“All right, listen up, troops! Sage and Wisdom, God bless your parents—room 660, Liam and Jordan—room 662, Will, Andrew, and Ofir—room 664, Helen and Jamie—room 666, Veronika and Paz—room 508….”
Ooohs and aaahs followed the announcement of our presumably doomed room. Teenagers are nothing if not predictable.
Across from me, Jamie stood distractedly scrolling through his phone. No matter the focus I expended, I couldn’t bring him to look up and let me gauge his reaction.
Abbott, on the other hand, after shooting me a wink (and again holding my gaze a second longer than seemed appropriate), continued calling out names and handing out key cards, apparently unfazed, already on a mission.
“All right, settle down, everyone! Don’t embarrass me on our first day in Paris! Riley and Sophie—room 510….”
Of course, I had to tell him about George, about my leaving him, when he agreed to haul my remaining boxes to his apartment on Staten Island. “From George to St. George,” he had joked then as we stood in traffic on the Verrazano Bridge. He agreed to be discreet, to not tell anyone until I was ready (the last thing I wanted to do on this trip was to have to answer to teenagers as to why I would break off my long engagement without any dramatic incident to justify it), but his winks and glares were getting too frequent to go unnoticed. At this rate, it was only a matter of time until somebody would start rumors about our affair.
“Olivia and Aisha—room 512, Stephanie and I are in 514, and Megan and Abby—you are in 516. Off you go,” he announced, gesturing toward the elevator bank behind him. He seemed to be standing taller than I’d ever seen him, his youthful backpack square on his shoulders. “We meet down here in one hour on the dot. Those of you who aren’t here at exactly that time will be missing our trip to the Louvre, where our guide for this entire trip will be waiting for us. You are free to skip this excursion, of course, just know that we are not waiting for you, so don’t be late if you actually do wish to come along. I am not here to babysit you. I have facilitated this trip for you to get your feet wet on the road to independence. All of you are going to college next year— well, most of you, anyway, and mark my words, no one will bother holding your hand there. Again, if you don’t want to do some of the activities we have preplanned for you, you are entitled to that right…even though your parents did pay for them already. You can make your own decisions. It’s your life, after all. Get yourself a map from Claude over there and head on out. Bonne chance! Avoir un temps merveilleux!” He paused for dramatic effect before translating for those of us whose faces read blank: “Good luck! Have a wonderful time!”
Abbott was so passionate that, when he spoke French, even Claude looked up from his sizable computer monitor. I wasn’t sure how much of his speech was intended for the students’ benefit and how much of all that he just needed to say out loud to feel justified in spending the majority of this trip exactly as he had apparently planned all along—screwing his rapidly aging girlfriend. Still, the kids seemed inspired. Means versus ends, I suppose.
“I really love flying, Mr. Abbott,” I heard Wisdom say to him before boarding the tiny, square elevator. Her voice was full of elated glee that only a child could be capable of producing. “You get on in one place, fall asleep, and then wake up in a totally new place! It’s like magic!”
Before the doors closed, I saw Abbott roll his eyes.
“Yes, it’s totally incredible, Wis,” I heard him mutter.
~ ~ ~
Room 666 had one king-size bed in its center. I tried calling Abbott about it, but room 514 just kept ringing.
“I’d offer to sleep on the couch but there is no couch,” Jamie laughed. “And, I’d offer to sleep in the bathtub—”
“It’s fine, Mr. Sola. We’re adults here. We can make it a few nights sharing a bed,” I cut him off, doing my best to try to chase the blush off my face by keeping busy with my suitcase, riding its zipper open and closed. It was a nice place to stay, after all; the traffic and the smog outside were Paris’, not New Jersey’s. I could do worse.
“Look, it’s okay. I’ve been on the road with a few shady bands in my lifetime. I have slept in far worse places than bathtubs, believe me,” he chuckled as he threw his own duffel bag down on the desk positioned against a sunlit window. “And I’m sure I didn’t just hear you call me ‘Mr. Sola,’” he added. “Unless it’s some kinky sex play, let’s stick to first names,” he grinned. As the words escaped his lips, I saw color slowly drain from his face. “Shit, I’m sorry, I just made this weird. I’m sorry. I hear you’re engaged—”
“And I can see that you’re married, so it’s all good. You are just trying to diffuse a potentially uncomfortable situation with some ill-timed humor. I get it,” I placated with a strained smile before blowing my nose into a wad of Kleenex that had been squished in my grip since the bus ride from the airport; I watched him rub his wedding band with the thumb of his left hand as I did so.
