by Lucy Silag
“Well, then, Thomas,” Alex says with an irresistible smirk, “I hope I see you on Saturday night. Listen, forget the tea—I can’t stay. I’m meeting Zack at the Galeries Lafayette in ten minutes to pick out something new for the party. Au revoir, darlings!”
The miniature poodles nip at Alex’s heels as she crosses the foyer toward the front door.
“Toodles, poodles!” The dogs bark in response.
I hear Elise let her out. Too impatient to wait for the elevator, Alex’s banging high-heeled Chloé boots—her new ones—echo down the spiral marble stairs to the lobby of the building.
“Olivia, do you mind if I accompany you girls to the party? I’d love to meet your friends,” Thomas beseeches me. I gaze out the kitchen window, then back at him, touched by his concern at intruding. I’m also wondering what Vince would think about Thomas coming to the party. It’s not like I invited him, after all.
“Oh, sure,” I reply, not wanting to offend him. “Of course. I mean, it’ll just be high school kids. Tons of Americans. Are you sure you want to come?”
“Bien sûr!” Thomas affirms. “It sounds like a fun time.”
It does sound like a fun time, one that I wish Vince could be there for. It’s easy enough to get through the school day and ballet class without Vince, but social events make me miss him so much. Vince is so funny at parties, always right in the center of things. When I became his girlfriend in the ninth grade, I remember feeling so lucky that my boyfriend was so popular and well-liked. He never ignores me when we go out, either, or pressures me to drink. He always used to get me home right at eleven, and come in and say hi to my parents. Remembering him, the way he used to come around to the passenger side door of his car and let me out, and reach down and help me out of the car and hold my hand up the front walkway of our house, how safe I always felt when I was with him, fills me with yearning and sorrow.
After dinner, I walk with Thomas to the Villiers metro station, planning to go call Vince before bed.
We pass the Lycée, where Thomas tells me he used to be a student. “Don’t let them fool you,” he says of the French kids who I complain ignore us all the time and make us feel like idiots. “We were always fascinated by les Américains. They will come around.”
Past the Parc Monceau, this part of the seventeenth, Clichy, gets a little sketchy. More bustling than Ternes, the boulevard is full of people even at all hours. As we part ways, I jump a little when a bar erupts with cheers, the crowd enraptured by a soccer match playing on the TV in the corner.
“Olivia,” Thomas calls before he climbs down the stairway to the metro. “Ça va bien?”
“Oui, bien,” I assure him. With a flash of his impish smile, he disappears into the station. I take a moment, then maneuver around on my crutches to turn around and head back down the street, looking for a payphone. I still feel weird calling Vince from Mme Rouille’s house phone.
I find one near the bar with the soccer fans.
When Vince answers, I have to struggle to hear him over the noise.
“What?” I say, turning away from the bar toward the busy street. “Say that again?”
“I said, how are you?” Vince repeats.
“Good. I found out that PJ is having people over this weekend. Can you believe it?”
“Who’s PJ?” Vince asks. “Is that a dude?”
“No, Vince,” I say. I’m irritated that he forgot. “PJ is my friend, remember? The one I told you about because she had to stay with me for awhile?”
“Oh, the hippie chick?” Vince says. “That’s cool. You gonna drink?”
“No, Vince,” I snap. “I can’t exactly get wasted right now. My body needs to heal from my accident at the movie theatre.”
Like with Mme Rouille, I told Vince that I’d tripped at a movie theatre with Zack. For some reason I didn’t think he’d be pleased to hear I was dancing on tables. And then I’d told him how Zack was gay, so that he wouldn’t worry about what I was doing at the movies with another guy. Zack’s never actually told me he’s gay, but I just assume so. Hang out with enough male ballet dancers as I do and you’ll get a pretty good gaydar going.
Repeating the lie makes me feel even worse than snapping at Vince. I continue, keeping my voice light. “It’s just so surprising! PJ is not the party type.”
“The party sounds cool,” Vince says, missing my point. I hear noise in the background and wonder what is going on.
“Yeah, well,” I respond. “My calling card’s almost out. I better go. Love you.”
