into photography?” Pilot asks as we make our way back to the RER.

  I turn to look him in the eye. “Yeah, it’s one of my things.” I smile.

  “Really? You’ve never said anything about liking photography.”

  “Well, it hasn’t really come up, and it’s more of a hobby.”

  “You do take great pictures; my mom loved all the ones from Rome.”

  I chuckle. “Glad to hear I have your mom’s approval.”

  “You need one of those nice pretentious cameras.”

  “I’d love one of those pretentious cameras. One day!” I smile up at the sky longingly and then drop my eyes back to Pilot. “Are you not into photography?”

  “I mean, I appreciate a good picture. I respect that.” A grin tugs at his lips.

  “You’re a good co-photographer.”

  “Co-photographer?”

  “Yeah.” I turn my oversized grin away from his face. I need a second without eye contact to gather myself. “I mean, usually I end up having to give people lessons about how a picture should be framed.” I turn back to gauge his reaction.

  He gives me a funny look.

  “Like, they don’t ask for the lessons. I kind of obnoxiously teach them after they take a picture for me and it’s framed poorly—like, I give them a mini-lecture and make them do it again.”

  Pilot laughs in disbelief. “What?”

  “Yeaahhhh.” I look at the ground. “You didn’t get a lecture, though, and you’ve taken quite a few pictures for me.”

  When I meet his eyes again, he brings a hand to his heart. “Wow, I’m so honored to have passed this secret photography test.”

  I look away, trying to get my expression under control. “Mentally pushing you over again.”

  He shrugs. “Sorry, mentally dodged you. Didn’t get me.”

  A wave of giddiness roils through me, and I’m so distracted that I trip walking up the train stairs.

  * * *

  “I’m so pumped for tomorrow, y’all. I’m turning twenty-one. Shit’s gonna be amazing.” Chad’s voice snaps me back. I got lost in a Pilot-related thought spiral while eating my quiche. We’ve stopped in a French restaurant for dinner. Chad raises his drink off the table, and we all clink our glasses.

  “It’s gonna be great,” Babe confirms. “I asked the girl at the front desk about the best area to go to.”

  “I’m pumped to go to the top of the Eiffel tomorrow,” Pilot adds.

  Chad nods his head past us at something. “Check her out, man,” he says in his bro voice.

  I turn around to see a petite dark-haired girl walking over to the bar to get a drink. I’m about to turn back and serve Chad a dirty look when I notice the bartender. A woman with a shock of red hair piled up on top of her head moves toward the girl to get her order. It looks like plane/Starbucks lady? Why the heck would she be—? The woman looks up, makes eye contact with me, and winks.

  “What the fudge?” I bellow, abruptly standing from my seat.

  “Shane…” Babe mutters, embarrassed. I turn to face her. She thinks I’m about to yell at Chad. I glance at Pilot.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” I look back at Babe, who’s silently urging me to sit. I raise my eyebrows. “No, I, it’s not that. I know the lady at—” I look back at the bar. She’s gone. There’s a guy there in her place, talking to the dark-haired girl. I blink, shaking my head. What the hell?

  “I— Never mind.” I settle back into my seat. Why am I hallucinating a middle-aged British woman?

  * * *

  Back at the hostel, we split off to our separate rooms. Pilot brushes his teeth and gets into bed. I take a ridiculously short shower and snuggle into the single bed next to Pilot’s around midnight. He’s asleep facing the door again.

  “Night,” he mumbles as I settle in.

  I yank the covers up to my chin. “I always think you’re asleep, and you scare the crap out of me,” I mutter.

  He turns toward me, wearing a mischievous smirk. “Muahahahaha!”

  We’re only a little more than a foot apart. I grab my pillow out from under my head and whack him in the face. He snorts.

  I pull it back under my head with a smile. “Night.”

  15. Fail

  I’ve always been under the impression that the Louvre was a museum under that iconic glass pyramid. We’re now standing in front of said pyramid, but it’s surrounded by what looks like another palace.

  “Is all of that the Louvre?” I ask, stunned.

  “Yeah, of course!” Babe answers.

  “Holy crap.”

  I’ve been dreaming about visiting this museum since I first learned about it in sixth grade, when we were all forced to take Intro to French and Spanish. And then of course The Da Vinci Code only added fuel to that fire.

  I’m particularly hyped when we come upon the Winged Victory statue—the famous, armless angel missing a head. It’s from, like, 200 BC. I did a report on it in that sixth grade French class. I skip up to it. I’m only there alone for a moment bef
ore Pilot appears at my shoulder.

  “You want a picture with it?” he asks knowingly.

  “Yes, please!” I hand him my camera.

  As I step out in front of the sculpture to pose, we make eye contact—he smiles and my brain malfunctions. I raise and lower my arms like they’ve just sprouted from my torso. Oh god, not this again. Hand on hip? Both hands on hips? Arms out in glee? One hand up? Pop a foot? Jazz hands? Stand sideways? Shit. I snap my arms down and smile with them straight at my sides like a soldier. And then it’s over, and I’m offering to take one of him, desperate to get back behind the camera as soon as humanly possible. He stuffs his hands in his pockets doing his cool-guy stance. Chill as ever.

  I check the camera to see what pose he got. Jazz hands and Soldier. Cool.

  * * *

  We spent forty-five minutes walking from the Louvre to the Eiffel Tower. Now it looms over us, dark and daunting. While the four of us are gazing up in awe, a man wearing a winter hat and puffy jacket walks up to us with a giant metal ring threaded with oodles of tiny Eiffel Tower replicas.

  “Five, one Euro?” he asks anxiously. We just stare for a moment. “Five for one Euro?” he repeats.

  “No, thanks,” Babe answers. The man hurries away to a new group of tourists.

  “Ready to scale this thing?” Pilot beams.

  “Let’s do it!” I cheer. After climbing the Vatican, I want to climb all the things.

  “Yo, heights freak me out, but I guess I’m down to climb, ’cause how often am I in freaking Paris,” Chad comments.

  Babe looks from Chad (who’s paler than usual) to Pilot to me. “I don’t think I really want to—Chad, I thought you’d want to take the elevator. I’d really rather take the elevator,” Babe says, turning to him.

  “Come on, Babe, let’s do the steps. When do you get to climb the Eiffel Tower?” he whines.