But that day in the grass, with the sky blue above me and perfect fluffy white clouds floating by, I sat down to play Bruno Mars’ “Just the Way You Are.” I was putting everything I had into it as always, becoming lost in the lyrics, most likely thinking of Zeke just like I did with every other love song I ever sang. I didn’t even notice when he passed the camera off to Anne and motioned her to continue filming. As I started to sing the last repeat of the chorus, I felt Zeke slide onto the bench next to me and then he was looking into my eyes, harmonizing along with me. He took my face in his hands and sang to the end with me. I was stunned. He’d never sung to me before, and by the way did he really think I was amazing? We sat there for what felt like hours as he slowly brought my face to his and kissed me for the first time. My first kiss! Caught on film for all the world to see. Literally! Turned out to be one of the most watched videos on YouTube to date, was even beating out the famous I-just-love-cats “cat lady,” and catapulted our channel into the millions. With an “s” as in multi.
My dad helped me build the studio in my room, finally, when my YouTube Channel reached a million subscribers. Before that, my parents thought it was just a fad, you know, one of those crazy phases teens go through. That’s what they’d tell their friends, “Oh, Izzy? She sings and puts her songs on that You. Tube. Just for fun. It’s better than doing drugs!” Hahaha. Oh they can be so witty, can’t they? Until The Ellen Show called and asked us to be guests.
I started getting calls from record labels and producers wanting me to do an album of my own. By the end of Junior year, which I had just finished, I had enough of my own material to hit the real recording studio. I had visions of seeing my own CD’s sitting on the end rack at Target. How crazy would that be? Actually, it was still pretty surreal going out in public and being recognized, people pointing and calling me “that YouTube girl” as if I were the only girl on YouTube. I’d been on multiple talk shows, local radio stations, sung the National Anthem for the Phillies, SiriusXM in New York, and as I’ve already mentioned, was asked to go on tour with other YouTube sensations. Zeke graduated last year and has been out in California studying film. We’d been Skyping once a week and missed each other, but he was able to sign on as an intern for the tour. With all his experience filming my videos, they were glad to have him. We were looking forward to being on the road together to figure out if we still had a relationship. Anne’s going out to California after we graduate next year to study costume and make-up, and said she’d be ready when I start to tour on my very own.
I know that this trip to France, for my parents, was their way to slow down time. For the longest time it seemed as if there were just the three of us, going through life together, celebrating the journey. I looked back at my childhood and thought of sunny days in the park, twirling with my mom, or sitting on top of dad’s shoulders licking an ice cream cone that would inevitably melt down my arm and drip on his cheek. For me, there was always music. Always a tune underlying everything we did. A backdrop to the stories they’d tell me, as we sat cramped in our little library filled to the brim with their books. Stories of people who lived long ago. I loved those stories, they were every bit as much of my life as the music. And I loved the bubble we lived in, just me and my parents. Sometimes, I got nostalgic for those days and wished we could all go back. But life has a way of showing it has another plan. And time, well, time is a funny thing. Like my childhood was all in slow motion, but then high school seemed to be going by in a whirl. I was surprised I was actually making it through the academic portion of it with all I had going on. Like failure is even remotely possible with two academics living in the house. But whether any of us wanted to admit it or not, this little girl was growing up fast. And I knew that once I went on that tour that summer and left home, my parents would feel like I was leaving them for good. I feel guilty about that too, because in a way, I think they were right.
We lived in two very different worlds.
Chapter 3
I stood staring at myself in a long oval ornate mirror, which I was fairly certain did not exist during the 16th century. In fact, I’d just said as much to my mom who seemed to be pulling the 500th piece of clothing over my head, struggling to arrange it just so. We were in a private bedroom in the beautiful Chateau d’Amboise...the Chateau of Kings. Well, a few Kings anyway. I won’t bore you with the history of it. Google it. It’s a pretty cool castle all things considered. It’s right on the Loire River and even I’d admit, the view is stunning.
“What did you say?” she asked, fanning her face. She brushed a curl of her hair that had come loose during the wrestling match with cloth that happened to be an early 16th-century costume made for yours truly. It was a tough job, dressing me like a girl from the Renaissance, made more difficult by her own such costume.
“I said, this mirror can’t possibly be from the early 16th century according to all the stories you’ve told me.” She stared at me through the mirror and cocked her head. I think she was shocked I noticed such a detail. I also knew she was about to ask a question.
“Why do you say that?” Bingo! Of course, she was testing my knowledge, wanting to know just how much I’ve listened to all their historical mumbo jumbo. Truth is, I’m not sure I listen much, but some things just stick. Especially if it’s interesting and has to do with witches and weird stuff like that.
“Because didn’t you say once that mirrors were associated with rituals and witchcraft in the early part of the 16th?” Ha! I surprised her. A smile started to creep across her face as she nodded her head.
“You are correct,” she said in her most professor-like voice. Although, I could hear it in the tone of her voice. It was coming. ”But,”‒There it is!‒“King Francis I, who was King at the time, was also a collector of mirrors, so it could very well be one of his. Also, Leonardo da Vinci used mirrors for secret codes in the late 15th century, remember? As he was a guest of King Francis I, maybe it was his?”
