Beautiful Americans (26 page)

Rajiv comes over with a bottle of Grand Marnier and some small Turkish apricots. “Try this,” he shows us, filling shot glasses with the liqueur and then drowning the fruit in it. “Now eat,” he instructs, and we bite into the sweet, alcohol-infused apricots with relish.

The waiters pour us all kinds of inventive drinks, turning the music up and dancing around our high stools. Alex kisses them all on their cheeks as they twirl around her. Rajiv pulls me to my feet, swaying his hips back and forth in a seductive move I can’t imitate. I fall back onto my stool, the restaurant spinning a bit.

Rajiv’s boss, the head waiter, comes over with our bill. Alex and I stare at it. She owes L’Atelier two thousand euros! The wine alone was half the cost.

I need some air.

I find my way from the bar through the dark, empty restaurant to the door. Pushing hard on the ornate door handle, it won’t budge. What the hell?

I try again. The lock holds firm.

I’ve really got to get out of here. The drinks, the rich food . . . it’s all starting to make me feel dizzy rather than drunk.

I rush back to Alex, red-faced from being dipped low by Rajiv in an impromptu ballroom dance number. “Alex, dollface,” I sidle up to her. “Pay the bill so they’ll unlock the front door. I’m down for the count. Let’s go home.”

Alex bites her lip. “That’s the thing. I . . . I forgot my credit card.”

“What?” I whisper. “You don’t have it with you? How are we going to pay? We’re stuck here! The doors are locked.”

I really, really don’t want to wait here as ransom while Alex goes home and gets the card. How could she have forgotten the Amex?

I look over at Rajiv. Now that I’ve lost my buzz, I can see that his face is more wrinkled that I’d noticed before. He’s old, probably close to thirty. His smile when he sees me looking at him is slick and oily.

“Or . . .” I look through the kitchen to the stockroom, its shelves bulging with bags of potatoes and garlic and packages of salt and mineral water. Alex reads my mind.

“Go!” she shouts, loud as a shotgun announcing the beginning of a race. Running headlong through the stockroom and throwing our full weight hard against the heavy back door, we fall into an alley with piles of trash bigger than we are on either side of us.

“Go!” Alex shouts again, and off we do go, not stopping until we get to the St. Germain-des-Pres.

“What have we done?” I ask her, gasping for air. In the cool night air, the restaurant seems far away. I clap a hand over my mouth, thinking of Rajiv and his wiggling hips; the sweet, slightly burning sensation of the soaked apricot as I put it to my lips, the staggering amount of the bill we didn’t pay. What on earth had I been thinking, busting out of the storeroom like that?

Alex stops a passing man on the street. “Can I bum a smoke?” she asks, using all her American-in-Paris charm. The man gives her a cigarette and lights it for her.

“Well, Zack, I think that’s what they call a classic dine and dash,” Alex answers nonchalantly.

“Alex.”

She smiles expectantly. “What, darling?”

“Your mom cut you off, didn’t she?”

She laughs. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Admit it, Alex.”

Alex’s face falls. “No, stupid. I forgot the Amex at home. I actually forgot my whole wallet. I didn’t have my ATM card, either. That was so dumb of me. I hate myself!” Her laugh is forced.

“What about the coat? How come you never got one? Why are you always wearing that brown sweatshirt to school?”

“Because I like it,” she tells me, not meeting my gaze. “It’s boho-chic. It’s high-low.”

“And the cigarettes?” I ask. “How come you’re always bumming them from people now? Like Mary? And that guy just now? And you don’t smoke as much as you used to.”

She takes a long drag. “I thought you told me to cut down on my smoking. I’m just following your advice.”

“Alex! Why can’t you just tell me the truth?”

Alex throws her cigarette into the gutter and starts laughing hysterically. I laugh, too, though I’m not sure why.

“You know what, Zack? You’re right!” she holds her stomach. “She did! My crazy mother actually cut off my credit card. That and she hasn’t put any money in my bank account for a month! That’s my secret, darling. You got me. Congratulations!”

“And you took us to dinner anyway?” I ask incredulously. “How did you intend to pay?”

She shrugs and bursts into more laughter.

