Isla and the Happily Ever After (24 page)

I knock, hoping for an answer from the Secret Service or whatever organization it is that watches over this nation’s more famous senators. No one answers. I knock again, and a stocky man with broad shoulders, stylish grey hair, and a security earpiece opens the door. “May I help you?” His voice is as solid and sturdy as his appearance.

“Isla Martin.” My own voice trembles. “I’m Josh’s girlfriend. From France? I know he won’t be home until tomorrow, but that’s when I’m leaving, so I was hoping you could pass this along to him.”

“I know who you are.”

“You
do
?”

The tough guy act is dropped for a moment. He smiles, and it’s surprisingly warm. “I’m paid to know that.”

“Oh.” My cheeks turn pink. “Well, would you please give this to him?”

He takes the package from me. “Sure. But I’ll have to scan it for explosives first. As long as it passes, he can have it upon his return.”

I laugh.

“That was a serious statement. All parcels are checked.”

My cheeks deepen into red. “Of course. Thank you, sir.” And I scuttle away.

The next night, when I check my phone in Paris, I have a text from an unknown Manhattan number. He doesn’t mention the return of the manuscript – nor the fact that I left its pages wildly out of order – but he does say this:
I can’t believe how much I missed your scent. Merci for the scarf, my sweet rose.

Chapter twenty-four

The pallor of winter further overcasts the already grey city. Olympic rings, bright and colourful, provide the only visual relief. They’re plastered on every advertising surface, including the sides of entire buildings. This February, the Winter Olympics will be in the Rhône-Alpes region of south-eastern France, though, by the adverts, you’d never know they weren’t in Paris proper. The French athletes are the stars of the posters, naturally, but a few of the biggest names from other countries have also made the cut.

Kurt and I exit the Denfert-Rochereau
métro
station and pass a larger-than-life poster of a fierce-looking American figure skater named Calliope Bell.

“Who do you root for?” I ask. “The Americans or the French?”

The Olympics have always been a source of mixed feelings for me. I know I’m supposed to feel a sense of national pride, but which nation? I feel loyalty towards both.

Kurt glances at the poster. “I root for the best athlete in each event. They don’t have to be American or French.”

“So…you root for the winner. Isn’t that sort of cheating?”

“No. I root for the person who appears to be working the hardest.”

It’s a strange answer, but it’s still a good one. It gives me something to think about. We enter a small, nondescript, dark-green building. It’s empty of tourists today. We pay a guard, pass by another guard, and tromp down a spiral staircase until we reach a long, low tunnel. Water drips overhead. We splash through shallow puddles. It’s cool down here in the catacombs, but not cold, because there’s no wind.

Kurt points towards a tunnel that’s been gated off from the public. “Have I told you there are over a hundred and eighty miles of abandoned tunnels in Paris?”

Yes. He
has
told me. He’s been talking about the tunnels non-stop since our return to school. In the last month, he’s gone from intrigued to full-blown obsessed. While I sat in detention, he read everything about them – the
métro
tunnels, limestone quarries, utility lines, sewer systems and crypts – which together make one of the most extensive underground networks in the world.

He wants to map it, of course.

It’s odd how the two most important people in my life are both interested in maps. Kurt in the most literal sense. But Josh, too. By chronicling the major events in his life, Josh is also drawing a map. I wonder how long I’ll be a part of it. Where and when does my story fall away from his?

“Maps of the tunnels exist,” Kurt continues, “but none of them are complete. And they’re often purposefully misleading to keep people away.”

Exploring them is illegal, and as a bona fide rule-follower, this is Kurt’s greatest frustration. But that hasn’t stopped others from doing it. The tunnels attract all types, known collectively as cataphiles – historians, graffiti artists, ravers, cavers, musicians, treasure hunters. Some have gone into the tunnels to restore priceless art. One group ran an underground cinema. The French resistance hid down here during the Nazi occupation, and then the Nazis used the exact same tunnels to flee.

