by Meg Cabot
“Well,” Grandma says flatly, “this is an occasion. One of you girls actually listening to me for a change. Somebody needs to break out the champagne.”
“I’ll toast you in absentia, Grandma,” I say. “And now I’d better call Shari. Thank you so much. And, um, don’t tell anyone about this conversation, okay, Grandma?”
“Who would I tell?” Grandma grumbles, and hangs up.
I hang up as well and hurriedly dial Shari’s number. Shari. I can’t believe I didn’t think of SHARI! Shari’s in France. And she said I could come see her. The Chunnel. Didn’t she say something about taking the Chunnel? Can I really do this? Should I?
Oh no. It goes to Shari’s voice mail. Where is she? Out in the vineyard squishing grapes between her toes? Shari, where are you? I need you!
I leave a message: “Hi, Shar? It’s me, Lizzie. I really need to talk to you. It’s really important. I think…I’m pretty sure Andrew and I are breaking up.” I flash back to the expression on his face as he was telling me about his friend from work who could wire my money to the States with no fees.
My heart twists.
“Um, in fact, I think we’ve definitely broken up. So could you call me? Because I’m probably going to need to take you up on your France offer. So call me back. Right away. Well. Bye.”
Saying the words out loud makes it suddenly seem much more real. My boyfriend and I are breaking up. If I had just kept my mouth shut about his waitering job, none of this would have happened. It’s all because of me. Because of my big mouth.
Really, I have put my foot in it before. But never this big.
On the other hand…if I hadn’t said anything, would he ever have told me? About the gambling, I mean? Or would he have tried to keep a secret from me for the rest of our lives together—as he seemed to have done, pretty successfully, for the past three months? Would we have ended up like Uncle Ted and Aunt Olivia—bitter, divorced, financially insolvent, and living in Cleveland and Reno, respectively?
I can’t let that happen. I won’t let that happen.
I can’t go back to the Marshalls’ house. That’s all there is to it. I mean, obviously, I have to, in order to get my things. But I can’t sleep there tonight. Not in the MDF bed, the same bed Andrew and I made love in…the bed I gave him that blow job in.
The blow job I want back.
And, I realize, I don’t have to sleep there tonight. Because I have somewhere to go.
I stand up so suddenly that I get a head rush. I am staggering around, clutching my head, when Jamal comes back with a glass of water for me.
“Miss?” he says worriedly.
“Oh,” I say, seeing the water. I snatch it from him and down the glass’s contents. I don’t mean to be rude, but my head is pounding. “Thanks so much,” I say when I’m done drinking. And hand the glass back to him. I’m feeling better already.
“Is there someone I can telephone for you?” Jamal wants to know. Really, he is so kind. So attentive! I almost feel like I’m back in Ann Arbor. Except for the English accent.
“No,” I say. “But there is something you can help me with. I need to know how to get to the Chunnel.”
Part Two
The French Revolution in the late 1700s wasn’t just an uprising of common people overthrowing the monarchy in favor of democracy and republicanism. No! It was also about fashion—the haves (who favored powdered wigs, fake facial moles, and hooped skirts, sometimes as much as fifteen feet wide) versus the have-nots (who wore stout boots, narrow skirts, and plain cloth). In this particular uprising, as history shows, the peasants won.
But fashion lost.
History of Fashion
SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS
Chapter 9
Good talkers are only found in Paris.
—François Villon (1431–1463), French poet
I’m pulling my wheelie bag down the aisles of the Paris Souillac train, and I’m trying not to cry.
Not because of the bag. Well, sort of because of the bag. I mean, the aisle is very narrow, and I have my carry-on bag over my shoulder, and I sort of have to walk sideways, like a crab, in order not to bang people in the head with it as I search—apparently fruitlessly—for a front-facing first-class seat in a nonsmoking car.
If I smoked and I didn’t mind facing backward, I’d be all set. Except that I don’t smoke, and I’m afraid if I ride facing backward, I might throw up. In fact, I am sure I will throw up, because I have felt like throwing up ever since I woke up in Paris—having conked out in my comfy seat on the train from London, like Grandma after too much cooking sherry—and realized what I’d done.