“Oh, my God.” I can’t help it. It’s too bizarre for me to be mad. Shaking with laughter, I pull her into a cab, which I pay for myself.

Excess Baggage

I
bid the stuffy Opera school goodbye and attend my first rehearsal at the Paris Underground Ballet Theatre this afternoon. Located in the basement of a dingy building near the Place d’Italie, the dancers I meet there are lounging around in the craziest outfits I’ve ever seen anyone try to dance ballet in. One of the men is wearing a tutu! And unlike the prima ballerinas I danced with at the Opera, not a single girl is wearing a long-sleeved black leotard. Most of them aren’t even wearing leotards at all—just their dance bras and tights.

The choreographer in charge of today’s rehearsal is wearing silver eyeliner and has a Mohawk. When he demonstrates the lift he wants at the end of the sequence, he grabs me and lifts me high into the air, his hands firmly gripping my crotch. Even though it’s completely nonsexual, I turn beat red all the way to the neckline of my new black Lycra dance dress.

“
Bien fait
,” the choreographer says when he puts me down. “Great form. Just remember to keep that back leg in a firm arabesque. Really great arms.”

His praise floats me all the way home.

Thomas has been hanging around the apartment again lately while studying for his semester finals, but I’ve been at school when he’s been home. I burst into the front door, hoping he hasn’t left yet, anxious to tell him about my great news.

When I find Thomas isn’t there—he’s gone back to his dorm for the night—I realize that I was rushing home to tell him how great my new job is. I didn’t go straight to the payphone to call Vince or my parents. I wanted to tell Thomas.

In fact, I haven’t even told my parents or Vince about the Paris Underground Ballet Theatre at all. But there’s only so much longer that I can put it off.

 

Saturday morning, I wake up way before my alarm goes off, a funny feeling deep in my stomach. I lie in bed and wonder how I will ever be able to stand my family here in Paris for two whole weeks. After we take the final comp this Friday, the semester will be over, and all of us, including Brian, will celebrate Christmas the following week here in Paris. Mme Rouille, who is taking Thomas to the Alps for the holiday, even told me we could open presents over at her apartment, under the Christmas tree a hired decorator came over and set up for her while I was in Lyon.

I love my family. I’ve missed them. So why am I dreading seeing them?

I think of the Mohawk guy, Henri, of how I quit my classes at the Opera school without even telling my mom. That’s why. Because this is the first time I’ve ever gone against her wishes in my whole life.

As the sun starts to appear outside my little room’s window, I get up and get ready to go meet their flight at Charles de Gaulle. I dress purposefully, for some reason wanting to prove to them, especially my mom, that I am more stylish than just Pumas and jeans. I take out the black wool trousers I got at Zara, wide-legged with a flat front, sailor type side button closure, and with those I slip on a cream angora-wool blend sweater I found at Le Bon Marché. I blow dry my hair and iron it carefully, wondering if my mom will notice how far my roots have grown in and how bad my split ends are.

Early in the term, Alex and Zack had taken me to the famous Galeries Lafayette, and showed me the nylon Longchamp bags with the brown leather handles. I had chosen one in a Kelly green, which Alex approved of. It cost so much money, but with it dangling from my shoulder, I feel so
French
.

By myself last week, I hunted through the shoe department in the Galeries before finally settling on a pair of simple black boots with a narrow, curved toe. With the coat, gloves, and chenille scarf I had bought at H&M, I feel like I look like a whole different person than when my family saw me last. It’s stupid to get too caught up in clothes, especially since I spend half my life in sweaty leotards and leggings, but in this outfit I feel more like a Parisian teen, or better yet, a student at the Sorbonne. And today that’s important for some reason.

I latch together the Tiffany’s “O” pendant my mom gave me for Christmas last year. I look nice.

I am one of the only people on the metro this morning, slowly creeping across Paris toward the Gare du Nord. I pay the extra fare for the RER to CDG. I am starting to get jumpy. A guy in a business suit and a rolling suitcase across the aisle from me is staring at me. I look down and see it’s because I am literally wringing my hands.

 

I see my mom first.

Long hair with highlights, done by the same colorist as the one I used to go to in San Diego, wearing an unzipped pink hoodie sweatshirt over a green spaghetti strap tank top with Seven jeans and Ugg boots—basically, she’s dressed like a teenager. Typical Mom.