Seeing that he was about to reply, his lips parting, I turned on my heel and hurried into the bathroom with my little Ziploc bag of toiletries.
“Can I be the first to take a shower? I’ll be in and out, I promise. Thanks!” I called nervously, quickly shutting the door behind me without giving him a chance to answer.
My hands shaking, I splashed some water on my face at the sink, doing in any remains of my mascara. My mind raced. I’d come all this way for a cute boy and the universe was calling my bluff—I was now trapped in a hotel room in the (allegedly) most romantic city in the world with the man.
With my face soon scrubbed raw, I groaned (scratching my already sore throat) at the realization that I had to return to the room for a change of clothes before I could take the damn shower in the first place. This could only go downhill from here, I was convinced.
Pushing the door open with more enthusiasm than I was expecting of myself, not one step back into the room, I saw Jamie climb on top of the desk by the window. I hoped to be able to tiptoe to my suitcase without alerting him to my presence in order to allow myself an unabashed look at him.
He’d changed into a black t-shirt while I was hiding away in the bathroom. His arms now exposed, his elbows were bent parallel to his body, close to his ribs (presumably, for added stability). His muscles (skinny muscles, not like George’s) were perfectly still as he stood wholly engrossed by whatever appeared before him.
“Can you hand me my tripod? It’s over there, next to my bag,” he asked without turning around, apparently aware of me the whole time. His duffel bag was now on our bed—on the left side.
Lightheaded, my heart rate suddenly painful, I fished out a random set of clothes from my own suitcase before I complied. In front of Jamie, the curtains were pulled open, revealing the Eiffel Tower in the distance.
“Here,” I said in an unintentional whisper.
Squinting against the sun, I followed his gaze and looked to the gleaming tower of metal, my already tight throat swelling further. Something inside me melted with the preconditioned romance of it all.
“Merci,” he mouthed, removing the tripod from my clammy hands to attach his camera. “We could do worse,” he said before the shutter clicked.
Chapter Eight: Statutory Rape
My muscles ached as we mad dashed through the Louvre in search of the Mona Lisa.
“Do you think this is considered statutory rape, sweet Levit?” Abbott joked as he posed for a photo of himself feeling up the cold hard form.
“What?” I coughed, having snorted the water I’d been drinking to help swallow some old cold medicine I’d found on the bottom of my purse on our way over.
“Statues can’t consent, so is this statutory rape, then?” he laughed, throwing his paternal arm around me. “Guess you really must be sick if you can’t understand my brilliant sense of humor today, spring chicken. And, before you say it—yes, I’m aware that the word is statutes, not statues.”
He squeezed me tightly into him, making it harder for either of us to walk s
traight. For a while there, we stumbled together from room to room of the vast and densely packed space as if roped together.
“Is that Mary?” Sage asked Abbott when we all finally reached our destination.
“Mary who?” Abbott tested (audibly afraid to be asking at all), furrowing his brow. His sharp features seemed even sharper in the room’s stingy light.
“Yeah, I wanted to ask that, too! Is this Mary, Mr. Abbott? You know, Jesus’ mother?” Wisdom chimed in.
“Her name is ‘Wisdom’? Were her parents being preemptively ironic when they named her?” Jamie whispered in my ear, bending slightly to reach me. His warm breath tickled when it hit my neck, sending more goose bumps to rush up and down my already feverish body.
I chuckled in response, rolling my eyes as discreetly as I could.
“No, Wisdom, this is not the mother of God. Goodness gracious, what do you children study over there at that school of ours?” Abbott groaned loudly, his voice echoing. “This is the Mona Lisa—La Joconde. Leonardo DaVinci? Doesn’t ring a bell, no? No one here even read Dan Brown’s ramblings on the subject? Clearly, this isn’t the fine arts department. You’re embarrassing me in front of Ms. Dinofrio over here!” he pleaded, pointing to Stephanie, who looked like she spent whatever free time she had back at the hotel teasing her hair.
