Beautiful Americans
Page 18
Pressing my body against his, I reach down, hoping to wake that part of him up before the rest of him. He moans a tiny bit, stirring awake.
Fear and surprise register in his eyes, but I clap my hand over his mouth before he can blow my cover. I put a strict finger to my lips. He rubs his body against mine as he becomes more and more conscious of what’s happening.
“Am I dreaming?” he whispers. “This is like the best dream I have ever had.”
Less than half an inch from his ear, I whisper softly, “I know a place where we can go.”
George smiles slyly and nods with raised eyebrows. I knew this was a good idea, I just knew it!
I pull him carefully out of bed, leading him toward the door. “Wait thirty seconds,” I instruct him. “Then follow me. Fifth door on your left. The door’s open.” I slip out into the pitch-black hallway and begin to tiptoe toward the empty room I found as I poked around the hostel earlier.
Suddenly, the corridor explodes with fluorescent light. Please don’t be there.
Oh, God. I almost wish I was a Catholic like Olivia so I would know which saint I needed to pray to right now. The saint of half-naked girls sneaking into an empty dorm with the hottest guy at the Lycée? Surely God will forgive me for that.
God might, but my chaperones won’t, not if they see George and put together what I’m up to. I turn around, feeling like sand is slipping between my fingers. Just a moment before, George was following me, everything was going so perfectly . . .
George isn’t behind me. He followed my instructions to wait. Good boy.
“Alex!” Mme Cuchon bellows from one doorway, her red hair set free from its usual chignon and sticking out in clumps around her head.
Mlle Vailland, peeking around the door to the other girls’ dorm, looks just as pissed as Mme Cuchon. “Qu’est-ce que tu fais?” she asks, pulling a sweater over her head.
The racket in the hallway draws out the boys from their dorm as I try to charge back into my room. I’m not quick enough for them. The boys congregate at the door hooting and hollering as appreciatively for me as they did yesterday when Jay miraculously jumped onto the moving train.
I catch Zack’s eye. He should look delighted, after how I treated him today, but he just looks like he wants to go back to bed.
“You want some fries with that shake?” Drew jeers after me. I clap my hands over my naked ass and try to hide the bare cheeks as I run past Mme Cuchon into my own dorm.
“I just had to go to the ladies’ room,” I tell Mme Cuchon. “I don’t know what all the big fuss is about.”
“Just go to sleep, Alex,” Mme Cuchon sighs wearily. “And next time, don’t forget to bring your bathrobe when you need to get up in the middle of the night on a class trip.”
At breakfast I’m greeted by catcalls and wolf whistles, as well as scowls from Patty and her ugly twin sister. (Get it? They’re identical twins, so they’re both ugly. I’m hilarious.)
I look around at everyone in the hostel’s dining hall, wondering if I should take a bow or run for cover. I decide to hold my head up high.
George looked so elated to see me last night. Undeterred, I spot him eating cornflakes with Drew in the back of the cafeteria. Hooking my thumbs in my belt loops, I sashay over to them.
George and Drew have been up early, and are discussing the football stats they were reading on ESPN.com this morning. God, can you think of anything less compelling to discuss?
“George,” I butt in. “Are you so excited for Le Corbusier?”
“The what?” George and Drew look at me blankly.
“Sainte-Marie de la Tourette,” I remind them, emphasizing my comfort with speaking in French by pronouncing every word perfectly. “The monastery we’re going to this morning?” In truth, I’m not much looking forward to the excursion, but I want George to know that I take French culture very seriously—after all, it is in my blood.
“Oh, yeah, the silent monastery,” George remembers. “Think you can handle it?” Supposedly the monastery we’re visiting today on the outskirts of Lyon demands a vow of silence for the monks who live there.
“No way,” Drew answers for me, drumming his fingers lightly on the table and rocking back and forth in his chair. “I’ll bet you ten euros she can’t shut up for even ten minutes inside the monastery.”
