by Ivy Adams
“My favorite patisserie is right around the corner,” interjected her host sister, Simone. “Pull over, Maman. I’ll buy some chocolate croissants.” She turned to Piper as Marie eased the car to the curb of the nearest side street. “You like chocolat, oui?”
“Oh, oui! What’s not to like?” Piper answered. “Can I come with you?” She would just die if she got left in the car.
“Of course.” Marie smiled warmly as she handed her daughter some money. “Pick up enough for Papa and Sebastian as well. He said he might stop by later today.”
“Who’s Sebastian?” Piper asked curiously.
“My older brother,” Simone replied. “He’s studying at the Sorbonne, but sometimes he comes home on weekends. I can’t wait for you to meet him—you’ll love him!”
Maybe so, but in Piper’s experience siblings were more trouble than they were worth. Still, this was Paris, and everything was better in Paris. Besides, the French don’t play American football, and that gave Simone’s brother a leg up already.
Refusing to let her unfounded uneasiness ruin her first full day in Paris, Piper listened as Simone spoke to the baker in French so perfect it made chills skitter down Piper’s spine. But then, everything about Simone was perfect. From her long, gleaming black hair and bright blue eyes to her creamy, blemish-free skin and incredible fashion sense (her outfit was gorgeous), she all but screamed supermodel. The fact that she was just an ordinary high school junior blew Piper’s mind … and had her hoping that Simone would decide to come back to Texas for part of next semester, as the exchange program encouraged.
Germaine the Lame would have a stroke if she had to share the halls of PHS with someone as gorgeous as Simone.
As her host sister paid for the croissants, Piper wandered over to the huge picture window at the front of the bakery. She looked out at the color and the conventions of Paris and wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around the city and gather it close.
Nothing she’d ever done, nowhere she’d ever been, could compare to this. And that she hadn’t gotten even one strange look the entire time she’d been here was proof positive that this was going to work. No one in Paris knew who she was, which meant she had a chance to actually breathe for the first time since the Cotton Festival. It was an awesome feeling—especially since Marie seemed so much nicer than her own mom—and it gave her the confidence she’d been lacking for months.
Germaine wasn’t going to know what hit her when Piper finally got back home.
“It’s a bit overwhelming, non?” Simone linked her left arm through Piper’s and propelled her from the store. “But don’t worry. You’ll get used to it soon enough.”
Worry? Who was worried? Piper just wanted to get started. She wanted to be out there, doing something. Anything.
They climbed back in the car, and as Marie zipped down a few more side streets, Simone pointed to a huge, fancy stone building. “There’s our school.”
“That’s the Paris International Academy?” Piper asked incredulously, twisting in her seat to get a better look at the campus. Gothic in design, the school’s main building had too many pointy turrets and gargoyles decorating the outside to count. Add in the tall black fence that surrounded the grounds and the huge stained-glass windows, and it looked more like her idea of a haunted house than it did an establishment of learning.
“It is,” Simone confirmed. “You’ll love it.”
“I bet.” Already her fingers were itching to sketch it, to try and capture its air of gloomy dissatisfaction. “How long have you been going to school there?”
“For two years. I want to major in international business in college, so Maman and Papa thought it would help me to be at a school that catered to international students.”
A little while later, as they walked into her host family’s apartment, Piper had a minute to look around. When she’d arrived the night before, she’d been too zonked to appreciate the décor.
Simone noticed her preoccupation and commented, “It’s probably not as big as you’re used to.”
“It’s great, though.” And it was. Simply decorated, it was as far from her mother’s too-fussy house as anyone could get—and Piper loved it.
Loved the bright red couch with its blue and yellow cushions.
Loved the modern art in shades of crimson and black and indigo that hung on the walls and the small sculptures that were displayed in a simple china cabinet.
Loved the plants in their charming cerulean pots that crowded the corners of the living room and half the balcony.
“Not really.” Simone tried to look nonchalant, but Piper could tell she was pleased by the compliment. “Come on, I’ll help you unpack.” Simone thrust open the door to her room. “I cleared out half my closet for you. Although,” she looked at Piper’s suitcases doubtfully, “I’m not sure that will be enough room.”
“I’m an expert at squeezing too many clothes into too small a space. Whatever room you’ve got for me will be perfect.”
The next hour passed in a blur as Piper unpacked, chatting and giggling with Simone the whole time. When her last sweater had been scrunched into her side of the closet, she flopped onto her bed with an exaggerated sigh. “Whew! I was beginning to doubt my abilities. I’m not sure how we got those last few things to fit.”
“Don’t ask me. I would have given up ten outfits ago.” Simone’s eyes gleamed mischievously from where she was perched, cross-legged, on her desk. “So, are you ready for a snack? Papa isn’t back yet, but I’m tired of waiting.”
“Won’t your mom mind?”
“Of course not. It’s probably taken all of her self-control not to bring a huge tray in here as an excuse to make sure you’re settling in okay. She’s been very excited about you coming. We both have.” Simone stood and stretched, which made her look even longer and leaner. Next to her, Piper was beginning to feel like an ugly duckling with no hope of turning into a beautiful French swan.