Wisdom was not bothered. She shrugged her shoulders and tilted her head to the side, her perfect ponytail bouncing.
“Her smile is weird,” she noted.
“Yes, Wisdom! What a terrific observation! Utterly keen and just plain epic,” Abbott cheered with palpable sarcasm. “Not to mention, original.”
“This is going to be a long trip,” Jamie’s breath tickled my ear again. I shivered as the distance between us bridged.
Cold and clammy, I hurried to put on my coat, forcing my arms down the sleeves, my sweater bunching at the elbows. I’d never outgrown my clumsy stage, still waiting to become that carefree, effortless adult I’d dreamed of becoming growing up.
Smiling awkwardly at no one in particular, I shuffled over to a nearby bench to observe the enigmatic beauty that wasn’t Holy Mary from afar. I rubbed my aching thighs and did my best to resist the urge to curl into a ball right then and there. I saw that the girls were still busy asking Abbott questions that visibly pained him. Sage and Wisdom, I suspected, were likely to produce some much needed comic relief on this trip, so I, for one, was not so appalled by their enquiries; instead, I was grateful for the distraction from my own self-made plight.
“I don’t get what the fuss is all about, frankly. Do you know what I mean, Ms. Levit?” Veronika was quick to sit next to me. I turned to nod in agreement and saw that she was now wearing gray sweatpants and an olive-green long-sleeve t-shirt; given that she wore ripped jeans and a rather fitted flannel button-down on the plane, this was an odd choice for the girl’s first day in Paris—decidedly underdressed.
Paz, standing with the rest of the group in front of us, was, on the other hand, wearing a leather tulip skirt and high-heeled boots (the sight of which alone hurt my feet). Even without a thermometer, I knew that I was running a fever and therefore wore my sensible tennis shoes for comfort; my gut told me that Paz would never let such inconveniences rule her fashion choices, let alone her life.
My eyes were still on the girl when she suddenly walked up to Jamie and pushed her long hair back, revealing quite sizable cleavage.
“Neither do I,” I whispered conspiratorially, reluctantly turning my attention back to Veronika.
“I took the obligatory photo, so we can go now, please,” she whined, her expression souring. I followed her gaze and landed back on Paz and Jamie, my stomach knotting. Forgetting that I was in a public space, I involuntarily brought my hand up to my chin in search of that elusive hair. “You think she’s pretty?” Veronika asked, mid-sigh.
“Mona?”
“Paz, Ms. Levit.”
“I thought Paz was your friend, Ver,” I sang with put-on concern, treading carefully. The hair kept escaping my fingernails’ slippery grip.
“So did I,” she groaned just as Paz laughed unnaturally loud, stroking Jamie’s long, tattooed arm. From where I was sitting, it looked like there were flowers blooming up it, but even with my contacts in, given the lighting, I couldn’t be sure.
Though we didn’t see or hear Jamie bestow a joke upon her, Paz’s laughter continued to fill the room. My heart clenched, as did Veronika’s jaw. Releasing us both, Jamie took an almost imperceptible step back.
“Paz is pretty, Veronika. But in that predictable sort of way—her beauty is obvious—”
“Oh, Ms. Levit, I don’t need that speech, believe me. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know—I’m more ‘unique!’ Spare me,” Veronika sneered.
“I’m just saying there isn’t one type of beauty out there. And one isn’t any more or less beautiful than the other. If you ask me, personally, and this is strictly between you and me, but I like imperfections in my beauty—it’s more special that way. A gap-tooth smile here, a crooked nose there—things like that make a person more interesting….”
We both watched as Paz continued to try to make advances on Jamie. I trailed off. I’m not sure if Veronika even heard my attempts at salvaging her (as well as my own) self-esteem by way of outright flattery. I wasn’t lying, but I was laying it on quite thick.
Beyond Paz and Jamie, closer to Mona, I could see Abbott still trying to talk up the art wonder (taking turns with our young tour guide), but Paz’s one-woman show was clearly making even him uncomfortable, which was a feat in its own right; he stammered on his words, distracted, his eyes wandering.