Bristling, I glare at Drew. “I’ll take that bet,” I say hotly, deeply incensed by Drew’s characterization of me. I’m outgoing, not to mention incredibly interesting. Of course I have a lot to say.
Drew quits with the drumming and shakes my hand, sealing the deal. “You’ve got to keep quiet from the moment you get off the bus, and then all through the tour until we get back on. There’s no way you’re gonna make it, motor mouth.”
“We’ll just see about that,” I say. I never could resist a challange.
“Father Marie-Alain Couterier asked Le Corbusier to design the cloistered Couvent Sainte-Marie de la Tourette in 1956,” Mlle Vailland drones over the bus PA system as we drive up the forested hill to Eveux-sur-Abresle, the site of La Tourette not far from Lyon. “Le Corbusier designed many notable buildings around the world, including the United Nations in New York. The monastery is a fine example of late Modernist architecture. Regard it carefully, mes étudiants. It’s a masterpiece.”
As we drive up I see a drab concrete building that looks more like an old Williamsburg factory building than a sacred cultural institution. Totally indifferent to the monastery itself, I like the idea of George and Drew sticking by me for the whole tour in order to make sure I’m keeping my end of the bet. With any luck, George and I can sneak away for a few minutes. . . .
I don’t like, however, how Drew keeps drumming on the back of my seat on the bus. I can’t tell him to quit. I can’t say anything at all.
Like I imagined, Drew follows me closely, with an amused George egging him on from the sidelines. Trying to get me to respond, Drew lobs silly questions my way all morning.
“But you wouldn’t know anything about this, would you, Alex? I mean, you’ve had so little contact with French culture before coming to Paris,” Drew teases me after a longwinded speech about the role of the Catholic Church in French life from Mlle Vailland. “Didn’t you say you wished you were less ignorant of French customs?”
Drew knows perfectly well that I am a connoisseur of French customs, and that of anyone on this program I’ve had the most contact with the French. Well, excluding this kid Cory from Denver who has actual French parents—both parents—who live with him at home in the States. Regardless, I am the resident French culture expert at the Programme Americaine.
I resist Drew’s goading, even when he offensively calls the convent “Saint Marie of the Tourette’s syndrome.” What a moron.
The monastery might be wordless for the monks who live there, but of all the visitors here today, I seem to be the only layperson who’s taken a vow of silence.
One challenge that presents itself rather quickly is how to effectively pull George into seclusion without being able to come out and tell him to follow me.
Finally, Mme Cuchon tells us to wander the grounds for a while and to keep out of trouble. She looks right at me when she says that.
Slipping my hand into George’s, I pull him towards a bank of trees near the chapel. Behind the little cement block of a church, I silently unzip my jacket and undo the top few buttons of my slim fitting vintage plaid cowboy shirt. Cocking my head to one side, I invite him to come closer with my best come-hither stare. Inside, I’m trembling.
“Oh, Alex,” George laughs. “You’re a real original.”
He groans a tiny bit as I slip his hand into my demi-cup nude bra. Just as he’s about to kiss me, Drew comes around the chapel, doubling over with laughter at finding us in flagrante delicto in what essentially amounts to a churchyard.
“Alex strikes again!” Drew shouts gleefully. “She never quits! She’s the hardest working girl at the Lycée de Monceau.”
I sn
ap the top buttons of my shirt closed as I stomp angrily past him. “You’re an asshole, Drew,” I spit my words at him. Why do these things always seem to happen right when I’m about to make real progress with George? Why do people keep ruining the only thing that will really make me happy here in Paris?
“Ha!” Drew calls at my back. “You owe me ten euros. I knew you’d never make it all morning without talking.”
“You hate me.” It’s not a question. Zack hasn’t spoken to me in twenty-four hours. He really, truly must hate my guts. He crosses his arms and stares straight ahead at the empty tracks as we wait for our TGV train back to Paris at the Lyon train station.
“Seriously?” I ask. “You’re really giving me the silent treatment? After all that we’ve been through.”