“I’ll go get the croissants and be right back.”
As her host sister left, Piper took the opportunity to really look around Simone’s room. It was totally cool—and as far from the turquoise and pink monstrosity her mother had designed for her as it could get.
The comforters on the bed were done in an abstract black and violet print that was stylish and sophisticated. The walls were covered with posters of rock bands—everything from classic American bands like Aerosmith and Led Zeppelin to slightly more modern French ones, like Indochine and Noir Désir—which Piper recognized only because she’d Googled French music a few days before. And the furniture was all smooth, sleek lines.
One whole wall was made of corkboard and on it were hundreds of photos of people she figured had to be Simone’s friends, along with a bunch of notes, concert tickets, and brightly colored flyers that Piper couldn’t read as they were all written in French.
It was the kind of room she’d always wanted.
The kind of life she’d always dreamed of.
For a few seconds, anxiety assailed her. Who was she kidding? Simone had popular written all over her—it wouldn’t take her long to see through the sophisticated image Piper was working so hard to cultivate. And what would happen when she did? Would Piper go back to being the social outcast she’d tried to leave behind?
The thought made her palms sweat, made her doubt the sanity of this whole, grand trip.
What had she been thinking, coming to Paris when she’d all but slept through French class for the last two years?
How was she going to get around on her own?
How was she going to function at school?
How was she going to impress French guys when she couldn’t even get any of the ones back home to notice her—at least not in a nonporcine way?
Taking a deep breath, Piper forced herself to push the worries to the back of her mind before they could take over. Sure, things were strange, but she’d figure them out. After all, everything had been great so far.
Reach
ing for her purse, Piper pulled out her iPhone and started messing with the apps she’d downloaded before leaving America. One was a map of all of France and another was a tourist’s guide to Paris and the surrounding areas. She’d studied it—and the old-fashioned guidebook her mom had picked up for her—until she practically had both memorized, but still, she wasn’t sure where to start.
There was so much to see in Paris, so much to do. The Louvre, Notre-Dame de Paris, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe. Ten weeks wasn’t near long enough to do everything she wanted to, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to give it her best shot.
“So, are you sure I look okay?” Piper demanded later that night, as she and Simone cruised through the brightly lit streets of Paris in her host sister’s Mini Cooper.
“You look great. Très chic.”
The words thrilled her like nothing else could have, and Piper couldn’t resist flipping the car visor down as she tried to decide if Simone was just being nice. But no, the girl in the mirror—with her borrowed silver halter top and wild jewelry—was almost unrecognizable, in the best possible way.
Piper’s dark-brown hair had been slicked back, making her face much more of a focal point. Plus, Simone had applied some kind of silver shadow to her eyes—along with some pitch-black liner—that made her look exotic and grown-up and as far from the cute American kid who had gotten off the plane as she could get. This girl looked like she was cool. Even more, she looked like she belonged—in Paris and in a funky nightclub.
Simone barreled around a corner without so much as hitting her brakes, and less than a minute later whipped around another one before sliding almost effortlessly into a parking spot that Piper wouldn’t trust herself to park a bicycle in, let alone a car.
Then they were strolling down the street toward a group of teenagers standing on the far corner. Piper felt her stomach tighten. She’d been in Paris just a little over twenty-four hours and Simone was already taking her out to meet her friends. Her lips tingled, hoping that some of them were male. Or all of them. She started school in two days—along with many of the people who were currently studying her in much the same way Germaine le Paine and her minions did—and she wanted to make a good impression. The last thing she needed was another two and a half months like the ones she’d just run away from.
Tugging at her purple skirt—which Simone had rolled three times at the waist for her—Piper had a brief moment of panic that her ass was hanging out. She liked short stuff as much as the next girl, but this skirt felt more like a napkin than an article of clothing, and the last thing she needed was to show the group her underwear. Especially since she didn’t even have on her fancy lingerie.
As they got closer to Simone’s friends, she linked arms with Piper. “You’re going to love Le Bataclan. It’s one of the coolest clubs in all of Paris. And there’s an American band playing tonight, so it should feel like home.”
Piper glanced around the crowded, brightly lit streets and could barely stop herself from laughing. Everywhere she looked there was centuries-old architecture, clubs with loud music pouring out of their front doors, and cool arty-looking people in various states of dress—and undress. Yeah, it was just like home—if she lived in the middle of Greenwich Village maybe. Paris, Texas, however? Not so much.
Thank God.
She paused for a moment, took a deep breath. The streets smelled like alcohol and baking bread—an odd combination, no doubt, but one she wanted to remember forever.
“Come on!” Simone tugged on her. “I can’t wait for you to meet my friends.”
“Hold on a second,” she said, then leaned close to whisper in Simone’s ear. “Which one do you like?”
“What do you mean?” Simone asked, her voice suddenly wary.
“You totally lit up the second you saw the guys. So just tell me which one you like, and I won’t ask him to dance or anything.”
It wasn’t dark enough to conceal Simone’s blush, so Piper reached for her hand, squeezed it encouragingly. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“No, it’s fine. I’ve been trying to get Jean-Claude to notice me for what feels like forever.”