These were the conversations that had become my life since setting foot in France. My parents were so excited about spending a whole month here, 16th-century France is all they talked about. At one point, I did ask if we could just go to a Renaissance Faire and be done with it, but I got that look again, in stereo. And since I was so the opposite of excited about coming, a desperate late-night FaceTime with Anne was the only way my suitcase even got packed. She told me exactly what to bring and gave me specific instructions to find her a beautiful French man. I’ve been snapping secret pics of men and sending them to her, but told her truthfully, they look a lot better than they smell. Hello, deodorant anyone? Anyone? My parents also finally conceded to let me bring my guitar and ukulele. I mean come on, a whole month without my babies? What were they thinking! Not that they give me much time to play them, but when they go off to the castle, oops sorry, Chateau to enjoy the library there, they let me stay behind. Thank goodness.
We were staying in a little townhouse outside the fortressed grounds of the famous Chateau. Right below it was the town of Amboise, streets filled with shops and these quaint townhouses. I say quaint, but what I mean is funky. For example, the halls in our townhouse weren’t straight. I don’t think there’s a single right angle in the entire house. Some of the walls bulged out for some reason, and walls and floors were so uneven the armoire in my room leaned forward instead of against the wall. I felt a little bit like Alice stepping into a French wonderland of my own. I also suspected that if these houses weren’t all connected, they’d topple over like a house of cards. But there’s a nice little window seat at the front of the house, looking over the river. When my parents leave me on my own, I like to sit there and play my guitar, practice my songs at least so I’m ready for my tour. If the timing is just right, and the Wi-Fi signal is strong enough, I can even try to catch a FaceTime chat with Zeke or Anne. They keep me posted on what’s happening on YouTube, but even I have to admit, it’s kind of nice having this break. A bit of calm before the storm you might say. Although I would
never admit that to my parents. Duh.
All the townhouses on our street had shopfronts on the first floor. Ours had a Boulangerie/Patisserie. In other words, bread and pastries. Aka, French heaven. When I sit in my window seat, the scents wafting up through the window are unbelievable. Chocolatey, buttery, yeasty goodness. The old baker and his wife look like they’re straight from a fairy tale, and when I walk in, his face lights up and he calls me Mademoiselle YouTube (insert French accent), and loves that I call him Monsieur le Baker, even though Baker is obviously an English word. He gives me freebies, says he saved them just for me and I’m all down with that. You may be wondering if I speak French. The answer is, uh, have you met my parents? No? Well, of course I had to be taught languages. I had French and Italian language tutors since I was little. And Latin too, of course. My parents speak several languages so they can read texts in their original languages. I guess I’m kind of glad they made me learn, because they switch from French to Italian to English all the time in any given conversation. Hard to follow if you’re not used to it.
A bunch of other historian families were living in the town as well, all part of the same program with my parents. I’ve met some of the other teens. Sometimes we hang out and commiserate as only teens can do. Some of them knew who I was and had a bit of that fan boy/girl thing going on, which I told them to stop right away. I’m just a person. Sure I have a talent and I got lucky, but I’m much more comfortable being a bit removed from that whole “fame” thing. I know others crave it, live and breathe it. But I don’t want that to be who I am. It took a bit of time before they’d treat me like a normal person, but we do get thrown together a lot when our parents are hunting through the Loire Valley looking for ancestral names, making connections, filling in blanks. I haven’t really been paying close attention to which ancestors, exactly, my parents are looking for. An accused witch on my mom’s side (pretty cool), and I think my dad is looking for that traveling minstrel from his side. He thinks I’ll be intrigued by the story of my ancestors if he can find that one. My mom probably thinks the same thing with the witch. At the most, I’ll probably write a song about them. However, the one thing that everyone has been talking about since we got here, in fact it’s the buzz in the whole town, is the grand ball that’s going to take place at the Chateau. A ball? Really? Can we just call it what it is, a costume party and dance?
The Chateau is opened to the public to tour, but really only certain rooms. The rest of it is private. Well, for the first time since it was restored after the second World War, they’ve planned this ball in honor of the visiting historians and their families. Fancy schmancy invitations went out all over town and across the Loire Valley, in handwritten calligraphy, complete with a royal wax stamp on the envelopes. We’re supposed to be in period dress, of course, so they’ve had specialists in the area of 16th-century fashion come down from Paris to fit us all in costumes. Which is how I’d come to be standing in front of a most-likely-not-16th-century mirror with my mom trying to dress me and probably fervently wishing there was still such a thing as a lady’s maid.