Which is, pretty much, set off by myself through Europe, with no idea whether I am actually going to find the place, much less the person, I’m looking for. Especially since Shari still isn’t answering her cell phone, much less calling me back.
Of course, part of the reason why I feel like throwing up might be that I am so incredibly hungry I can hardly see. All I’ve had to eat since breakfast is an apple I bought at Waterloo Station, since that was the only nutritious food I could find for sale there that didn’t have tomatoes on it. If I’d wanted a Cadbury bar or an egg and tomato sandwich, I’d have been all right.
But since I didn’t, I was out of luck.
I’m hoping there’ll be a dining car on this train. But before I can go look for it, I need to find a decent seat where I can dump my stuff.
And that’s proving difficult. My bag is so wide and awkward that it keeps bumping people in the knees as I go by them, and even though I’m apologizing like crazy—“Pardonnez-moi,” I say to them, when I’m not “Excusez-moi”-ing them—nobody seems to appreciate my apologies very much. Maybe because they’re all French and I’m American and no one here seems to like Americans. At least, judging by the way the kid next to me in the backward-facing smoking seat I found—but consequently had to abandon—had gone, “Êtes-vous américaine?” in a disgusted voice when he overheard me leaving yet another message for Shari on my cell.
“Um,” I said, “oui?”
And he made a face and pulled out an iPod, inserted his earphones, and turned his face to the window so he wouldn’t have to look at me again.
Vamos a la playa, screamed the song I could plainly hear from his earphones. Vamos a la playa.
I know that song is going to be stuck in my head for the rest of the day. Or night, I should say, since it’s already afternoon and my train won’t be arriving at the station in Souillac for six hours.
That’s another reason I’m going in search of a new seat. How am I supposed to spend six hours next to a snot-nosed seventeen-year old in an Eminem T-shirt who listens to Europop, hates Americans, and smokes?
Of course, now it’s looking like that seat was actually the last vacant one on this train.
Can I stand for six hours? Because if so, I’ll be golden. There’s plenty of space for me and my gargantuan bags in the spaces between the cars.
How can this be happening to me? It all seemed so simple when Jamal, back at the bookshop, explained what I’d have to do to get to France. He’d been so knowing and kind, it had sounded as if getting from London to where Shari is was going to be a snap.
He didn’t mention, of course, the fact that the minute you open your mouth to speak to anyone in this country and they realize from your accent that you’re American, they just answer you in English anyway.
And usually not very nicely, either.
But still. I was able to follow most of the signage at the Gare du Nord. Enough to get my ticket, anyway—which I’d reserved over the phone—out of the machines. Enough to find my train. Enough to stumble onto the first car I reached and plop down into the first available seat.
Too bad I didn’t notice the smoke—and the fact that I was facing the wrong way—until the train actually started moving.
It’s hard not to feel like this whole thing was a very bad idea. Not the moving-to-the-different-seat thing—I already
know THAT was a bad idea. But the coming-to-France thing. I mean, what if I never get ahold of Shari? What if her cell phone fell into the toilet again, the way it did that time back in the dorm, and she can’t afford a new one or there’s no cell phone store nearby and she’s just going without one for the rest of her trip? How will I ever find her?
I suppose I could ask people, when I get to Souillac, if they know where Château Mirac is. But supposing they’ve never heard of Château Mirac? Shari didn’t say how far the château was from the train station. What if it’s really, really far?
And it’s not like I can call Shari’s parents and ask them if they know where she is and how I can get in touch with her. Because then they’ll want to know why I want to know, and if I tell them, they’ll tell my mom and dad, and then they’ll know things didn’t work out with Andrew—I mean, Andy—and tell my sisters.
And then I will never hear the end of it.
