“I really have to go now,” I say, pointing at Levi. “My brother’s getting impatient.”
“We’re sorry to keep you,” Gable murmurs. He grabs James’s arm. “We’ll just be on our way now, won’t we?”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Keira!” James says, snapping his fingers and pointing them at me. “See you at the show, yeah?”
I nod. “Bye,” I say to Gable.
He smiles shyly. “Bye.”
I watch them walk away for a few seconds. James jogs to keep up with Gable’s long, loping strides. Gable turns and glances back at me. Our eyes lock. I blush.
I return to Levi, who immediately launches into some story about what the pigeons did when he gave them cookie crumbs from his pocket, but I can’t concentrate because I’m still stuck on Gable. Oh my God, so cute.
Paris has finally decided to be good to me.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The next day, we stroll through the Luxembourg Gardens. It’s lovely, of course, but the pamphlet mentioned that the gardens were only opened to the public after the revolution, and of course that got my little communist into a kerfuffle.
“Stupid monarchy,” he growls as he walks pigeon-toed along the garden path beside me. “All this was planted and arranged for them and they just kept it away from the People. Like nature isn’t for everybody.”
“Stop being such a pessimist and enjoy the freaking flowers,” I snap, picking up my pace.
Then my phone rings. It’s Mom, calling through TextAnywhere. I’m instantly struck by an uh-oh feeling. I’ve texted her a few times and gotten replies, but the times I’ve called our home phone no one has answered. She was probably just out grocery shopping, but right now she’s probably pissed that I haven’t stayed up all night trying to call her in the evening in Pacific Time. This should be a fun phone call.
“Keira? Hello?” she says the instant I answer.
“Hi, Mom!”
“How are you guys? Is Levi with you?”
“Of course he is. We’re good. Walking in the Luxembourg Gardens.”
I wander to a spindly little tree by the side of the path. Levi inspects a flowerbed nearby, frowning at it. I can’t hold in my laugh.
“What are you laughing at?” Mom asks tensely.
“Oh, Levi’s just glaring at some flowers like they personally insulted him. It’s hilarious.”
She goes quiet for a second. “How is he? You’ve barely updated me the whole time you’ve been there.”
“That’s because there’s been nothing to report, really. Nothing I couldn’t text you about. I called the landline a couple times, but you didn’t answer.”
She pauses for a second. “You know I never answer the landline. You should have texted in those cases.”
She always answers the landline, especially nowadays that it could be a call from Levi’s doctors. Is she trying to make me feel bad when she’s the one who didn’t answer the phone? What the hell?
“Okay, I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll update more, I swear.”
Mom sighs. “How’s Levi?”
“I already told you, fine. Watching some birds right now.”
“I mean behavior-wise.”
There’s so much I could say. He may have convinced me to have sympathy for Hitler, he ruined the French monarchy for me, and he gave me a heart attack when he disappeared after Les Mis. He held it together when I fell apart at the Louvre. Maybe I should tell her about those things, but she’d freak out, especially over the Louvre incident. You can’t even keep yourself together? How can I trust you with Levi? Blah blah blah …
I’m doing perfectly well with him. She’ll see when we land back at SeaTac in ten days. We’re fine.
“He’s good, Mom. Really.”
Quiet again. Then: “You aren’t leaving him alone, are you?”
“What? Of course not!”
“There are no … boys in the picture, are there?”
Huh? Gable’s face springs up in my mind and my stomach twists. How could Mom know about him? How could she know I’m planning on going to their show?
“Um …?”
“Levi texted and told me you were talking to some boys yesterday,” she says carefully.
Oh my fucking God, Levi.
“I just got caught up in a conversation at Notre Dame. Am I not allowed to talk to people here?”
“Not at your brother’s expense,” she says. “He said you ignored him and talked to them for over an hour.”
“That is an actual lie! It was, like, ten minutes, tops.” I glare at Levi, who paces the path up ahead. “You know Levi—he has the patience of a gnat.”
