A Phantom Enchantment (2 page)

C
HAPTER
2

W
ell, not entirely on my own. Elise was at the gate, looking relaxed in a white cotton tunic with stylish jeans and knee-high boots, plus giant sunglasses and a plaid Trilby hat. Seasoned traveler and fashion icon.

If you'd have told me a year ago that I'd be spending my senior year in Paris with Elise Fairchild, I'd have said you were delusional. If you'd added that we would actually sorta-kinda be friends, I would have laughed in your face. Yet here we were.

“Hey,” I said. “We made it.”

Elise gazed at me through her immense sunglasses, no doubt sizing up my outfit. Then she propped the sunglasses on her head and said, “Emma, if I'm going to be seen with you in the most fashionable city in the world, we're going to need to work on your wardrobe.”

“What's wrong with my wardrobe?” I asked, gesturing down at my
Doctor Who
T-shirt artfully accessorized with Michelle's red scarf, faded jeans, and Converse sneakers.

“Can you scream any louder that you're American?”

“To be fair, the T-shirt screams ‘I'm British.' ”

“And a nerd.”

“Guilty as charged.” I laughed. “Isn't the point that we're going to be hurtling over the Atlantic for the next seven hours and might as well be comfortable?”

Elise rolled her eyes. I was a hopeless case. We chatted a little about our summers. I'd spent mine researching colleges and pining for Gray. Elise had spent hers taking advantage of the fact that her parents were divorcing, thus each was trying to get the upper hand by spoiling her rotten. As if Elise needed any more spoiling.

“They want to prove once and for all who I love more,” Elise said.

“And?”

“My dad, of course. You've met my mom. Cruella de Vil has got nothing on her.”

When boarding was announced, we got on the plane, and I gave Elise the window seat. Looking out plane windows always made me imagine engine explosions, fiery crashes, and watery graves. Better to get absorbed in a book and pretend I was on a train.

To calm myself down, I thought about Gray, scrolling through a mental record of our “greatest hits”: our first kiss in his Jeep, dancing at the Snow Ball, me taking the prom to his house when he was on crutches and couldn't go, last summer when we'd been practically inseparable and had walked the beach together almost every night. This daydreaming must have done the trick, because eventually I fell asleep and when I woke, the flight attendants were already distributing coffee and breakfast croissants.

When we landed, Elise solicited a well-dressed gentleman to get her bag from the overhead storage bin while I wrestled my own to the floor. We disembarked and found a restroom, where I waited outside for Elise and texted my dad and Gray to let them know I'd arrived safely. Then we made our way to baggage claim and retrieved our checked luggage.

A hulking man stood a few yards away from us holding a sign that read: SAINT-ANTOINE.

“I guess that's our welcoming committee?” Elise said. “He looks like a vagrant.”

“He does not,” I said. “He looks like Jean Valjean.”

Well, like the world-weary Jean Valjean, who's just carried Marius miles through the sewers. Even with the slight hunch in his shoulders, this man was well over six feet and looked like he'd once been powerful and vital until some misfortune or trauma had sucked the life out of him. His weathered face was shadowed in stubble, giving him an almost tragic air. But his gray eyes, the corners etched with lines, looked like they had once smiled for someone.

He introduced himself as Monsieur Crespeau and said he was “l'homme à tout faire” for the school, which I roughly translated into “jack of all trades.” As if to prove this, he loaded our bags onto a cart and, without a word, began walking briskly toward the exit despite a noticeable limp. When we got outside, he tottered a little on a ramp, and I ran ahead to stop the cart from careening out of his grasp. He didn't smile or thank me; in fact, he looked irritated and resumed his task with even more single-mindedness, shoving our luggage roughly into the back of a van.

“Whoa, be careful!” Elise said. “That's precious cargo there.”

I knew she was joking, but Monsieur Crespeau didn't seem to get her humor. I explained to him in French, “I apologize for my friend. She's a bit spoiled. She thinks she's the most precious cargo of all.”