Oh God, how did I get myself into this? Maybe I should have just stayed at Andy’s. What’s the worst that would have happened? I could have gone to Jane Austen’s house by myself and just used Andy’s house as a sort of home base. I didn’t have to leave. I could have just been like, “Look, Andy, it’s not working out between us, because you’re not who I thought you were. I have a thesis to write, so let’s just agree to ignore each other the rest of the time I’m here and I’ll do my thing and you do yours.”
I could have just said that to him. Of course, it’s too late now. I can’t go back. Not after that note I left him when I took that taxi back to his house—best fifteen pounds I ever spent—to get my stuff. Thank GOD no one had been home…
…and thank God Andy had thought to give me my own key this morning before we’d left, which I’d dropped into the Marshalls’ mailbox on my way out.
Oh my God. A seat! An empty seat! Facing the right way! In a nonsmoking car! And it’s next to a window!
Okay, be calm. It might be taken and the person just got up to use the bathroom or whatever—oh jeez, I bonked that lady in the head with my bag—“Je suis désolée, madame,” I say. That means “I’m sorry,” right? Oh, who cares. A seat! A seat!
Oh my God. A seat next to a guy who looks to be about my age, with curly dark hair, big brown eyes, and a gray button-down shirt that is actually tucked into his faded-in-all-the-right-places Levi’s. That he is wearing with a mesh weave leather belt.
It is possible that I have died. That I have passed out in the aisles of the train—and died of hunger, dehydration, and heartache.
And that this is heaven.
“Pardonnez-moi,” I say to the totally hot guy. “Mais est-ce que…est-ce que—”
“Is that seat next to you taken?” is what I want to ask. Only in French, obviously. Only I can’t remember the word for seat. Or taken. In fact, I don’t think we ever covered this phrase in French 101 or 102. Or maybe we did but I was too busy daydreaming about Andrew—I mean, Andy—that I wasn’t paying attention that day.
Or maybe it’s just that this guy is so good-looking I can’t think of anything else.
“Do you want to sit here?”
That’s what the guy in the aisle seat asks, indicating the empty window seat beside him.
In perfect English. In perfect AMERICAN English.
“Oh my God!” I burst out. “Are you American? Is that seat really not taken? Can I sit there?”
“Yes,” the guy says with a smile that reveals perfect white teeth. Perfect white AMERICAN teeth. “To all three.”
And he gets up to let me into the window seat.
Not only that, but he actually leans over, grabs my gargantuan wheelie bag that has just popped a thousand French kneecaps during its long drag through several train cars, and says, “Let me help you with this.”
And, seemingly without effort, he lifts the bag and shoves it up onto the rack above our heads.
Okay. Now I’m crying.
Because this is not a hallucination. I am not dead. This is really happening. I know because I’ve just slung my carry-on bag down from my shoulder and put it under the seat in front of mine, and my entire right side has gone numb from the weight not being there anymore. If I were dead, would I feel numb?
No.
I sink down into the seat—the soft, cushiony seat—and just sit there, blinking at the buildings flashing by so unbelievably quickly, completely unable to believe my good fortune. How could my luck, which has been so totally rotten lately, have taken such an incredible turn for the better? This can’t be right. There has to be a catch. There just has to be.
“Water?” the guy next to me asks, holding out a plastic bottle of Evian.
I can barely see him through my tears. “You’re…you’re giving me your water?”
“Um,” he says, “no. They come with the seats. This is first class. Everyone gets one.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling stupid (so what else is new?). I hadn’t noticed the water at my last seat. Probably that French kid had bogarted mine. He looked like the type who would steal someone else’s water.
I take the water from my new—and vastly improved—seatmate.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m sorry. It’s just…it’s been a long day.”
“I can see that,” he says. “Unless you always cry on trains.”
“I don’t,” I say, shaking my head and sniffling. “Really.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” he says. “I’ve heard of fear of flying, of course. But I’ve never heard of a fear of trains.”
“I’ve had the worst day,” I say, opening the water. “Really. You have no idea. It’s so nice to hear an American accent. I can’t believe how much everybody here hates us.”
“Oh,” the guy says with another flash of those perfect white teeth, “they aren’t so bad. If you saw how the typical American tourist acted, you’d probably feel the same way about us that the French do.”