I’d been “getting dressed” for over an hour now, and I’m still not sure how I’m supposed to move in all this fabric. Can I just say, holy tons of fabric? And by that I mean lots of fabric, but also it feels like it weighs a ton. And we’re supposed to dance in this get-up? First we had to start with the silk stockings that had to be attached to garters to keep them from falling down. What they couldn’t have done with a bit of Lycra and elastic in the 16th century. Then the “undergarment” or “chemise,” which is basically like a white long sleeve nightgown that drops to the floor. Mom wanted me to wear the pantaloon/bloomer things too for underwear, but I told her flat out no way. They were crotchless (What?), apparently to make going to the “privy” in all these layers a bit easier. But I felt much better wearing my Victoria Secret undies thank you very much. I’ll just make sure I don’t drink any liquids and have to take a trip to the bathroom, right? No problem. Over the chemise went the petticoats and corset. Good grief, this corset thing is for the birds. And women in the 21st century think a bra is a torture device? Let me tell you, this corset has some sort of “boning” in it that makes it stiff so you can only bend over from the waist. No slouching, that’s for sure. And it’s tight. Mom pulled on it so tight I felt like it’s a chore to breathe. I was already sweating and I wasn’t even wearing the gown yet.
“Mom, how am I even supposed to move in this, let alone dance!” I asked as she was getting ready to throw the gown layer over my head and tug it down to the floor.
“Well, honey, that’s why you had all those dance practices,” she answered, referring to the times we had to get together and learn these horribly complicated dances that have you spinning and stepping and moving to another partner then back to your own. It was making me dizzy just thinking about it.
“Yes, but we weren’t wearing what feels like a brick house at the time.” She just waved her hand at me, dismissing my anxiety.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get used to moving around in it and it will feel normal in no time.”
“Yeah. Right. There is no way in a million years that wearing all this garb will ever feel normal.” She finished what seemed like at least a hundred hooks on the back and then it was on to the sleeves.
“Hold the chemise in place with your hands while I tug the sleeves up.” Can you imagine? Putting your sleeves on separately? Mom pulled the tubes, all embroidered with some intricate design, up my arm and laced them at the shoulders and the elbows of the gown. Apparently, this was the solution to allowing the arms to bend. Thank goodness. I was already feeling much like a statue. Especially when she led me over to a chair, and pushed my shoulders down to help me sit. Then she started in on my hair. Normally it’s just a long wavy mess that I throw in a ponytail, or a sloppy bun just to get it out of my way. But mom took her time braiding some strands along each side and looping them to the back where she caught them up in some kind of net thing. I’m sure it has a name, but whatever.
“There.” My mom exhaled, helping me stand and walk back to the mirror. “What do you think?”
I stood there staring wide-eyed at this person standing before me. Surely that girl was not me. The gown was a deep emerald-green velvet. The bodice had an embroidered design down the front that matched the sleeves. There was lace peeking out around the square cut of the bodice above the chest. I looked up and saw my face. My skin looked creamy white, I guess because of the color of the gown? Even my hazel eyes seemed more green. Mom left little wavy tendrils of hair to frame my face, or the face that was supposed to be my face. I certainly didn’t even feel like me. It’s probably exactly how Cinderella felt when she was dressed for the ball. Too bad my mom didn’t have a magic wand. That sure would have been quicker. But hey, maybe I’ll meet my Prince Charming? No, wait. He’s in California.
“Well?” She said, looking in the mirror with me. I guess I hadn’t answered her yet, I was kind of in a daze.
“It’s…um, wow, it doesn’t even look like me, mom. I mean, it’s beautiful, but I don’t know who that girl in the mirror is.” She gave me a squeeze, smashing the sides of our dresses in the process, mind you.
“Honey, I think you look enchanting. I can’t wait to see you dance in that dress. It will be just like we’ve gone back in time.” She moved in front of the mirror so she could fix her loose strands of hair, and smooth down her dress as well.
“Uh, mom? I think that’s kinda the point.” I replied. But she had a sparkle in her eye that I’ve only seen in people truly obsessed with the past. And I couldn’t help feeling a bit of her excitement too.
If only I could breathe.
Chapter 4
“Dad, you’re wearing tights.” I had to stifle a giggle as we met in the hallway, lined up and readied to be properly “announced” at the ball.
“They’re hose, my darling girl, and you’re just jealous,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye.
“Yeah dad, you’re right. Actually, I have a really cute mini-skirt those would go with perfectly, can I borrow them sometime?” I winked at him as he put my hand in the crook of his arm, mom on his other side.
We looked around the enormous gallery where we stood. We were above the king’s Hall and would have to make a grand entrance via the staircase. Imagine Scarlett in “Gone With the Wind” or any other movie with women in massive dresses that “float” down the stairs to the ball. I guess that’d include Cinderella too, right? Yeah, the movies make it look so simple.
“Dad,” I whispered nervously. “I’m totally going to biff it down those stairs and make us the laughing stock of this whole affair. I can’t even see my feet.”
“Honey, you’ll be just fine. Remember the steps aren’t as steep as they are in architecture today. Follow my lead, I shall make sure you glide like the perfect princess.”
I tried to contain my nerves by watching the people below us. They all looked so elegant in their period costumes and the room itself was magical. It glowed with lights; 21st-century ones, I might point out. I don’t think they trusted us with candles like there would have been back in the 16th century. I wouldn’t trust us either. The lights flashed on the rich colors of fabric swirling around as people danced. Deep purples and golds, reds and greens. It was like a painting that had come to life.
“It’s magical,” I whispered under my breath. My dad heard it anyway and turned to me with a smile.
“It is, isn’t it?”
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