Dad sleepily trails her through the crowded airport, clutching Brian’s hand as if the French people around him might kidnap him at any moment. Dad is wearing jeans and a sport coat—looking less like an overgrown
TRL
fan than Mom does—but is also wearing slip on sneakers with no socks, like he thought it would be seventy degrees out when he got off the plane instead of forty.

Brian has his little backpack and a pillow, and stares at the floor. As soon as I see his freckled face and red mop of hair, my gut wrenches. He must be so freaked out, by the plane, and the busy terminal, and all the emotion of me, Mom, and Dad, and yet he’s keeping it together so well. I know better than to tackle him—that would set him over the edge—but I have to hold myself back from embracing him. How could I have made him come here? How does he know to be so brave? With Brian, I know that I will never know.

My mom shrieks when she sees me and grabs me in a close hug. I hug her back just as hard, letting the crowds of people weave around us. I’ve missed her—all of them—so much.

“Let me get a good look at you, beautiful,” she says after a bit and pushes me within arm’s length. Her face falls as she peers at my dark roots and chomps her gum.

“Oh, Livvy, your hair,” she clucks at me. “We’ll fix it while I’m here.”

My dad hugs me happily, then gently leads Brian to me so that I can hug him without setting him off—he
really
doesn’t like to be touched, especially without warning.

I am trying to tell them everything at once—how we’ll get to the hotel, how frigid it is outside, when I see someone next to my dad.

“Livvy—we brought you a surprise!” my mom squeals. My heart catches. It
can’t
be.

Next to my dad, laughing at how long it took me to notice him, is
Vince
.

I immediately burst into sobs, so debilitating that I can’t form words, just base noises.

“Look how happy she is!” my mom exclaims to my dad. She leans over to Brian. “Look, sweetie, look at Livvy. She’s
happy
.”

“Vince?” I say, choking a little on his name.

Vince, in baggy hip-hop style jeans and a yellow Bruins sweatshirt, is standing right in front of me. His chin is covered in sexy morning-after stubble after the long flight, and he’s wearing his glasses. I bet that the dry air in the plane was irritating his contacts. His familiar cologne—Polo Ralph Lauren—fills the space between us. I’d brought one of his dirty T-shirts with me to Paris, but that smell faded from the cotton fabric sometime around Halloween.

I don’t really believe he’s here. I must be hallucinating. Vince is at UCLA. I just talked to him last night. He wasn’t about to get on an airplane . . . he was going to shoot hoops with his buddies. And yet, it is him, right here in front of me, smiling that same golden boy smile.

“Hey, babe,” Vince says, his eyes reddening a bit too. “Good to see you.” His voice is quiet.

I bury my face in his chest, clinging to his sweatshirt. I never knew how deeply I missed him until this moment. But there’s something else there—guilt for kissing Thomas, for sure, and something more unrecognizable. Something that makes me feel like I am swimming and can’t quite get to the surface soon enough for air.

“Thank God you’re here,” I say into his jacket. “I don’t think I would have survived even one more day without seeing you.”

 

I can’t wait to show my family and Vince
my
Paris. My dad booked a room at the Hilton Hotel right near the Arc de Triomphe, and after my mom gets her fill of the Champs Elysées, I want to show them
Cambronne
, the area south of the Eiffel Tower near where Alex and Zack live. Pretty far away from the touristy stuff, I think they’ll appreciate how picturesque the streets of Paris are without sidewalk vendors trying to sell us cheesy framed photos and asking if they might do caricatures of us for the low price of just ten euros. Under the Cambronne elevated metro station is an open-air fruit market that sells the most mouth-watering apples in the world, and across the street is a
chocolaterie
that Alex, Zack, and I
adore
. I also think they’ll get a kick out of seeing the Statue of Liberty’s French sister statue in the fifteenth arrondissement. I know I did. It looks so out of place, even though everyone knows that the statue in New York was originally a gift from France.

“But, baby, I don’t want to see the Statue of Liberty. I’ve already seen that when we went to New York to look at dance schools out there. I want to see the Eiffel Tower,” my mom tells me when I bring up the idea.