Owning It

by Leah Marie Brown

  “You are part of a minority of souls who are truly unique. The Divine One used more crayons when he sketched you. Do not be ashamed of your different colors.”

  I see the garden in my mind’s eye. I see people—featureless silhouettes, really—standing around the fountain, their faces turned to the sky as if in supplication. Then, suddenly, the silhouettes explode like fireworks. Bright, beautiful colors that re-form into the shapes of angels rising to the heavens.

  I grab a charcoal pencil and begin sketching the scene on my canvas. I often use a charcoal pencil to sketch out a scene; then I use acrylics, and then oils. Vermeer used a similar technique when he created Woman Holding a Balance.

  Soon the outline of the scene I had imagined in my head covers the canvas, and I am feeling that familiar excitement that comes with the genesis of each new work. Anticipation and hope mingle. I squirt some paint on my palette and begin to make my artistic hope a reality.

  Theo says painting is my form of Transcendental Meditation, that my mind literally leaves my body to travel to a nonphysical realm of creativity and insight. I definitely get in a zone. I am in the zone now, focused on the colors and shapes that will bring my vision to life. The gardens and tourists fade away, and I am one with the paints. I work until my stomach growls loud enough for the sound to reach the nonphysical realm. I haven’t eaten anything since dinner last night, and I am starving.

  I rest my brush on the tray attached to the easel and lean back to assess my work. It’s pretty spec. Or it will be spectacular once I finish it.

  I bought a ham and cheese crêpe and a lemon San Pellegrino from a street vendor on my way to the gardens this morning. I pull the crêpe out of my backpack and devour it. I had finished my San Pellegrino and returned to my work when someone taps me on the shoulder.

  It’s like being woken from a dream. That wistful feeling you have when are lying in bed, trying to snatch the wispy string of your dream before it floats away, like a balloon on the breeze, but realize it is too late. It is out of your grasp, floating, floating, floating away.

  I look over my shoulder and discover a middle-aged tourist in bright white sneakers, a fanny pack strapped around her waist.

  “Excuse me,” she says, smiling. “Do you know what time it is?”

  I look at my watch and see that Minnie’s little hand is pointed to one and her big hand is pointed to five. It can’t possibly be 1:25. No way. I have thirty-five minutes to pack my easel and run almost four miles back to the gallery. It took me an hour to walk here this morning, before the streets were crowded with tourists.

  “It’s one twenty-five,” I say, tossing my supplies inside my kit, closing my easel, and throwing my backpack over my shoulder.

  The tourist thanks me and hurries off.

  Nearby, there is a girl selling ice cream from a stand. I run over and ask her for directions to the closest Metro station.

  She points across the park. “The Concorde station. Walk straight down this path until you come to the rue de Rivoli.”

  “Merci, mademoiselle.”

  I run through the park, clutching my easel and wet canvas, taking the Metro station stairs two at a time. I look at the map hanging on the wall, dissected by dozens of colorful lines, and see that I need to take the yellow line, Metro line one, in the direction of Château de Vincennes. I feed coins into the automated machine until it spits out a ticket. I snatch the ticket, stick it in the turnstile, and run down through the station, my steps echoing in the tiled tunnel. The train squeals to a stop just as I arrive.

  The doors slide open. A steady stream of passengers flows by me. Finally, I wade through the mass onto the train and collapse into one of the empty seats, my easel banging painfully against my shins.

  Thank Gaudí! I don’t even want to imagine what Monsieur Alexandre would have done if I had arrived late for my first shift at the gallery. Isn’t the guillotine still used as the preferred method of capital punishment in France? I’m not sure, but I think it is. And I think insulting a gallery owner’s sensibilities is pretty much a capital offense in Paris. I am willing to suffer for zhe art, but decapitation is taking it way, way too far.

  The train rumbles along, stopping at the Palais Royale, Louvre, Châtelet, Hôtel de Ville, and finally Saint-Paul, the stop closest to the gallery.

  I grab my belongings and race through the station, out into the bright afternoon sunshine, pausing only to slide on my femme fatale sunglasses.

