by Lucy Silag
I shake my head at the compliment. Mme Marquet has a look a girl like me could never replicate—self-assured, elegant, established. Next to her I feel like a farmhand, like I belong in the pasture picking mud off the horse’s hooves.
I watch Mme Marquet get ready in silence for a while, not sure why she’s invited me in here.
“So M. Marquet is the magistrate in Perigeaux?” I ask, trying to make conversation.
“Oui,” Mme Marquet answers. “His position is one of great importance in this region.”
“Oh,” I say.
“And this region is of great importance in France,” Mme Marquet continues.
“Is he really thinking of running for a national political office?” I ask, stirring some sugar into my bitter tea. I wish she’d asked if I wanted some coffee. Tea doesn’t quite zap me awake as much I’d like it to.
Mme Marquet sets down her eyeliner and stares at me. “Who told you that?”
I bite my lip. Maybe it was as big a deal as Olivia had thought. “My friend Olivia, from the Lycée. She’s living with Mme Rouille, on, um, the Boulevard de Courcelles. . . .”
“Ha!” Mme Marquet practically spits. “Clotilde Rouille! That widowed hag. She doesn’t know anything that she doesn’t read in the society pages. You tell your friend M. Marquet wants nothing more than to bring justice and peace to the Dordogne. National politics! How tacky. Never!”
Mme Marquet stands up and folds her arms across her chest. “What else have you heard about us? That we’ve lost our fortune? That we’re selling the château? The local papers will tell any old story to sell a few extra copies.”
I take that as my cue to excuse myself. “I better let you get ready for that brunch,” I say, not understanding how I’ve, yet again, managed to offend her. She offers me a small, jerky wave in response.
On the train back to Paris, I read over the letter I wrote to Annabel on the way here, not quite feeling as happy about my host family as I was when I wrote it, and more unsure about my future in Paris than ever.
“Where on earth did she go?” Dave asked me after all the wedding guests finally went home, the buffet left untouched. “Did she tell you anything before she left?”
I shook my head. She didn’t tell me anything. All I had was a map of the world with a bunch of lousy fingerprints all over it as clues to where she might be.
Dave suggested that we take a trip to Montreal and ask around for her up there. Since I spoke French, he wanted me to come with. My parents, who must have thought it sounded like a great alibi, came with us.
“Stop here,” my mom told my dad, who was driving Dave’s car. “This place looks good.”
We stopped so that I could pee, at a gas station just across from the customs check. My dad had begged me to wait till we got across the border. He was getting nervous about something, but I couldn’t hold it. I’d had to go since St. Albans.
I suddenly spotted Highway Patrol cruisers, a long line of them getting off the freeway and heading our way.
They told me to hurry inside to the bathroom. Dave took a deep, audible breath. “Really, you guys?” he asked my parents.
“I thought you said if we took Dave’s car . . .” my dad said to my mom.
“Get me some coffee, with plenty of cream and sugar,” my mom said to me, not taking her eyes off the cruisers as they got closer. I took my time, careful to make the coffee smooth so they wouldn’t have indigestion from drinking it so late at night. When I came out of the shop, cops were surrounding the car.
It still gets to me, remembering it, even now on the train, so many months after it happened. It’s still so painful to recall the looks on my parents’ faces that night: not of bewilderment, but of surrender.
8. ZACK
Falling Fast
“Oh, Zack, you should have seen your face when I left the café that night. You gave me a look that could have shattered glass,” Alex crows as she grabs a bottle of Stella Artois from Sara-Louise’s fridge. “I gave you the perfect romantic setup with those guys and yet—here you are, as virginal as when we first met. What are we going to do with you, my dear? Will I have to deflower you myself?”
Believe me—I’ve been tempted by girls in the past. Sometimes, you just want to do the deed and get it over with. But never that badly.
“Give it a rest, Alex,” I say, looking around to make sure no one heard her mention my romantic affinity for guys—or heard her make reference to my virginity. “It’s not like you’ve hooked up with George yet, either. We’re both still at square one.”