He just grimaced and got into the driver's seat without a word. Elise raised an eyebrow at our unlikely chauffeur, and we hopped into the back and buckled ourselves in, expecting a bumpy ride. But surprisingly, Monsieur Crespeau took great precautions to look behind him for traffic before pulling onto the road, proceeding to drive about twenty miles per hour the entire way to the school.

I was glad for the slow pace, as it gave me a chance to see the sights. What struck me first was how all cities look alike, to a certain extent. Somehow I'd been expecting Paris to beguile me from the moment the plane touched ground, but as we crawled along the highway behind a trash truck, passing railroad tracks and gas stations, I began to feel I'd been duped by Hollywood.

Even when we entered the city limits, the landscape looked like urban America with its MoneyGram and telecom shops, ethnic takeout places, characterless office buildings, and of course, the omnipresent McDonald's. It was a bit disheartening.

Until we went below an underpass somewhere around Gare du Nord. Then it was as if someone had waved a magic wand and transformed the city right before my eyes. Here was quintessential Paris—old, ornate, and sprawling. The ivory buildings were all decked with wrought-iron balconies, window boxes full of flowers, and mansard rooftops gilded by the sun. And each street corner was flanked by a church, a statue, or an obelisk—some grand monument to the city's history.

We came to a giant circle bustling with people, and Monsieur Crespeau took one of the narrow avenues that spider-webbed from it. The road was tree-lined and framed by rows of buildings, houses, shops, and cafés. One building was so delicate and narrow I wondered how it didn't topple over. Another wedge-shaped building looked like a slice of wedding cake.

Elise told me we weren't far from Montmartre. In my mind I envisioned Sacré-Coeur's alabaster domes rising up against the blue sky, saw the painted ladies of Lapin Agile, squinted at the neon lights of Moulin Rouge.

We came to another circle with a statue of an armed woman in the middle, and Monsieur Crespeau mumbled something, I think “Tout proche” or “Very near.” I glanced up at a street sign and saw we were on Boulevard du Temple, a broad thoroughfare that separated the 3rd and 11th arrondissements. Along this road, we passed dozens of cafés, patisseries, boulangeries, charcuteries—all of them with brightly colored awnings and outdoor tables beckoning us to sit down and relax, stay a while. I'd never seen more eating establishments in one city block. My grandma was right—food did make the Parisian world go 'round.

I could see the July Column of the Bastille up ahead, so I knew we were almost there, and then we turned onto Rue Saint-Antoine. Monsieur Crespeau nodded at a building about three storefronts wide and five stories high, distinguished from its neighbors only by its arched blue doorway.

“Voici,” he said.

He pulled into a tiny alleyway behind the school and parked the van, then told us he'd bring our luggage to our rooms so we could report to Mademoiselle Veilleux, the headmistress, who was awaiting our arrival. When I insisted we carry our own bags, he waved me off with his enormous hand.

Elise and I stood staring at a stone wall with a massive iron gate, but all we could see through its slats were narrow little trees. But when Crespeau opened the gate for us, we walked into an immense courtyard with green lawns, cobbled squares, and manicured walking paths. Who would have thought that hidden away in the middle of Paris was this dream of a campus?

Since school wasn't in session until next week, the courtyard was empty, so it seemed more like a church cloister than a schoolyard. We followed the main walkway across the quad and entered the administrative building, then walked down a long hallway, all gleaming floors and domed ceilings. An arched doorway led to a spacious foyer with an even higher ceiling and a black-and-white-geometric-tiled floor.

A tiny woman came out of a hallway and began walking toward us, the click of her heels echoing off the walls. “Ah, bonjour,” she said, her voice low and rich. “I am Mademoiselle Veilleux.” She pronounced it
Vay-oo
. “Monsieur Crespeau just called to tell me you were here. Bienvenue, bienvenue!”

She kissed us both on each cheek and smiled warmly. Her black hair was pulled off her face in a bun, but instead of making her look prim and schoolmarmish, it made her preternaturally beautiful. Her porcelain skin seemed lit from within, and a rose-colored scarf only enhanced the effect. And as I'd come to expect from French women, she exuded style in a slim black skirt suit with impossibly high black heels.