Zack turns his back to me.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll apologize to the back of your head then. I’m really, really, really sorry that I was such a bitch at the McDonald’s yesterday. I hate me, too.”
No response.
“Come on, Zack! Let’s move on. I hate being in a fight with you,” I plead. Zack taps his foot with annoyance. I can tell he’s about to crack, at least say something, with the way he’s fidgeting.
I’m right.
“You don’t get it, do you, Alex? You humiliated me, you talked down to me—” he looks around to make sure no one can hear him. “Why do you think you can talk to me that way? And you did that in front of the guy I like. What if I did that to you?”
“Drew does that to me all day long,” I point out.
Zack’s nostrils flare in rage.
“Okay, okay!” I say. “That was the wrong thing to say.”
“Alex,” Zack whispers. “Jay could have heard you talking about him and me. He might know now that I’m gay. Everyone might know. Can you even comprehend how scary that might be for me? Some of these kids might hate me, just for that. Some of these kids might want to beat me up. And I don’t even know everyone yet. The only one I really know is you, and I don’t know if I want to know you anymore.”
My eyes swell with tears. “Don’t say that,” I beg. “Please don’t say that. We’re so fabulous, you and me. There’s no one else like you here for me. I can’t bear it if you won’t forgive me.”
But why should he? I hadn’t meant to, but I’d done the one thing I’d promised Zack that I wouldn’t do, all the way back the night we went out at Odeon. I hadn’t kept his secret safe.
I throw my arms around him and his backpack. “I’m so sorry, Zack. Please, please forgive me. I’ll do anything.”
“You treat me like a lapdog, Alex,” Zack says, shaking me off. “Just leave me alone.”
“But Zack.” My voice rises in alarm. “Jay didn’t even hear me! I know he didn’t! No one did.” The TGV train, over an hour late, shudders into the station.
“It doesn’t matter,” Zack says, walking over to the train. “What matters is that he could have, and if he had, there’d be nothing that you could do about it.”
Before we board the train, George taps on my shoulder.
“Yes?” I say, arching one eyebrow at him. I’ve had about as much humiliation as I can take with him today. I just want to get on the train, put something soothing on my iPod, and fall asleep.
George hands me a pack of Gauloises and a free matchbook from the shop where he bought them. “For all the cigs I’ve bummed off you so far this term,” George explains when I look at him questioningly. “I wouldn’t want you to think I don’t pull my weight in this little arrangement of ours.” He gives me a friendly kiss on my forehead. “What do you know? Looks like we’re finally boarding. Catch you later, Al.”
We climb aboard the train, all of us much more mellow than we were when we boarded the train in Paris on Friday. George takes a seat across from Patty and Tina, who are wearing matching new grandpa cardigans with elbow patches
The thing is, I need these cigarettes. Smoking is just one of the many expenses quickly draining my teeny bank account at the moment. Not only did George get me a present, he got me something I truly needed.
Olivia plops down next to me, lagging behind the group since she’s been checking her email in the Internet kiosk at the Lyon station.
“Alex!” she announces breathlessly, throwing her arms around me in a jovial hug. “Something amazing just happened! I checked my email—the day I danced on my ankle? When I wasn’t supposed to? There was a scout from the Paris Underground Ballet Theatre there, you know, that Left Bank company you told me your mom went and saw during spring fashion week last year?”
I can hardly follow what she’s telling me. “Yeah? What happened?”
“The scout from the dance troupe—the one who came to my class the day I danced on my ankle when I wasn’t supposed to—she emailed me! They want me for the troupe! They want to pay me to dance! And I never even knew I was trying out because I was late, and I’m never late! The scout wanted to know why I left in such a rush after the audition!”
“Oh, Olivia!” I congratulate her. “That’s amazing!” I’m genuinely thrilled for her.
“Isn’t it?” she giggles, then hesitates. “I actually got two emails just now. One from the scout, and one from my mom.”
“What did your mom say?” I ask, terrified. Not a letterbomb.