“Oh, so it’s a competition, is it?” Alex fluffs her wavy, wild black hair in the reflection of the mirror in the foyer. I look at my own reflection—my hair tousled just so, the way I always do it. I’m letting it grow a little longer here in Paris. I wore my glasses tonight, thick black hipster frames with square lenses. I think they are the perfect accessory for the little argyle sweater vest I’ve pulled over one of my button-down shirts and my favorite jeans.
We’re giving ourselves a pre-party tour of Sara-Louise’s homestay, which doesn’t take long. Sara-Louise lives in a tiny, two-bedroom apartment in an uninteresting housing development full of other apartments just like it. No matter how it lacks charm, it is certainly the place to be tonight. It’s the first party of the year!
Sara-Louise’s host parents are on a weekend trip to Bruges, leaving her alone in the apartment with their eighteen-year-old daughter, another student at the Lycée. We got here sort of mortifyingly early, when Sara-Louise and her host-“sister” Anouk were still setting out cheese and crackers and stocking their fridge with all the booze they bought for the party. Tried as I might have, I couldn’t keep Alex away tonight. She didn’t want to miss a second of the soiree.
Perched on the little stools at Sara-Louise’s tiny kitchen counter, Alex is using the down time before the party takes off as an opportunity to alternately make fun of me for being a prude and preen in front of the mirror. She’s looking uncharacteristically preppy this evening in a white Polo shirt, a dark denim miniskirt and a green canvas army jacket from Marc Jacobs. On her feet are bright yellow Jack Purcell sneakers. She must think the way to George’s heart must be by dressing like his New England boarding-school classmates. Regardless, Alex looks amazing. She always does.
“You look like a soap commercial,” I tell her. “George will be smitten.”
“You think?” Alex says, taking a sip of white wine from a glass tumbler. She insisted that Sara-Louise serve her in a real glass, rather than the plastic cups she and Anouk bought for the party. She gives her reflection her most captivating glance. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Wish me luck!”
Just then, we hear a big group of French kids come into the party—Anouk’s friends. They crank the music and glare at us Americans. Alex beams at them—what she wouldn’t do to be good friends with just one of them, to count just one Frog on her list of cohorts. I’m aching to be friends with them, too. But they’re too good for us, and they all know it.
“Tay-ex-US!” comes a sudden, almost barbaric cry from the entryway. The twins.
I turn back around, horrified at the sheer unpleasantness of the noise my poor ears have just been subjected to. Framed by the doorway, Patty and Tina are decked out in cropped black tube tops and matching A-line miniskirts, with Mardi Gras style beads laced around their necks. True to form, Tina has her hair up in a high cheerleader-esque ponytail, and Patty’s hair is feathered out around her small face like Farrah Fawcett. That’s the only way you can tell the twins apart—they wear the same outfits every day but different hairstyles from each other. Champagne bottles in hand, they are both making rock-star poses in the doorway as if there were a group of paparazzi taking their photos. Many more partygoers shout hello to them than they did to us. Triumphant, the twins air kiss and high-five their way to the fridge to cool their champagne.
Right behind the twins are George and Drew. And right behind them is Olivia, gaping at the twins.
“Holy smokes!” I hear one of them squawk at George. “You’re lookin’ fine tonight!”
“What?” Alex demands, keeping one eye on George and the other glued to the twins. “Tell me.” Like Mme Rouille’s yappy mini-poodles, the twins circle George and Drew, desperate to be petted. The sight of it has Alex breathing fire.
“You guys.” Olivia shakes out of her jacket, revealing a typically laid-back California outfit of a white peasant dress with a simple pink cardigan and flip flops. “You have to hear this story—I need your advice! So, I got home the other night, and I literally—I literally cannot explain just how literally—I literally jumped onto a strange man who was lying on my bed.”
“What?” I laugh. “How did that happen?”
“His name is Thomas,” she explains. “He’s Mme Rouille’s son. He came home from the Sorbonne to grab some books from his room and apparently got so wrapped up in Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet that he didn’t notice me until I was on top of him, legs sprawled in the air. Oh, my God! I’m officially in a shame spiral.”
