Beautiful Americans

by Lucy Silag

  A few well-distributed fifty-euro bills gets me immediate entrance into Le Maurice’s luxurious spa, even though the receptionist tells me they’ve been booked for months. Stripped naked on the waxing table, Clotilde, my expert aesthetician, peels and plucks until my whole body is silky smooth. When she is done, I head for the steam room, then the exfoliation treatment room. By the time I’m back in the junior suite on the top floor that I’ve paid for in cash, my skin is as rosy and soft as the silk duvet on top of the four-poster king size bed.

  Just as the in-room nail technician, Patrice, gets to work on my pedicure, George responds to the text I sent earlier. Would love to stop by, it reads. There’s something I really want to tell you.

  I can’t help but wiggle my toes excitedly, even though it messes up the nail polish and Patrice has to start over, wasting valuable primping time. Tonight is going to be perfect. I hoot with laughter, recalling all that George and I have been through since we got to Paris in September. I can’t believe it’s been over two months since we first kissed at Sara-Louise’s party.

  Sure, we’ve had our ups and downs. I frown at the hazy memory of screaming down at him from PJ’s balcony and comfort myself by thinking of the look of total pleasure George gave me when I slipped into his sleeping bag in Lyon.

  Patrice lets in the room service guys, who set up a bottle of Dom Pérignon, two crystal champagne flutes, and a big bowl of juicy red strawberries. My own hands are too fragile from my fresh manicure to tip them, so Patrice dispenses some cash from my camel tote for them, and ducks out of the suite.

  This morning I wrote my cousin Emily and proudly filled her in on my progress. I never thought I’d be able to report that I’d so completely moved on from Jeremy, but in fact, it’s true. Old heartbreaks don’t even register when I consider my future with George. Who cares if my mom never sees it for her own eyes? Who cares if the first couple months of our romance have been shrouded in secret? That’s the kind of guy George is—surprisingly shy when it comes to love.

  He won’t be shy when he sees me tonight, though, I giggle to myself as I step into the La Perla set I swiped from PJ’s host mom’s closet. The creamy silk chemise just skims over my backside, barely hinting at the thin matching underwear. In front, the neckline dips low to set off my cleavage. I could dance at the sight of myself.

  Just a few minutes later, a light knock at the door announces his arrival, and suddenly I feel like an actor on opening night. I know all my lines but still don’t know how I’ll be received. With a deep breath, I slowly and discreetly open the door.

  “Oh, Alex,” George says, his face breaking into an appreciative smile. “You shouldn’t have.”

  “No?” I say coyly. “Should I put on a robe then?” I stay put, knowing full well that is the last thing he wants.

  “Is this all for me?” George asks, taking in the champagne, the strawberries, the candles I had Patrice light while my nails dried.

  I push him gently toward the bed. “Yup,” I tell him. “And this time, there’s no chance of us getting interrupted.”

  He kisses my chest first, his lips soft against my skin. Pulling the strap of my negligee off my shoulder, he moves his mouth up and down my arm and over my neck and the top of my back. He moans softly as he pulls down the other strap, my boobs falling out of the chemise and into his mouth.

  I can’t help it—I want him so badly I could almost weep. As he takes off his shirt, then his chinos, I’m overcome with how intense everything is with George tonight. He’s gorgeous, of course, and I’ve always been crazy about him. But there’s something more tonight, something I’ve never felt before. I feel vulnerable and bold at the same time, simultaneously scared and confident. Every time he touches me, my desire for him heightens. Soon I’m fully naked, totally exposed on the bed next to him in his plaid boxers. I can see how much he wants me, and I know he knows how much I want him back.

  “Wait,” I say, suddenly needing to hear him say it, to tell me what I already know is true. “Before you . . . before we . . .”

  “What?” George says, still devouring my neck.

  “Let’s have some champagne,” I say, leaning over to pop the cork. I giggle a little as I pour, George kissing a trail down my sternum toward my belly. “Here,” I laugh, handing him a glass. “Try it.”