“I know. Just … keep taking care of him, all right?”
What else would I be doing? “Yes. Of course.”
“I love you,” she says, like a peace offering.
“Love you, too,” I answer.
Then we hang up, and I watch Levi kick the dirt about fifty feet ahead of me on the path, frowning back at me.
“You coming?” he shouts.
I’m annoyed at Levi for telling on me. Annoyed that Mom thinks I would abandon my brother for a couple of boys.
But mostly I’m annoyed with myself, because no matter how much I try to dissuade myself, I keep thinking about Gable.
Half of my brain is like, finally. Here’s the Parisian romance you always dreamed of. You deserve this! You deserve to go to his show and fall completely, utterly in love with him. You deserve to spend hours talking to him backstage and make all the groupies jealous when he takes your hand. You go, girl!
And the other half is like, you’re the stupidest girl in the world. You’re so obsessed with this guy you saw for like five minutes that our self-guided walking tour of the 6e arrondissement doesn’t feel real. And you’ll probably never see him again, anyway.
Unless Levi lets me go to the show.
“It would be fun,” I had told Levi last night. “Live music is always fun.”
He made a spectacular show of rolling his eyes. He didn’t have to speak for me to know what he meant.
When I was in middle school and mooning over Darren Troy, my grades dropped like rocks because I spent all my time daydreaming and plotting ways to put myself in his path. With Jacques, I was borderline insane. Nothing could pull me away from him. Not even Levi— especially not Levi. Levi was everything I was trying to escape; Jacques was everything I was running toward. Now I know he was just the ugly side of Paris.
Paris isn’t always a snooty asshole with a distinguished nose and arching eyebrows. Sometimes, Paris is a tall, shy boy holding back his dreads with a green plaid bandana. That would be worth running toward, right?
And, of course, Paris is pastries and chocolate with Levi and hearing him almost purr in happiness when we turn a corner and come across what looks like a Medieval castle, plunked right in the center of a regular neighborhood. It looks like Hogwarts, right within the Parisian city limits.
“What is this place?” Levi asks. His voice actually moves up and down; no monotone.
I look for a sign and find it: Musée de Cluny.
“Oh my God,” I gasp. “This is the museum with all the Medieval art and tapestries and stuff!”
“Can we go to it?” Levi asks. His fingers clamp onto my sleeve.
We pay for tickets and go inside. The museum is packed full of stone statues with somber, long faces, a million sad King Arthurs.
“Did everyone look the same back in ye olde times?” Levi says with an honest-to-God laugh.
“I just don’t think they really had a science for reproducing facial features yet,” I say. “They just had Default Old-Timey Face and Generic Martyr Crying Out in Pain Face.”
“Hey,” Levi says, tugging at my sleeve. “Look at these guys.”
There’s an exhibit of stone faces, chipped away from their bodies, on pikes. Grotesque, but fascinating.
Levi points at the card identifying them. “This says they used to be on the front of Notre Dame.�
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My jaw drops. “Holy crap, these are the old apostles!”
I lean in closer to them. These are the faces of the old apostle statues that used to line the façade of Notre Dame, the ones pulled down by revolutionaries because they thought they represented the monarchy. Oh, the things these faces saw—mob mentality and pitchforks and the fires of revolution. I can’t take my eyes off them.
Levi tugs my sleeve.
“What?”
He points to a sign that says THE LADY AND THE UNICORN, THIS WAY.
We follow the arrow-shaped signs into a room dominated by a tapestry, rich with deep red and gold. In it, a woman sits in a forest, a unicorn approaching her and letting her pet it.
When I was seven years old, I loved unicorns. I ate, slept, and breathed unicorns. I had this cheap paperback book filled with stories and drawings of different kinds of unicorns from different countries’ mythologies, and it grew battered and eventually lost a ton of pages from me leafing through it every day.