“Well, it’s good news and bad news,” Olivia says. “She’s—my whole family—is coming for Christmas.”
“They are?” I ask. “I thought you were going home to California.”
“I did, too,” Olivia says. She stares off into space. “I really wanted to. It feels like forever since I got to talk to Vince, really talk to him. I was really looking forward to talking to him in person finally.”
I consider this for a moment, then tweak her ponytail. “Livvy. Don’t think about Vince right now. You just got hired by a major dance company! That’s incredible! My mom is going to be so excited for you.” If my mom ever returns my calls, that is.
“It is incredible, isn’t it?” Olivia, says, the smile returning to her face. “Let’s find Zack and tell him the good news!”
“You go,” I say, not wanting to own up that Zack and I are still on the outs. She’ll worry about it too much; she’ll let it take away from her moment in the sun. “I’ll make sure no one takes our seats.”
I tap the pack of Gauloises against the heel of my hand. These mean something, I think, jittery with hope. They have to mean something.
18. PJ
Second Chances
Iam so very sorry to have had to alert you to this situation,” Mme Cuchon apologized when she called M. and Mme “I Marquet into her office last week. It was the Monday morning after the party. “I am afraid that the freedom you have allowed her has backfired a bit. She is perhaps used to more parental guidance than she has had here in France.”
Oh, lady, if you only knew the kind of parental guidance I’m used to.
Mme Cuchon continued, “I’m thinking that a fair consequence of Penelope’s behavior would be to suspend her from the weekend field trip to Lyon that we’ll be taking next weekend.”
“No!” I said loudly, feeling suddenly close to tears. “I wanted to go so badly.” And I did. I wanted to see the traboules that Mary had told me about—slender, narrow covered passageways that were used by tradesmen since the Middle Ages, and then used by the French Resistance during the Second World War. The traboules are one of those things that you have to go to Lyon to see; you can’t just pick up a book and feel like you’ve experienced the history.
“Girls who look like Penelope always attract trouble, n’est-ce pas?” Mme Marquet remarked to Mme Cuchon, who looked uncomfortably away.
“We will watch Penelope more closely from now on,” M. Marquet said magnanimously, looking relieved that the meeting was almost over. He gazed at me for a second, and I was shocked to see true fondness, rather than revulsion, in his expression. The Marquets hadn’t even noticed the broken vase, or the dress Alex borrowed for her balcony scene.
No, of course not—it had been Mme Cuchon, with her uncanny ability to sniff out a rat, who intercepted a note passed between the Texan twins about, among other inane things, “how cute George and Drew were to walk us home after the rager at PJ’s.”
“Penelope,” Mme Marquet said, smiling hesitantly at me as I walked into the apartment after PE class that afternoon. “We would like you to come with us to our château next weekend now that you are no longer going to Lyon. We do not wish to leave you home alone again.”
I smiled back uncertainly. “Really?” I asked incredulously. “You’re not mad that I lied to you? And had a party at your house? Vous n’allez pas vous mettre on colère?”
M. Marquet shook his head. “Non,” he said. “You’re not in trouble for lying. What matters to us is that we don’t have discord here in our house. And sometimes that means just keeping our feelings to ourselves rather than drawing out any drama.”
I see. I’d certainly never heard of this parenting philosophy. But not wanting any problems with the Marquets—ever—I nodded vigorously. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”
“Let’s just forget this whole disturbance ever happened,” Mme Marquet said.
Indeed. It must just be the French way of letting things go. And if anyone is jumping at the chance to let go of unpleasant events in their past, it’s most definitely me.
As I got ready for bed that night, I tried to reason with myself the way the Marquets had reasoned with me. Letting things go . . . avoiding drama . . . that’s what I’d done when I left Vermont for Paris, right?
Wrong. It might be one thing to forgive myself for having a house party in an apartment where I’m a yearlong guest. But to abandon your real family the way I did?
I think of the misty fields behind the château, how beautiful the French countryside is. All I know is that I’m so relieved to have a second chance.