  George takes a sip. “Amazing,” he says. “You’re amazing.”

  I smile like a fool. “That’s what I want to talk about,” I say as I try and gently lift his head back up to my face. “I want to talk about how we feel about each other.”

  “I feel pretty great about you right now,” George says. “I think I’m going to feel even better in a minute . . .”

  I swallow hard. “Before we do it, I need to know that this is real. That all the drama between us is over.”

  George stops his nuzzling and stares at me.

  “Alex,” he says, taking a long drink of champagne. “I did come here tonight wanting to talk to you seriously.”

  “You did?” I squeak happily. This is too good to be true.

  “I mean, I’ve always gotten a lot of attention from girls,” George says, looking out the window for a moment. “I’ve always been a flirt. It’s such a part of who I am. This program is no different. I like hooking up with hot girls as much as the next guy.” George moves away from me slightly, and the separation between our bodies lets cool air blast my skin uncomfortably.

  “Right,” I say, not quite following.

  “I mean, with you it’s always been about hooking up,” he says. “I have to admit I’ve been wanting to sleep with you since the moment I saw you.” I giggle, flattered. “But now I have to say I want something else. And I think I’ve found it. I never thought I could fall for one girl and want to settle down with her, but I have.”

  My eyes widen. This couldn’t be going better if I had written the script myself. He loves me. I knew it!

  “You want something deeper than just hooking up?” I say knowingly.

  “Yeah,” George says. “It’s just starting to get old, no matter what bells and whistles a girl like you can put on it. It’s just sex between you and me. It’s never anything real.”

  Wait a second . . .

  “That’s why I came here tonight, Alex,” George says, sitting up. “I wanted to tell you that I think I’m in love with Patty, and that’s why this thing between you and me has to stop.”

  “What?!” I cry. “Are you joking?”

  George shakes his head.

  “What are you talking about, George? Ten seconds ago you couldn’t wait to fuck me, and now you’re telling me that you love Patty? Patty, who’s a born-again? Who’s a virgin?”

  George laughs in spite of himself. “I know—I can’t explain it! When I’m around her, it makes me realize . . . it makes me realize that there’s more to life than just sex, and hot girls. Though,” he says ruefully, “I have to say, her looks might have something to do with how I feel about her. She is pretty hot.”

  I think of Patty with her cheerleader ponytail of dyed blonde hair, tied tight for school with a red ribbon. I think of her garish houndstooth pea coat and her cheap polyester tube top. I look at George, suddenly unsure if I am even on the same planet as he is, if this is still really my life, or if I’ve walked into some alternate reality where Texan sluts beat out women like me—worldly, sophisticated, charming women like me—in the hearts of guys like George.

  “So why then,” I choke out in a rage, “did you start taking off my clothes? Why were you about to go all the way with me? Because she won’t let you? Because with me you thought it was a sure thing?”

  George stops and thinks for a moment. “I guess I thought I could put this thing between you and me to rest. I came here to tell you all that and go, but when I saw you in that sexy nightgown, and you smelled so good, I guess I thought we could have one last hot night together and then go our separate ways.”

  “Our separate ways?” I repeat in a hollow voice, no longer a
ble to conjure the rage I want to punish him with. My hands start to shake, spilling champagne down my arm and onto the silk duvet. “How am I supposed to go my separate way from you? We’re here in Paris together until June!” And besides. I don’t want to.

  George takes the glass and puts it on the nightstand. “Let me get you a robe,” he says and turns away from my naked body. That gesture, the way he suddenly can’t bear to look at what he was so lovingly touching just a little while ago, breaks my heart more than any of his hurtful words did. I disgust him. Just the very fact that I’m here, and not Patty, makes him want to run away.

  George hands me the robe without meeting my eyes, then silently slips back into his clothes.