One day, Mom took Levi and I to this huge park on the other side of town, one we didn’t get to go to that often. There were acres of forest, complete with streams with makeshift log bridges, where we would make forts and have imaginary sword fights. There was a secret pond in the forest, far from the park area where the moms would sit on benches and read Oprah’s latest book club pick and talk about mom stuff. The pond had a small island, separated from the mainland by a strip of swamp with a rickety path of stones. While Levi played lightsaber with a stick he found, I picked my way onto the island, because it looked like the perfect place for a unicorn to live.
I knew unicorns only came to virgins, and even if I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, I knew it had something to do with being a young girl, and I definitely was one of those. I stood on the island, which was ringed by trees but clear in the center, and waited. The only sounds were wind in the trees and Levi’s distant wooshing lightsaber sound effects. I stood, and I waited. Then I sat and waited for a long time, but I didn’t give up. I was sure a snowy white unicorn would appear at any moment.
Of course, no unicorn ever came. I was probably only there about ten minutes before Levi ambled over the stone path and found me, dragging me back into our game. But I’ve never forgotten those ten, spine-tingling minutes when I was sure a miracle was about to happen.
Looking at the tapestry now, I feel like I’ve always been that lady in the tapestry. Sitting in a forest, waiting for hours—the only difference is her unicorn actually came. Sure, she was only the lure so the hunters could slay it, but it came nonetheless.
“I can’t believe it’s so bright,” Levi murmurs. “It’s impeccably preserved.”
He continues chatting happily as we tour the rest of the museum, but I can only listen and think. About how I’m still the girl waiting for the unicorn, and in recent years that unicorn was Europe. I was the girl waiting for her destiny to come to her, and when she finally arrived there, it’s like the hunters seized it.
Nothing about this trip is ideal. Nothing is like I planned.
I wanted a unicorn; I got a shaggy, stubborn donkey.
So I allow myself to cling to the tiny hope of Gable. Maybe he’s the missing horn.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
We walk home (I can’t believe I’m starting to refer to Hoteltastique as home), and as we wander through the Latin quarter, I try to find the exact words to tell Levi about James and Gable’s show, but I’m only able to mention it when we get back and the hotel room door closes. Levi immediately grabs the TV remote and crashes down on his bed. I wince and hope the downstairs hotel guests aren’t trying to sleep or anything.
I blurt out, “So I’m going to that concert tonight.”
Levi says, in his signature monotone, “Why?”
“Just to check it out. See if their music is any good.”
“You just want to see that guy.”
“No,” I lie. “I just want to go and hear them play, all right? No big deal.” I hang up my jacket in the closet, facing away from him. It’s easier to lie that way.
“You’re just going to leave me here alone?”
“You can come if you want,” I point out.
He frowns, flipping through channels. “I don’t want to.”
“Well, then, who’s holding who hostage?”
Levi’s eyebrows furrow. I search his face to see if he’s hurt. What is wrong with me, wanting to see him hurt?
He murmurs, “Nothing good is on in English tonight. And it feels weird when you’re not here,” he adds.
Tears prickle in my eyes and I wish I could take back any mean thing I ever did to him. What is wrong with me? I don’t want him to be afraid. I don’t want him to ever be afraid, or feel anything bad, ever.
Once was enough.
I sit down next to him on the bed and pat his broad, soft back. He leans away from me.
“You’re safe,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “This place isn’t dangerous, Levi.”
“I know, but it still feels weird.”
“Scary?”
“No.” His voice is an aggressive grunt now. “Just weird, okay?”
I nod.
“Promise you’ll come home if the music sucks or it’s boring,” he says.
“I promise,” I say. “I won’t be gone for too long, Lev. You’ll probably fall asleep soon anyway. We had a long day.”
He grunts again. I go to the bathroom to shower and get changed.
I didn’t bring any pretty clothes with me, only jeans, yoga pants, and plain shirts. A floral print, gauzy blouse is the closest thing I have to something fancy. I pair it with my nicest yoga pants and the effect is sort of romantic and carefree, I guess. The hotel hair dryer is completely useless, though, so the outfit is topped off with my sopping wet hair. I pull on my shoes, grab my travel purse, and head for the door.