“Livvy, that’s hot,” I say. “So what happened next? Don’t leave out any of the sordid details.”
“Oh, Zack,” Olivia rolls her eyes, laughing. “What do you think I did? I ran to the bathroom! I was all sweaty and stinky from ballet. When I finally came out, he apologized and left. Mme Rouille was horrified by the whole thing—it was so improper.”
“So what do you need advice on?” I ask.
“Well, do you think I should tell Vince?” Olivia blushes.
“Ach, you’re a prude,” Alex says flippantly. “Get a beer and let’s go dance.”
“I’ll pass on the beer,” Olivia answers cheerfully, “but let’s definitely hit that dance floor.”
Olivia waits patiently as Alex and I chug some beers with Sara-Louise and her good friend Mary, the punky girl from L.A. Once everyone is good and buzzed, Alex drags us both out onto the makeshift dance floor in Sara-Louise’s miniscule living room. The apartment is already packed with kids. It seems like every single Programme Americaine student is here, with a fair amount of Anouk’s friends, too. Alex bops her way over to the stereo and turns up the volume even higher.
Olivia is, of course, a phenomenal dancer—we already knew that. But Alex isn’t too bad herself. Just watching them shake their hips seductively to the French hip-hop on the stereo makes a bunch of other kids start to move to the music alongside them, swaying and grinding to the beat.
Alex and Olivia dance on either side of me, Alex facing me and grazing the back of my neck with her hands, Olivia shimmying her back against mine. Right now, I’m likely the envy of almost every guy in this room.
I can’t deal. Alex’s hair keeps getting in my eyes, and Olivia keeps knocking me off balance, bumping me with her little rear end. I extricate Alex’s arms from around my neck and leave them to each other.
“Salut!” one of Anouk’s French friends calls to me, motioning for me to join her on the couch. I perch on the armrest next to her.
“Hi,” I greet her, forcing a smile. She’s petite, with a cute pixie haircut and dimples in either cheek.
“What’s your name?” she says.
“I’m Zack,” I say, trying to stay friendly.
“You’re American,” she notes. “I couldn’t tell.”
“Really?” I’m flattered.
“You’re very handsome,” she says, reaching out and stroking my face. She takes a long sip of her beer. “Voulez-vous danser avec moi?” She puts her hand on my knee and squeezes it a little bit.
I want to laugh at the irony—a beautiful girl throwing herself at me, when all I want is a beautiful boy to throw himself at me.
“No, thanks. I’m not really fixin’ to dance right now,” I cringe at how my Southern accent just crept right out without me doing anything to stop it. Often happens when I’m nervous.
In the middle of all the action in the living room, Olivia and Alex jump up on the coffee table. In a blissed-out trance, Olivia twirls with her arms over her head. The neck of her dress is hanging off of her tanned shoulders, leaving them bare and sexy. Alex, gyrating like a stripper next to her, could be auditioning for a rap video. Her skirt is hoisted so far up from her outrageous dancing that she might as well be in her underwear.
“Come on, kiss,” I hear Drew heckle them. “Just once! We’ll give you five euros. Ten!” A group of guys around him dissolve into laughter. Alex and Olivia remain totally oblivious.
The Texan twins, for their part, glower in the corner. Alex and Olivia are the hottest show in town. Despite Patty and Tina’s bold entrance (not to mention the fact that they came with the two most desired guys at the Lycée), no one is paying any attention to them at all.
“I’m Tallis,” the pixie girl breathes in my ear. Quickly and gracefully, she hoists herself up onto my lap. With one leg on either side of me, she leans down and kisses me on the lips, softly, but obviously wanting more.
Whoa. I can feel my heartbeat hammering. I’m trapped!
“Sorry—I’ve got to go—there’s someone over there I want to talk to,” I squeal.
Tallis is so little I can easily lift her up off my lap and set her right back down to where she was sitting on the couch. She pouts at me, her arms folded angrily across her chest.
“Don’t worry, cherie,” I say as I walk away, though she can’t hear me. “There’s plenty of other takers here tonight. You’ll get over it.”