  “I’m sorry, Alex,” he says quietly as he leaves. “I fucked up. I just want something better than this.” The door’s latch catches in the doorframe with a defining click behind him. I look blankly at the mahogany grandfather clock in the corner of the suite. It’s only eight o’clock. I was expecting us to be here until a least two, maybe all night if we wanted to risk getting in deep shit with our host parents. I was thinking it would absolutely be worth it, just to see the sunrise together, to order room service before school.

  In the suite’s expansive bathroom, I light a cigarette and sit on the edge of the whirlpool bath. A few swigs of champagne, straight from the bottle, only serve to make me feel worse.

  Just look at you now, I imagine my mom saying if she were here. Of course, she isn’t here, and that’s the whole point, isn’t it?

  No one is here. I’m too unlovable for anyone to be here with me.

  I’ve wasted over a thousand euros on this room and the spa treatments I had earlier to get ready for George, all the money I had left in my account and all the money Madame Sanxay gave me yesterday. I don’t have any way to pay her back unless my mom sends me a check tomorrow—and that would be a real Christmas miracle. Even the clothes I’m wearing—if you can call them clothes—aren’t mine. I stole the lingerie that’s been tossed on the ground, for God’s sake, and the robe belongs to the hotel.

  I open the window in the bathroom, letting out my cigarette smoke and letting in a biting gust of wind. In the moonlight, I see that snowflakes are starting to fall. It’s the first real snow of the winter, just in time for Christmas.

  George is out there somewhere, texting Patty in Texas.

  Even farther away, Jeremy’s out there, strumming a guitar, writing songs about love and pain. But none of them are about me.

  23. OLIVIA

  Bittersweet

  “We thought you guys might want to be alone,” my mom tells Vince and me on Christmas Eve. “Why don’t we chill out with Brian and you guys can go to dinner and a movie? We’ll give you some money. Have a great time!”

  “Thanks, Mom!” I say enthusiastically, but I’d have been happier just watching TV with Brian all night. It’s true, Vince and I haven’t been alone at all since he’s been here, but for some reason, the buffer Brian creates between us is more comforting that stifling.

  “God, finally!” Vince moans with satisfaction as he hugs me from behind on the platform of the Opéra metro station. “I’ve just wanted to hold you and not let go since I got here.”

  Parisians are infamous for their high tolerance for public displays of affection, but I’m self-conscious all the same. “Vince!” I squeal, shirking from his touch. “Don’t be a perv.”

  Vince doesn’t let go. “The Frogs can think I’m a perv all they like. I’ve been going crazy for weeks.” He presses against me eagerly. Normally I’d blush, flattered, proud of my ability to turn him on without even trying. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes into my ear.

  Mercifully, the #7 train pulls up then. We’re headed to Odéon, one of the many places Thomas had told me is fun to hang out in Paris. Alex and Zack go sometimes, sit in the Rive Gauche bars that will serve them, and watch all the interesting Rive Gauche people walk by, but I’ve yet to do more down here than just visit the St. Germain-des-Pres.

  Vince and I bumble our way through our connection at Châtelet station. Vince laughs when we can’t find our way to the train going to Odéon, but I’m more annoyed than amused. Vince looks like an idiot, in his UCLA baseball cap and his bright white Air Jordans. Is this really the same guy I used to swoon over from the stands of our school gym, watching him run down the court, dribbling and passing and making all the cheerleaders go crazy? What changed since then?

  I try to ease up on Vince through dinner. He’s still the same guy I’ve been in love with all along—goofy, easygoing in most respects, fiercely competitive in others. He lets me tell him about Paris, things I couldn’t tell him with my parents and Brian around. He listens carefully (he’s always been a good listener, I have to give him that), laughs at all the right times, and tells me more than once how beautiful I look, even if my roots need a touch up and I’ve lost my California tan.

  “You’re really gonna miss all this, huh, Liv?” Vince asks me, taking my hand in his rough one, callused from playing basketball.

  “Yup,” I say sadly, thinking of the dance troupe, of Alex and Zack, of Mme Rouille’s poodles, Mme Rouille herself. Thomas—Thomas I can’t even think about. It’s too much.