“Let’s talk about something less controversial—like college! Where are you going? You still haven’t told me.”
Veronika rolled her eyes and bit deep into her thumbnail. It looked like it’d seen easier days.
“Ver, come on! You’ve been my star pupil since your freshman year! I don’t even get to know your plans? Is that what I deserve?” I decided to try a route perfected by my mother: guilt.
“Ms. Levit, please. That stuff is not remotely interesting, I promise you. There are only so many options for someone like me, after all,” she said evenly, evasively. Maybe the guilt thing only worked on fellow Jews, not so much the Slavs, I thought.
Rubbing my forearms, I dropped the subject, too distracted by the bravado-personified that was Paz, anyway.
“You don’t think Mr. Sola is buying any of that, do you?” Veronika voiced my own question when we were finally out of the stuffy room, having trailed our group. Abbott was instructing us all to line up for the first official photo of the trip (it was to be taken in front of the once-upon-a-time controversial glass pyramid constructed in front of the museum, of course). We could see Paz switch places with Ofir (our straight ballet dancer—a rare breed in the Dance department across all grade levels at Talents) to stand next to Jamie; quickly and elegantly, she wrapped her arm around his. Jamie seemed too stunned to react.
Suddenly dizzy, I had to look away.
I had no business being out there with a fever, anyway. My mother had a point. This whole thing was too impulsive to be right. I should’ve gone straight to New Jersey—just “shoved my tail between my legs,” as my brother so eloquently put, and barricaded myself in my high school room until I was ready for the adult world.
“Oh, blimey, have to take it again. It appears some of you weren’t ready,” Nicole, our fidgety tour guide, exclaimed. She checked and rechecked Abbott’s camera in the bright sun. She was precious, this skinny bird—so nervous and eager, no older than I was. I watched her fiddle with the buttons, squinting to see past her own reflection in the screen.
“Of course not, Ver!” I eventually answered. “That would be ridiculous. She’s a student with a crush, and an obvious one at that, given the spectacle she’s making of herself,” I preached with too much conviction, too much put-on authority to sound believable. Surely Veronika was seeing through my nervous bluff, my thinly veiled
jealousy—jealousy to which I was most certainly not entitled.
I shivered despite the sun, which was lovely, bright, and warm overhead.
Jealous of a beautiful teenager hitting on a married adult—that was a new low, even for me.
I had long ago given up the pretense of being a “good person,” at least in the TV sense of the word. After years of George pointing out my shortcomings, even when alone with myself, I’d stopped qualifying my grievances against the universe with a compulsory “but I’m a good person.” I’d made peace with not always being happy for others and their fortunes. And I’d made peace with the occasional feeling of outright gleeful schadenfreude. In fact, I was the only person not rooting for Tara Lipinski in the Olympics; the last thing I needed as an eleven-year-old was to have a fifteen-year-old be recognized as the world’s greatest figure skater. Surely that was not proper world order. Was she even fifteen? Anyway, all of this made it hard for me to teach at a school where a random seventeen-year-old was potentially triply as accomplished as his middle-aged English teacher. Still, this particular context gave this familiar impulse a new sensation that carried with it a nasty aftertaste. Standing in the middle of Paris, consoling one prodigy while an infinitely more attractive prodigy was coming on to her teacher-crush was torture. Especially since I wanted to be the one doing the coming-on.
I just had to look away, yanking Veronika out of her stupor to keep me company.
Abbott, I could see, was struggling to make the same last-second decision, eventually turning his head to face the camera with some reluctance.
Chapter Nine: Unaccompanied
Having half-heartedly picked at only bread at dinner, I was more eager to get back to the hotel than one would expect to be on her first night in Paris. I was relieved when we finally walked into our tacky, mirrored lobby, silently wishing to be magically teleported up to bed, but the closer I got to the elevator, the more my muscles ached, the slower my limbs grew. I needed this day to be over so I could finally begin to think clearer. Vlad was expecting me to come back with my head square on my shoulders, and so far, it wasn’t looking good.
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