I hang up and hobble home, shivering all the way. The fall air, now that the sun has set, is biting and uncongenial.
I wish I had my mom to talk to about everything. We always did everything together—from getting our highlights touched up to going grocery shopping. Whenever I used to need advice, my mom and I could just talk it out. She was always just right there.
Friday morning I feel the best I’ve felt since Sara-Louise’s party—no, the best I’ve felt since I got to Paris. I swing my legs out of bed far before my alarm starts going off, and when I step onto my right foot, my ankle doesn’t buckle. It barely even hurts at all.
I stay on my crutches all day, but I test my ankle again without them at the end of the school day. I could dance on it, I think. I should at least try.
I slip into class late, wearing a black scooped-back leotard and a high, tight bun. As I run through the barre exercises with the rest of the ballerinas, my muscles cry out in delirious happiness. To be moving again!
Despite my three-week absence from ballet class at the Opera, my arms feel light and graceful, my legs strong and sturdy.
“Bon, bon, Olivia!” the teacher cries as I attempt a simple series of jumps while holding the barre with both hands. When we form a line to piqué turns in quick succession across the polished wooden floor, I surprise myself at how smooth and steady it feels after so long with no practice. My spot is right on; I don’t feel dizzy at all.
By the end of class, I see my ankle swelling when I look at it in the studio mirror, but I’m too euphoric to notice if it hurts or not. The music sweeps over me, pulling me along the movements, over and over again. The final combination would have been hard even in flawless health—it’s dangerous how hard I’m going after it.
An American teacher would never let me do this so soon after an injury, I think as I whip around gleefully like I’ve been longing to do. And for the first time since I got to Paris, I’m dancing with all the joy that ballet is meant to be danced with. There’s no Brian here, no Vince, no scholarship. Just me and the gorgeousness of Paris—the faces of strangers, the songs coming from open windows, the wind off the Seine—just like Thomas was saying. Spreading myself into the air, executing all my leaps and turns flawlessly, I’m so moved by the experience that a few tears streak down my cheeks.
All at once, the pianist stops playing and I’m frozen into the final position. Gulping for air, I realize Thomas is behind me, his hand held up to his face like he’s seen a ghost, or maybe an angel.
“Thomas!” I say, astounded. “What are you doing here?”
“Maman told me to come find you,” he replies. “She says you are not supposed to be dancing.” His face is stern. I can tell he left the house in a hurry. Despite the windy, rainy day outside, he’s wearing just a windbreaker over his wrinkled T-shirt and slacks. Thomas is wet from his dash into the dance studio, and I feel terrible for sneaking into dance class and Mme Rouille sending him after me. Like me, he’s breathing heavily from the exertion.
“I had to,” I say simply.
“I can see you did,” Thomas responds. His face is a mixture of alarm, wonder, and pride. “Tu es ravissante. Wow.” Finally he breaks into a smile that shows off his endearingly crooked teeth. “As a medical student, I shouldn’t tell you that, should I?”
I shake my head and lean into him. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve ever touched Thomas. For some reason, it seems like the
appropriate reaction. And my ankle is really starting to throb.
“Allons-y,” Thomas leads me to the door. “I think you’ve done enough trauma to your ankle for one day.” Seizing hold of his shoulder for balance, I let him help me up the stairs and out to the waiting Mercedes.
NOVEMBER
12. ZACK
Wishing and Hoping
TO: Chandler, Zachariah
FROM: Randall, Pierson
Hey, guy! Isn’t it so crazy being here in Europe, finally? I feel like I’m about a million miles from M-town. Don’t you?
Sorry I haven’t had a chance to respond to your emails until now. I’ve been so busy with everything here in Amsterdam . . . especially my new boyfriend!
Oh, Zack, I hadn’t told you what was going on until now because I was too superstitious it wasn’t going to work out. I mean, me? With a real live, honest-to-God boyfriend? And yet, I met Hannes a few weeks ago at a club . . . and he’s amazing . . . he’s 23 . . . totally down-to-earth, gorgeous, AND he doesn’t mind going slow.
I’m in a constant state of happiness, Zack. You can’t even imagine. Unless . . . you’ve met someone, too? If you haven’t yet, all I can say is get to it. This is our last chance till college, bro.