  I wave down the waiter for our check. “What do you say we skip the movie and head to bed?” I ask, exhausted by the prospect of all that I am leaving here in Paris.

  “Sure,” Vince says enthusiastically.

  “I meant our respective beds,” I say. “I could really just use a good night’s sleep.”

  “Sure, babe,” Vince says with a compassionate smile, unsuccessfully trying to mask his disappointment.

  After I drop him at the Hilton, I walk up the Avenue de Wagram by myself. The frigid air feels good.

  That was one of the things I was most scared of before I came to Paris. It sounds dumb, but it’s true: I agonized about what the weather would be like here, if it would make me miserable. In San Diego, it rains sometimes, and there are definitely days when I have to wear a sweatshirt to school. But I have never really owned a coat before now. I had to take Alex with me to find my pea coat because I wasn’t really sure what I was supposed to get. Now that it’s winter, and all the forecasts are predicting snow for Christmas, I’m finding that I really like it. It’s invigorating, gets you going.

  I wonder if Vince is like that. If my fear of losing Vince is like my fear of cold weather. Once it happens, will it even feel like that big of a deal?

  “Olivia!” Thomas greets me, the little poodles yelping at his feet in the doorway. He’s barefoot, with his shirt untucked and his curly hair a little frizzy and disheveled. He pushes his glasses up his nose in that adorable way he does. “I’ve been wishing to see you. Ça va?”

  “I’m fine,” I say measuredly, though my heart is pounding. The last time I saw Thomas, my tongue was down his throat and I never wanted it to stop. “What are you doing home?”

  “I just finished my term paper and handed it in early, so that I wouldn’t have to do it on holiday,” he explains. “Maman is at a party. I was about to head out for a celebratory drink. Want to join me?”

  “Don’t you have to be up early tomorrow for your train?” I ask.

  “Olivia,” Thomas grins. “It’s just one drink. And it’s Christmas Eve.”

  “Okay,” I agree, not even taking my coat off. “Let’s do it.”

  “So, what’s happening in your life since I last saw you?” Thomas says as he opens the door for me at the local neighborhood pub, La Belle Chambre. We snag a cozy table near the back.

  Thomas is so friendly. I can’t believe that after I led him on like I did, he’s still taking me out for a drink.

  “Well,” I say, not knowing where to begin. “Remember that day you came to the Opera school and I was dancing when I wasn’t supposed to be?”

  “Yeah?” Thomas says, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “I’ll never be able to forget it.”

  “There was a talent scout there fr
om the Paris Underground Ballet Theatre. I was late, so I didn’t know our class was actually an audition of sorts. They emailed me a few weeks later and asked me to join,” I tell him in a rush, realizing how proud I still am of that accomplishment. “I’ve been a member of the troupe for two weeks now. I love it!”

  “Olivia, c’est formidable!” Thomas exclaims. He throws and arm around me and vigorously pounds the table with the other hand. “Félicitations!” He looks truly impressed.

  “Thank you,” I say modestly, not yet wanting to break the news that I can’t take their offer. I just want to bask in his admiration for a few more minutes.

  Thomas orders himself a whiskey, but I just want sparkling water. I didn’t want to drink tonight. I just wanted to be with someone who’d be happy about the Underground. Clinking our glasses together for the first round, I toss my head back and let the fizzy water rush into my stomach as if I’m taking a shot. Thomas drains his whiskey and laughs.

  “Another?” he teases, laughing.

  “Very funny,” I say. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow, my family and me.” I don’t mention that Vince is in town, too. “And you know I’m not the most seasoned drinker.”

  Thomas laughs. “This is true.” The waiter brings Thomas another drink, which he drains just as quickly and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Is he nervous, too?

  I sort of half-laugh, half-sigh. “Yeah.” I’m remembering how it felt, goofing off with him at PJ’s house. Even before the kissing, it was one of the most entertaining nights of my life. With the kissing . . .

  “Seriously, Olivia, your news is amazing,” Thomas says, his tone changing. “That’s a true accomplishment. Your family must be so proud.”