  I run down the rue de Rivoli until it turns into the rue Saint-Antoine, hang a left at the Hôtel Sully, and keep running until I reach place des Vosges. My side aches, and I am breathing so hard the lenses of my glasses are fogged over. I stop to catch my breath and check Minnie. Eight minutes and twenty-seven seconds left before I am officially late, and all I have to do is cut through the park.

  Phew! I set my easel on the ground and wipe the perspiration from my forehead. You wouldn’t believe how sweaty you get when you’re racing to beat the blade.

  I grab my easel in one hand and my painting in the other and hurry through the wrought-iron gates, down the gravel path toward the statue of Louis XIII on horseback. I am congratulating myself for conceiving of a completely brilliant new canvas and navigating the Metro like a boss when I collide with someone, the impact causing me to drop my easel and slam my canvas into them.

  “Je suis desolée . . .”

  I snatch my foggy glasses off my face and look at the stranger. Heat scorches my cheeks like a late-summer sun on asphalt, blistering and unexpected. Flusy-crushy heat.

  I didn’t just collide with someone. I collided with . . .

  “Monsieur Tall, Dark, and Hot,” I whisper.

  Up close, Monsieur Tall, Dark, and Hot is even hotter than he was standing across the gallery from me, with slate-blue eyes, smooth, tanned skin, and a chiseled, stubble-covered jaw. He notices me staring at him, and his full lips curve in a smile.

  “Pardon?”

  Do I own it or lie? Do I tell him I named him Monsieur Tall, Dark, and Hot because he is as beautiful as Michelangelo’s David, or do I act like Fanny, cool and indifferent to the charms of l’homme beau?

  He bends over and retrieves my easel. When he stands back up, I notice paint from my canvas is smeared across the front of his otherwise pristine white shirt.

  “Oh my god!” I try to rub the paint from the front of his shirt, but a new wave of heat washes over my cheeks when my hand moves over his sharply defined pec. “I have ruined your shirt.”

  He smiles again, and sparks of light ignite in his eyes, like when you strike two pieces of flint together. He looks down at the blue, purple, and black blotches of paint on his shirt. I stop rubbing and pull my hand away.

  “On the contrary,” he says in flawless English. “You have improved my shirt, dramatically.”

  The flushy-crushy cheek heat blazes down my body like a crackling bolt of electricity.

  David doesn’t understand English. He doesn’t speak. He sure doesn’t flirt. He just stands on his pedestal looking sexy and unattainable.

  “Merci,” I whisper, unable to look away from his hypnotic gaze. “But I promise I will pay to have it cleaned.”

  He waves his hand dismissively. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  “The gallery. I am an intern. Today is my first shift, and I am going to be late. Monsieur Alexander already thinks I am a slacker because I was late the day I arrived.”

  “You are a painter.” He wipes a small blob of purple paint from his shirt. “An oil painter, it would seem. May I see the canvas?”

  I nod and hand him the canvas. Some of the paint is smeared, but the charcoal outline is still visible.

  “C’est bon.”

  “You think?”

  He stares at the canvas for several more seconds and then looks at me, his lips curving softly, his eyes sparkling. “Oui. You are very talented.”

  His gaze is too intense. I have to look away. I pretend to study my feet, and this is whe
n I realize he is not wearing a suit, but worn dark jeans and a leather jacket that fits him like a glove. When my cheeks cool and my pulse slows to a normal beat, I look back up.

  “What will you call it?”

  I stare blankly, because I saw his lips move, heard the sounds coming out of his mouth, but I am too fixated on the lock of black hair that has fallen across his forehead and cheek. I want to run my fingers through it and smooth it back off his beautiful face. He doesn’t look like a suitsexual today, with his floppy hair, seductive gaze, and battered leather coat. He looks as dangerous as the devil.

  “What will you call your painting, mademoiselle?”

  I shove my glasses back on my face. “I am calling it Minority of Souls.”

  His eyes narrow. “That is an unusual title.”

  “I was inspired.”

  “I think you were,” he says, looking back at the canvas. “Forgive me, I haven’t introduced myself. I am Gabriel.”