Jay’s sipping a beer by himself in the dining room, checking out some book on the shelf in there.
“Hey, man, how’s it going?” I say, giving Jay’s arm a friendly punch.
“What’s going on, man?” Jay says, shaking my hand. “I didn’t think I’d see you coming up for air for awhile.” He nods behind me, toward Tallis. He was watching?
“Oh, well,” I say, not knowing how best to deflect the truth of why I couldn’t hook up with Tallis. “She was hot, but . . .” But what?
“You just couldn’t do it?” Jay asks. “I know what you mean.” He leans back against the bookshelf.
“You do?” I say, nearly spitting out my beer. Could it be?
“Oh, yeah, man, I’ve been there,” Jay says easily. “Wrong person, wrong time. Someone much better will come along, I guarantee it.”
I’d thought Jay was straight, but this was too weird. Could Jay be gay, too? Is that why he said “wrong person” and not “wrong girl”? Because he knew what it felt like to have a girl hit on him and wish it was a guy? Or maybe I’ve had one too many beers. I search his smooth, angular face for a clue.
All of a sudden, a loud crash comes from the living room. “Oh, shit,” I say before I even see the damage. It’s got to be Alex—she was drunk even before the party really got going, and just before Tallis kissed me I saw someone passing out some kind of shots on the dance floor. When the shots come out, Alex is done for.
I push through the thick crowd of people. I’m shocked to find Olivia—Olivia who is usually so together—crying in hysterics on the living room floor. Most of the dancers have moved out of the way.
“What happened?” I ask. “Where’s Alex?”
Olivia shakes her head, sobbing. “I fell—I fell on my ankle—please help me up, Zack . . .”
I bend down and lift Olivia to her feet, but she crumbles in pain. She can’t put any weight on her ankle.
Jay, who’s right behind me, helps me get Olivia to the kitchen to make an ice pack. “It looks like you sprained it,” he tells her sympathetically.
“It can’t be! Nooooooooooooooo,” she wails.
“I better get you home,” I say, and pray Jay sees me looking hopelessly strong and handsome as I carry Olivia out to the street to hail a cab.
In the cab, Olivia passes out. When I wake her to take her up to her room, she starts to cry again. “Oh, Zack, n
ow I’ll never get my scholarship,” she frets. “And Brian . . . and my future . . . I didn’t tell you this, but Brian is autistic . . . I have to get this scholarship, for nothing else if not for him.”
Autistic? Olivia never mentioned that her brother was autistic. And what does that have to do with her scholarship?
“Livvy,” I tell her as we hobble into the elevator, “you’re going to be fine. Tomorrow morning you’ll feel fantastic. I bet you’ll be dancing on it by next week.”
In truth, I think she’s going to have to stay off that ankle for at least a month, and I’d bet my cab fare that she’ll be at the doctor for a good portion of tomorrow morning—feeling anything but fantastic.
“Really?” she asks me sleepily, giving me her keys and letting me guide her into her room and put her on the bed.
As I remove her flip-flops and cover her in her bedspread, I look wistfully at all the pictures of Olivia and Vince on the walls. It would suck to have to miss each other so much, but Vince and Olivia don’t know how good they have it. To know, to actually know in your soul, that someone loves you more than anyone else on the whole planet—what would that even be like? To be absolutely secure that you wanted to be with that person in college and for the rest of your life? I can’t even begin to imagine that.
As I run back down to the waiting cab, I wonder if Jay got home okay. I didn’t even really get a chance to say goodbye.
9. ALEX
The Best Laid Plans
You know, I was relieved when Olivia told me that PJ would have to miss Sara-Louise’s party because she’d be in the Dordogne. But as I watch Patty and Tina unpack the supplies for body shots—salt, limes, a handle of tequila—I realize how foolish I’ve been worrying about PJ’s supposed hotness. It’s Patty sprinkling salt on George’s neck right now. Patty’s the competition here.
My vision might be hazy from all the shots I’ve taken tonight, but even I can see that George isn’t exactly pushing Patty off of him, either.