“I am so glad you were able to come a few days early before the rest of the students arrive,” she said in a charming French accent. “It will give you time to get acquainted with the building and its facilities and, of course, your schedules.”

She handed us our course schedules, which pretty much had us occupied from eight in the morning until five in the evening every day. Our jaws must have dropped because she explained, “The French academic schedule may be a bit more rigorous than what you're used to. As you know, we had to schedule you at the Lycée Internationale for your Advanced Placement courses, so two days a week, you will take the Métro across town. But the school is right by La Tour Eiffel, and I think you'll enjoy doing some sightseeing after your classes. I'm sure right now you are very tired and would like to get situated in your rooms.” She began walking us out the way we'd come. “Elise, your father took the liberty of having your rooms furnished and decorated. I hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all,” Elise said, flashing me a smug grin.

We crossed the courtyard to one of the dormitories, then took the stairwell five flights up. I was glad now that Monsieur Crespeau had been so insistent about carrying our bags up, although I wondered how he had managed with his limp.

When we reached the top floor, Mademoiselle Veilleux did not even seem winded. She led us down the hallway and hesitated at a door, then pulled out two sets of keys attached to velvet ribbons. “The large keys are for the school gate, which gets locked every night at six o'clock. The small keys are for your rooms, which share a bathroom. The room on the right is . . . well, it's a bit smaller, I suppose.” She looked a bit flustered suddenly, like she'd momentarily forgotten her manners. Then she handed both keys to me. “It's just a trifle smaller, so perhaps you could flip a coin to decide. I'll leave you to your unpacking, but please don't hesitate to call me in the main office if you have any questions. Oh, and since the dining hall is not open yet, lunch is on me,” she said. “Most proprietors in the neighborhood know who I am, so find a place you like and give them my card. I'll take care of the bill.”

Awestruck, we thanked her and watched as she glided back down the hallway on those impossible heels.

Elise grinned. “Is this amazing or what?”

“Yeah, except for the nine-hour school day.”

“I know. Are they trying to torture us because we're American?”

“Revenge for Disneyland Paris, no doubt,” I said, dangling the keys from my fingers. “So, heads or tails?”

She cocked her head to the side and gave me her patented pout-smile. “I was hoping you'd take the smaller one, Emma. You don't need as much space as I do.”

“Is that a jab about my height?”

“It's a jab about your luggage. You didn't pack nearly as much as I did.”

I couldn't argue there. “Fine,” I relented. “I'll take the smaller room.”

It didn't matter. My room was bigger than the one I'd shared with Michelle at Lockwood by at least double, with a ten-foot ceiling to boot. The walls had been painted lavender with ivory trim, and Mr. Fairchild had bought us comforters to match. A plum-colored settee sat by a vanity table, and on the wall behind it was a full-length oval mirror with an ornately designed frame. My luggage sat neatly in front of a built-in closet, partially camouflaged by a purple organza drape. And the best part was a pair of immense French windows, opening onto a view of the rooftops of Rue Saint-Antoine. It was the most beautiful dorm room I had ever seen.

After a few minutes of inspecting and sighing happily, Elise and I met in the bathroom, which was equally impressive with a tub-and-shower combo, double sink, toilet and bidet, all of them fitted with gleaming brass fixtures.

“Oh, the long baths I will take here,” she said. “With real French lavender.”

“Mmm, that sounds nice.”

“I would take one right now except I'm starving,” she said.

“I know. All this luxury is exhausting,” I said, trying for a joke that didn't take. “Where do you want to eat? Do you know of a good place?”

“I know of a thousand good places.”

We ended up walking toward Place de la Bastille. Across the circle by the July Column was a large round building with a mirrored exterior. It was very modern and seemed out of place amid all the elegant historic monuments.

“What's that ugly building?” I asked.

“That's the Opera House.”

My brow furrowed. I had seen pictures of the Opera House, had watched the movie version of
The Phantom of the Opera
twice. I knew that the Opera House was majestic and grand, with white columns and gold statues and a giant green dome, plus a grand foyer inside with that famous cascade of stairs. There was no way this was the Opera House.