I’ve chugged most of my water. I’m starting to feel a little better—not so much like death warmed over. Although I’m sure I probably look it. Which is great since now that I have an even closer view of him, I can see that my seatmate isn’t just handsome. His face is filled with kindness, intelligence, and good humor as well.
Unless that’s just the starvation talking.
“Well.” I reach up to dab at my eyes with my wrist. I wonder if my mascara is running down my cheeks in streaks. Did I wear the waterproof kind? I can’t even remember. “I’ll just have to take your word for it.”
“Your first time in France?” he asks sympathetically. Even his voice is nice. Sort of deep, and very understanding.
“My first time anywhere in Europe,” I say. “Well, except for London, where I was this morning.”
And then, like a dam bursting, I’m crying again.
I try not to do it loudly. You know, without sobbing or anything. I just can’t think about London—I never even got to go to Topshop!—without tearing up.
My seatmate nudges my elbow with his. When I open my streaming eyes, I see that he is holding a plastic bag in front of me.
“Honey-roasted peanuts?” he asks.
I am overwhelmed by hunger. Without a word, I dive my hand into the bag, grab a handful of nuts, and stuff them into my mouth. I don’t care if they’re honey-roasted and jam-packed with carbs. I’m starved.
“Do…do they come with the seats, too?” I ask between sniffles.
“No,” he says, “they’re mine. Help yourself to more, if you want some.”
I do. They are the best thing I have ever tasted. And not just because I haven’t had sugar in so long.
“Thanks,” I say. “I…I’m s-sorry.”
“For what?” my seatmate asks.
“For s-sitting here crying like this. I’m not usually like this. I swear.”
“Travel can be very stressful,” he says. “Especially in this day and age.”
“It’s true,” I say, taking some more nuts. “You can just never tell. I mean, you meet people and t
hey seem perfectly nice. And then it turns out that all along they were just lying to you to get you to pay their matriculation fees because they lost all their money in a game of Texas Hold’em.”
“I was actually referring to terrorist alerts,” my seatmate says somewhat dryly. “But I guess what, er, you mentioned could be troubling as well.”
“Oh, it is,” I assure him through my tears. “You have no idea. I mean, he just outright lied to me—telling me that he loved me and all of that—when all along I think he was just using me. I mean, Andy—that’s the guy I left, back in London—he seemed so nice, you know? He was going to be a teacher. He said he was going to devote his life to teaching little children to read. Have you ever heard of anything that noble?”
“Um,” my seatmate says, “no?”
“No. Because who even does that in today’s day and age? People our age—how old are you?”
“I’m twenty-five,” my seatmate says, a little smile on his lips.
“Right,” I say. I open my purse, fishing inside it for some tissue. “Well, haven’t you noticed that people our age…all they seem to think about is making money? Okay, not everyone. But a lot of them. No one wants to be a teacher anymore, or even a doctor…not with HMOs and all of that. There’s not enough money in it. Everyone wants to be an investment banker, or a corporate headhunter, or a lawyer…because that’s where the money is. They don’t care if they’re doing anything good for mankind. They just want to own a McMansion and a BMW. Seriously.”
“Or pay back their student loans,” says my seatmate.
“Right. But it’s like, you don’t have to go to the world’s most expensive college in order to get a good education.” I’ve managed to locate a wadded-up piece of tissue at the bottom of my purse. I use it to mop up some of my tears. “Education is what you make out of it.”
“I never actually thought of it that way,” says my seatmate. “But you could have a point.”
“I think I do,” I say. The buildings that had been whizzing past my window have turned to open fields. The sky is a golden red as the sun begins to slide down toward the western horizon. “I mean, I’ve been out there. I’ve seen it for myself. If you’re studying something like—I don’t know. History of fashion or something—people think you’re a freak. No one wants to pursue anything creative anymore, because that’s too risky. They may not get the kind of return on the financial investment they’ve made in their education that they think they should. So they all go into business or accounting or law or…or they look for stupid American girls to marry so they can live off them.”