“Be good,” I tell Levi.
“Hurry up,” he says.
Walking out of the hotel room, hearing the door click behind me, feels so wrong. Every step I take down the hall feels wrong. The descending elevator feels like it’s stealing me away from where I should be, and as I cross the lobby, I wish the smiling desk attendant would scold me for leaving Levi up there alone.
The metro station is full of dolled-up people with somewhere to go. All of them are prettier than me and have someone to laugh with, but I’m still one of them, and that makes me feel a little better. It’s been a long time since I last dressed up and went out. The last time was prom night.
It’s not going to happen this time. This time is different, I swear.
Everything Levi said amounted to “Don’t leave me.” He’s always convinced abandonment is on the horizon.
I think of our father, who was always shouting at Mom. He didn’t like anything much, but he liked Levi. He built the treehouse for him and play-acted military battles across the terrain of our backyard, the general to Levi’s plastic army guys. Levi adored him, basking in his love when it was there, left to flounder when it was gone.
Dad moved out when I was eight. Levi was six, and he clung to Dad’s leg and cried for him not to go. Dad yelled and shook his leg. He said Levi was too old for that shit. Too old to not want to be walked out on?
There were visits, but they didn’t last long, and they became very few and far between. Now there’s just silence.
That silence must affect Levi a lot. I’ve never really thought of that. I’ve made my peace with the whole situation; I have Josh, who’s the best father figure I could ask for. I imagine losing Josh—him walking out, him passing away—and my throat blocks up right here in the metro car. I couldn’t handle it. How could I expect Levi to handle that feeling?
Thinking about all this while the metro speeds me in the opposite direction of Levi makes me uncomfortable, but I won’t let myself regret leaving. It’s just for an hour or two. He’s got to learn the difference between leaving for a few hours and leaving forever. I don’t have to feel guilty
over this. I deserve a few hours by myself, in Paris, don’t I?
Yes. Yes, I do. I store all the painful thoughts in the back of my mind. I’ll deal with them tomorrow.
I finally find the bistro where The Elegant Noise is playing. It’s less than packed, but still with a substantial amount of diners—they’re drinking more than they’re eating. It’s dark and moody. I can’t see any faces, except by the light of the candles on each table.
Other girls cling to friends if they haven’t got a guy on their arm, and I’m feeling disastrously alone. I move through the crowd toward the bar. I need a glass of something in my hand to ward away the nerves, even if I’m only going to sip it—getting drunk or even tipsy in a foreign country when I’m technically by myself sounds like a bad idea.
I don’t see any sign of a stage until I have my glass of cheap wine and I weave my way through the tables of the L-shaped room. The short branch of the L opens to a patio strung with white Christmas lights, cozy but bright. I pick a table out there, near a makeshift stage, where a boy in a kilt sets up a drum kit.
The drummer sits down, tapping experimentally as the crowd claps and hollers half-heartedly. James comes out from the bistro, cherry wood guitar slung over his back, and he whips it around to his front, grinning and winking.
Gable slinks out, bass at the ready, head down. He crouches to plug it into an amp and adjust some dials. James steps up to the microphone.
“Good evening, Paris,” he says. “We are The Elegant Noise, and you sure are looking lovely tonight.”
A crowd has somehow conjured itself into existence, blocking my view. I stand, but I still can’t see. As The Elegant Noise begin to play, I place one foot on my chair, the next on my table, and perch on the concrete patio wall. The perfect view, as long as I don’t get yelled at by the manager.
The music sounds pretty good—rock with a slow tempo, James whining lyrics I can’t really make out—but I’m not really listening. My eyes drink up every inch of Gable. His bass is deep, dark purple, and he plucks the strings with expert speed. A speaker near my head pumps the agile, walking bass lines into me as I watch his fingers travel up, down, and across the neck of his instrument.
Maybe in Paris Page 13