  “Bonjour, Gabriel.” Just saying his name causes my heart to skip a beat. “I am Delaney Lavender Brooks.”

  “Lavender, like the flower?”

  I nod my head. “My friends call me Laney, though.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you,” Gabriel smiles, exposing straight, white teeth, and a dimple only on his left cheek. “Are you working in the gallery tomorrow, ma fleur?”

  I don’t know anything about Gabriel or if I will ever see him again, but hearing him call me his flower makes me feel like I have come out of the rain and slipped on a warm fuzzy robe. You feel that way because you belong with him. Maybe Rigby was right when she said Destiny brought me to France for more than one reason. What? This is coconuts. Like off the tree and rolling toward crazy land. He’s gorgeous and I’m . . .

  Gabriel frowns. “Ma fleur?”

  “I am sorry.” I shake my head to clear my thoughts. “I was chasing unicorns.”

  “Uni-corns?”

  I try to think of the French word for unicorn, but my mind is too loud to focus. “You know, a horse with a horn on its head?”

  “Ah, licorne?”

  “Oui,” I say, smiling. “Je poursuivais licornes.”

  Gabriel laughs, a warm, throaty laugh that fills the space between us. He is one of those full-body laughers. His eyes light up. He throws back his head and presses his hand to his chest, over his heart. It’s unguarded and organic, and it makes me happy.

  “You are funny.”

  I scrunch my nose. “I don’t know about that.”

  “Trust me,” he says, smiling. “You are funny. I need more funny in my life.”

  “People in France aren’t funny? Come on!” I say, punching his arm. “What about Nicolas Sarkozy? Remember when he teased Angela Merkel, the German stateswoman, for eating two helpings of cheese after declaring she was on a diet? Now that is funny stuff.”

  Gabriel laughs. “Sarko is unintentionally, oftentimes embarrassingly, funny.”

  “Okay, what about Fabrice Luchini?”

  “The actor?”

  I nod.

  “I love his movies.”

  “Me too!” We grin at each other. “Have you seen Bicycling with Molière?”

  Gabriel shakes his head.

  “What about his latest? The one where he plays an inspector.”

  “Non,” Gabriel smiles sheepishly and looks down at his feet. “I have to travel for my work. I am afraid it doesn’t leave me a lot of time for movies or . . .”

  “Or?”

  He looks up, focusing his intense gaze on my face.

  “Relationships.”

  “Oh.”

  Oh. Oh. I get it.

  “Most women don’t like dating a man who is gone half the year. They become bored and lonely. Paris is filled with men who will ease a woman’s boredom and loneliness.”

  “It sounds like you haven’t met the right women.” I want to stay here, in this moment, in the shade of the linden tree, with this strangely familiar and thrilling Frenchman, but I can’t be late to the gallery.

  “I am sorry, but I really have to go.”

  “Mais bien sûr.”

  He smiles and bows his head, like a leading man in a classic Hollywood flick. If this were a movie, our meeting in place des Vosges would be called a meet-cute. We would fondly recall our serendipitous collision for years to come.

  But my life isn’t a Hollywood flick.

  He hands me my canvas and steps aside.

  “Au revoir, Gabriel.”

  I smile and brush past him.

  “Ma fleur?”

  I turn around to look at him. “Oui?”

  “Would you like to run into each other again, say tomorrow around one o’clock?”

  I can’t even. Did Monsieur Tall, Dark, and Hot just ask me out on a date, or am I still back in the gardens, lost in a transcendental meditation? I look into his eyes, and my heart practically explodes in my chest.

  I nod. “I will see you tomorrow at one o’clock, and I promise I will not assault you with my canvas.”

  “That is no fun.”

  He winks and walks away. I watch him for a few more seconds, trying to memorize his slow, confident gait, the broad expanse of his shoulders, the sunlight shining on his black hair.

  Even if I live to be an ancient dinosaur, with dentures and blue hair, I won’t forget the day David descended from his pedestal and called me his flower.