Get a Euro boyfriend while you can!
I read over Pierson’s email a second time to make sure I’ve absorbed it correctly. Have I stepped into a parallel universe? Has Pierson Randall—short, chubby Pierson, whom I’ve known since we met in the toddler class of the Christ’s Message Baptist Church Preschool—actually gone off and found himself a boyfriend, and love, and sex, all before I’ve even managed to meet anyone datable?
What gets to me is that Pierson and I have always done everything together. We went to school and Bible-study together. We got baptized at church together, twice. (That was when we both thought we could run from this whole gay thing. Ha!) We’re both on the JV swim team. We got our drivers’ licenses on the same day and even came out to each other when we couldn’t come out to our own families. We’re like brothers, which, of course, means things that might be particularly convenient to first do together—like, ahem, losing our virginity—are simply out of the question. At least, not literally together. But that doesn’t mean that he can just run off to Amsterdam and lose his virginity to some twenty-three-year-old sex god without me doing the same thing here in Paris! That’s just not the natural order of things.
Especially when I’ve always been the more confident one, the one the girls are always calling (to no avail, of course), the one the swim team moms are always cooing over. Pierson is sweetly pudgy, with thick glasses and a slight lisp. His clothes are too big for him, he’s a hopeless dancer, and he wouldn’t have even made the swim team if I hadn’t busted my ass in the tryout relay to make up for his slow time. He wouldn’t even be in Amsterdam, for that matter, if it weren’t for me. As soon as I signed up for the Lycée, Pierson went out and found some second-rate program in Amsterdam that didn’t even have a language requirement!
Don’t get me wrong. I’d walk through fire for this kid. He’s my oldest friend and the one person who’s never let me down. It must be clear, however, that if Pierson or I were ever to take a step without the other one, it should be me that goes first.
I read over Pierson’s email a third time, gagging with jealousy, and finally log out of my Gmail in disgust. Alex, sprawled on the dusty old couch in the corner of the computer lab, looks up from filing her nails when I stomp over to her.
“What?” Alex says, hopping to her feet. “Did you get a letterbomb?” she gasps in horror.
A letterbomb is what students in the Programme Americaine call an email with bad news, made all the worse by the fact that you’re a million miles from home. A letterbomb is how Katie from Cleveland found out that her cat was hit by a car and died. It was how Drew’s mom told him she’d found his glass bong in the back of his closet and shattered it before she’d thrown it away in the garbage. Other kids have been dumped by their girlfriends and boyfriends, heard their grandparents have cancer, and in general just logged into some major buzzkill by innocently checking their email. Alex lives in a state of terror of the letterbomb. For her, the one drawback of living in Paris is that it increases your chances of being blindsided by (rather than simply made aware of) bad news from home. And if there is one thing I’ve learned about Alex, it’s that she might actually rather die than be the last to know.
“No,” I sigh. “No letterbomb. Not really, anyways. It’s just Pierson . . . and his new Dutch boyfriend, Hannes.” I spit out the ugly, hard sounds of the name as I picture Pierson saying it with his forced Dutch accent.
“Oh, honey,” Alex, says, wrapping her arms around me. “Sounds like we need a little trip to the Galeries Lafayette to cheer us up.” I shrug unenthusiastically. “Come on,” Alex twists my arm, tilting her head coyly at me. “I’ll buy you a latte at Maxim’s.” Maxim’s is Alex’s go-to destination for all refreshments at the Galeries Lafayette.
I grudgingly agree, despite what I know will be huge crowds and lines at the most famous department store in Paris. But sugar and heavy cream are maybe the only things that could make me feel better right now.
Alex’s hyper anxious prattling about George does little to distract me, though it does bolster my ego a bit to think that if the fabulous Alex Nguyen doesn’t have a boyfriend after two months in Paris, how can anyone expect me to either?
“I mean, he offered the rest of his pain au chocolat to Patty yesterday morning!” Alex moans. “And I was right there. And don’t even get me started on La Cinémathèque Française . . .”