“Well, introduce me and we’ll see what we can do about getting you noticed.”
Simone laughed. “You know, Piper, I’m really glad you’re here,” she said.
“Believe me, so am I.”
Simone pulled her forward and the next couple of minutes passed in a blur of names and greetings that Piper could barely keep up with. Raoul was the guy with the black goatee and ripped jeans who was much hotter than his name implied. Maricella was the girl with the almost indecent red tank top. Violet was wearing a pair of kick-ass Doc Martens, or the French equivalent, Piper couldn’t tell in the dark. Antoine’s clothes were so wrinkled she figured he’d slept in them at least twice before heading out to the clubs. And Simone’s guy, Jean-Claude, was gorgeous. Plus, he was wearing a worn black leather jacket that made him look totally cool.
She wanted to make a good impression—needed to make one if she didn’t want to spend the next ten weeks as an outcast in yet another Paris—but couldn’t help feeling stilted and uncertain. The whole Kiss the Pig thing had robbed her of any self-confidence her mother hadn’t previously destroyed.
But no one here knew her lips had ever touched swine, she reminded herself determinedly. She needed to get over it, forget about it, or this whole trip would end up being for nothing.
Smiling brightly, she allowed Simone and her friends to pull her into the club. After handing the doorman her money, she followed her host sister and the others down onto the main floor. European technorock blasted through the speakers, and she recognized the group on stage as one from a few flyers Simone had up on the bulletin board in her room.
They were good—better than good—and she felt herself relaxing as the music’s beat worked its way through her.
“You like?” Simone shouted to be heard above the pounding music.
“I love!” she answered.
“Good.” Simone leaned closer, so she didn’t have to yell quite as loudly. “It’s still early so the club isn’t crowded yet. You want to look around? There’re all kinds of cool paintings on the walls.”
“Sure, that’d be great.” Piper stifled the nervous giggle that welled up in her throat. It was ten thirty and Simone was calling that early. Where she was from, even the Dairy Queen was winding down by now. Perception really was everything, she supposed.
Skirting around the small groups of people scattered throughout the club, she followed Simone and Violet to the back. As they walked, someone latched onto her arm and she turned, surprised to realize Raoul was the one holding on to her elbow so deliberately.
“Mind if I tag along?” he asked with a quick grin that lit up his whole face. In that moment, he went from handsome to drop-dead gorgeous, and Piper felt a few butterflies take off in her stomach. It had been a long time—read never—since a guy this hot had gone out of his way to talk to her.
“No, of course not. Simone was going to show me some of the art on the—”
“Come with me,” he said, and started leading her in the other direction.
“But—” Piper looked back, not wanting Simone to think she was ditching her, but her host sister just smiled wickedly and nodded.
Piper kind of shrugged, the universal what-can-I-do? move. Simone shook her head and mouthed, Have fun.
Like she needed the encouragement? She planned on having the time of her life tonight.
Raoul started up the steps in the center of the club and Piper followed him curiously. The music wasn’t quite as loud up there—she could almost hear herself think. Raoul led her to the back of the room and the butterflies turned into pterodactyls. Where was he taking her? What did he want? Simone hadn’t seemed worried, but—
“Here,” he said, leaning close to her so she could make out his words. His breath was mint scented and hot against her ear and Piper shivered, despite the fact
that the temperature in the club was several degrees above comfortable. “These are my favorites.”
She followed his gaze and gasped, astounded by the clarity of the paintings as much as by the subject. A series of French entertainment scenes depicted beautiful women in various states of undress. Their faces were heavily painted and while some were onstage, dancing the cancan or performing what looked to be an old-time French follies, others were in dressing rooms, clothes half off, bare breasts displayed for the world to see.
She tried to picture the same scenes in an American club and failed miserably. Which was a shame, because the paintings were gorgeous. Vibrant. Alive. Exactly how Piper felt in that moment, with Raoul’s hand warm on her elbow and his dark eyes watching her with obvious interest.
For a minute, her fingers itched for a sketchpad. She wanted to capture this scene, this moment, so she never forgot it. So she remembered forever what it was like to stand in front of beautiful artwork in the middle of a rapidly crowding club, with a hot guy who was looking at her like she belonged in one of the pictures on the wall.
“Do you like them?” he asked, leaning in even closer, so she could smell the dark, musky scent of his cologne.
“I do.” She felt disoriented, mixed up, like her body had suddenly forgotten how to process oxygen. “This one—this one is my favorite.” She lifted her hand to the painting of a cancan girl with one foot onstage and one on the steps leading up to it. Caught in two different worlds—beautiful, exotic, excited—she was a part of both. A shot of envy pierced Piper’s heart. God, she wanted to be like that woman, if even for a little while: leaving the mundane behind for a world filled with lights and colors so bright they were nearly blinding.
“I like that one as well.” Raoul interrupted her thoughts as he leaned so close to her that his chest was almost touching hers. He reached out, stroked one long, rough finger down her cheek, and Piper saw stars. “She looks like you.”