  Chapter 14

  Laney’s Life Playlist

  “Love Song” by Sara Bareilles

  “First Day of My Life” by Anna Scouten (cover)

  “I told you destiny brought you to Paris for art and love, didn’t I?” Rigby tears off a piece of her croissant and dips it into her chocolat chaud. “Oh my god! What if you end up marrying Monsieur Tall, Dark, and Hot? Wouldn’t that be, like, the craziest thing ever?”

  “We aren’t getting married!”

  “But you could.”

  I shrug and strum the strings of my ukelele. I am trying to keep it ultra-chill, or at least project an ultra-chill vibe, because inside I am a gawky, geeky mess, twisted up in knots and writing silly love songs in my brain.

  They say I am quirky and free,

  Because I fell in love with a statue,

  In a park under a linden tree.

  Rigby had bounded into my room this morning before the sun stretched and spread its first rays. “Let’s break our fast,” she said. So, here we are, sitting in an outdoor café around the corner from the gallery. The boutiques, galleries, and wine bars that line the narrow streets of this quaint quartier are still closed, their windows black against Dawn’s first yawn. It’s the perfect time to quietly strum a ukulele and let inspiration stir your resting spirit.

  “You said your mom hassles you about being late, right?” She dips another piece of croissant into her chocolate and offers it to me. “But if you hadn’t been late twice, you wouldn’t have met Gabriel, aka Monsieur Destiny.”

  I stop strumming long enough to take the chocolate-drenched croissant and pop it into my mouth.

  “We haven’t been on a date, and you’ve already got us married and mortgaged.”

  “Oh, I am shipping you.” She grins. “I am shipping you so hard! Harder than Samwise and Frodo—and I shipped Samdo hard.”

  I stop strumming and look at my new friend through the fringe of my bangs. “You did not make a smoosh name for two of my favorite LOTR characters.”

  “Oh, yes I did,” she laughs. “And I am gonna make a smoosh name for you and Gabriel.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “It’s happening! Gabaney? Delriel?” She tilts her head and focuses me with an intent gaze. “Those aren’t working for me. What’s his last name?”

  I shrug. “Dunno.”

  “Gabrooks?”

  I groan.

  “I might have to hold off on the smooshing until you get his last name.”

  “Yeah,” I laugh. “That might be a good idea, because Delriel is epically bad.”

 
“Play me a song.”

  I strum an upbeat tune, reminiscent of Cristofer Drew before he bought a one-way ticket to the negative space and extinguished his cigarette on a reporter’s head. I was, like, totally in love with Cristofer and Never Shout Never. It’s so tragic when someone does something to make you fall off the infatuation cloud, isn’t it?

  I close my eyes and keep strumming. I hear lyrics in my head that haven’t been written, so I just start riffing.

  Oh, let’s run away to the south of France,

  Where the music of love makes us want to dance.

  We’ll eat olives by the light of a silver moon,

  And sing silly songs and kiss ’til we swoon.

  Oh, let’s run away to the south of France.

  When I finish playing and open my eyes, Rigby is grinning like the Cat in the Hat after he wrecked Sally and Conrad’s house, and a small group of passersby have assembled around our table.

  I have played my music dressed as a mythical creature. I have played to a crowd of totally wasted frat boys. I have played some pretty embarrassing gigs and sung some pretty ridiculous songs, but I’ve never once felt the embarrassment I am feeling right now, sitting in a café in the heart of Paris, exposing my most private dreams.

  Rigby claps.

  The waiter claps.

  A passerby tosses a handful of Euros into my ukulele case.

  “Laneriel is happening,” Rigby says. “It is so happening!”

  Chapter 15

  Laney’s Life Playlist

  “You and I” by Ingrid Michaelson

  “La Vie en Rose” by Daniela Andrade (cover)

  TEXT FROM VIVIA PERPETUA DE CAUMONT:

  Thomas Merton said, “Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.” I hope you find yourself and lose yourself in Paris. Bon chance, Laney!

  I am retro Friday Night Dream Date Barbie. I have scooped my hair up in a high, glossy ponytail. I am wearing my fave pleated black-and-white striped A-line skirt and a short-sleeved top with a Peter Pan collar. I just need Ken to swing by in his plastic convertible.