One afternoon last week, Mme Cuchon took us all to the famous French film center to see a remastered screening of Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless. The trip had been a rare school outing that Alex and I had enjoyed more than anyone else. Unlike Notre Dame, which was too crowded and full of docent douche-bags who kept shushing us every time we said anything, or the Tour Eiffel, where Madame forced us to walk all the way to the top and I had to practically carry Alex in her stilettos. No, seeing Breathless in the cool, austere theatres of La Cinémathèque Française’s glamorous new building designed by Frank Gehry was a welcome, sophisticated change. Alex and I, giddy with excitement, sat in the first row. George, in preparation for a long nap, took a seat in the back of the auditorium. Alex was furious, at least until she became temporarily distracted by Jean Seberg and she forgot.
I consider for a moment. “George probably assumed someone as thin as you would scorn his highly caloric castoffs,” I reason aloud. “And Alex—isn’t the whole point of George that he doesn’t go ape shit over Godard and the like? Wouldn’t you like him less if he was rabid for French New Wave?”
We dart around fancy French ladies, vendors selling crappy souvenirs to tourists, and the very beginnings of holiday shoppers picking through gaudy, glittery merchandise. I guess if your country doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving, it would be hard to know that Christmas decorations the first week of November are tacky.
“You’re right,” Alex calls to me brightly as we hurry along. “So totally right!” She shivers in her lightweight Marc Jacobs army jacket and skinny jeans. “Okay,” she says determinedly when we enter the store, facing the crowds like a bullfighter entering the ring. “Let’s be sure and stop off at outerwear before we go up to Maxim’s. I’ve got to find something for winter before I freeze to death.”
The Galeries Lafayette is an enormous department store bigger and much fancier than anything in Memphis. Alex will even admit that it is better than any of the stores in New York. From the outside, the Galeries Lafayette looks like a palace or a museum but for the scores of blazing lights and advertisements hanging from its carved façade. Inside, tiers of boutiques—Chanel, Gucci, Louis Vuitton—reach up on all sides to a high ceiling arching into a grand, cathedral-like glass dome. Alex jokes that she could live here, with the restaurants, the beauty salon and spa, the travel agency, and all the other services that the store offers i
ts customers. I joke back that she does practically live here—she trolls the aisles enough that she might as well.
“The only place to beat it is Harrods,” Alex told me decisively on our first trip. I didn’t tell her I had to Google “Harrods” to find out that store is in London.
“Honestly,” Alex says, eyeing a purple Longchamp overnight bag and matching makeup case. “I haven’t even been worrying about George. He and I are doing great. We’re taking things slow, getting to know each other. What with the birthday party I’m planning at L’Atelier, I’ve hardly had time to even think about George. Do you want that?” she asks abruptly, pointing to the sleek black leather passport cover I’m fondling on the counter.
“Of course I do! It’s gorgeous,” I say with a laugh. “But it costs eighty euros.”
“Eh, what’s eighty euros? You’ve had a rough day,” Alex shrugs dismissively, grabbing it from me. “Hey, do you like this?”
Alex holds up a long cardigan with a rolled collar and covered leather buttons. It looks like the perfect thing to wear with jeans and boots, Gisele-style, for a walk around the city when you are running errands and still need to be fashion-forward. She flips it so that we can see the back. On either elbow is a grandfatherly suede patch.
“Oh, my God!” Alex shrieks. “It’s just like PJ’s. Get it away from me!” She tosses it back onto the rack as if it were crawling with lice.
“Oh, shush,” I say. “That sweater is cute. You’re just mad because PJ started the trend and you didn’t.” All the girls at the Lycée are wearing long, oversize grandpa cardigans lately, just like the one PJ’s always wrapped up in. If you have elbow patches, you’re at the height of sophistication these days.
We’ve barely made it off the first floor before Alex has bought me the Longchamp passport cover, a flashy new camo belt, and some very expensive hair-molding crème to keep my hair artfully disheveled. And that’s just the stuff for me! Alex has the set of Longchamp bags (which she said she just resolutely needed to have for the class trip to Lyon later in the term); a black cashmere scarf, hat and mitten set; and an at-home facial kit from the Clinique counter.