It won’t be long before Kurt’s obsession overpowers his need to follow the rules. But, for now, he’s been visiting and revisiting the legal part – les Catacombes. More than six million bodies were carted down here in the late 1700s, and the endless walls of their stacked bones are available for viewing at a small fee. Some of the bones are arranged into simple shapes like crosses or hearts. Some are arranged by size or type. But most of them were thrown in at random for practicality’s sake.

As a child, I found the catacombs frightening. As I got older, they grew fascinating. Now they’re almost tranquil. But maybe all of these skulls are just reminding me of a certain someone’s tattoo. I sit on a folding chair that’s meant for a guard while Kurt surreptitiously pokes around.

It feels fitting to be here. Quiet yet undeniably gloomy, much like my state of mind. Since Thanksgiving, I’ve finished detention, toiled over homework assignments, and crammed for exams. I haven’t been reading for fun. Schoolwork is better at distracting me from the enforced silence between Josh and myself.

How did my parents live before texting? Before the internet? I’m used to
knowing
things and all of this
unknowing
is driving me mad. We send each other handwritten letters, but it takes so long for the mail to arrive that he’s often in the wrong city by the time my correspondence reaches him. His family has been travelling non-stop between New York and DC.

I
think
he’s in DC right now. At least, that’s where I mailed his Atheist Hanukkah present, a box of his favourite pre-packaged French foods. If only I could talk to him, I know I’d feel better. I carry his letters in my bag, I use his stein as my everyday drinking glass, and I’ve hung up his drawings beside my bed – the one of my necklace from the first week of school as well as the Sagrada Família’s dove-covered tree, which he gave me after he was expelled. But he still feels so far away.

And the more time we spend apart, the more I can’t shake the ending of
Boarding School Boy.
Our time together was only eight rough pages. The head of school thinks I was a distraction for Josh, which means she thinks that I take our relationship more seriously than he does. But that’s not true. He did take it seriously.

Does he still?

He hasn’t given me any reason to doubt him, but the more time we spend apart, the more clearly I see that our relationship was founded on unstable ground. His loneliness. How long will it take before he realizes that having me as a girlfriend was easier than being alone? I was convenient. I
was
a distraction.

Josh is a romantic. He likes being in love, and he craves love to fill the void left by his absentee parents. Maybe our relationship didn’t happen quickly because we’re perfect for each other, but because we each got swept away by it – him because of this insatiable
need,
me because of my pre-existing crush. Did those three years of longing cloud my perception of reality? How well do I really know him? Since I’ve last seen him in person, I’ve been faced with several incarnations that I didn’t even know existed.

And he still hasn’t made a decision about finishing high school. What if Dartmouth accepts me, and I move to New England, and he’s not there? What am I supposed to do without him? I still don’t have a plan for myself, nothing that doesn’t involve him. But his plans are no longer concrete. They’re as fragile as a wall of bones.

I get through midterms on the hope that I’m only plagued by these doubts because I’ve been away from him for so long. Seeing him again will fix this. The night before my last day of class, I’m surprised by a call from Mrs. Wasserstein’s phone.

I answer, praying that it’s actually Josh. It is. But a follow-up worry kicks in, and I’m instantly on the verge of hysteria. “You’re staying in DC for winter break.”

Josh laughs. “No, I’m calling with happy news. For once. It’s an invitation to a Christmas party at the Met. Black tie. Movers and shakers. It’ll probably be atrocious, but my parents invited you, so that’s a good sign.”

It
is
a good sign.

“And you’ll get to wear a fancy dress, and I’ll get to show you off. As my
girlfriend,
” he says pointedly. “So long as you still want this world to know you exist?”

“Yes! Yes, please.”

He laughs again. “Then it’s a date.”

When his mother reclaims her phone, I leave my room for a stretch down the hall. My heart is lighter than it’s been in weeks. Josh was laughing. We’re going on a public date. His parents want to spend time with me.

I stop in my tracks.
His parents want to spend time with me.

No. Stay positive. This is a good sign, really. I check my mailbox. There are two envelopes stuffed into the back, one fat and one skinny. I pull them out, giddy with renewed cheer, until I realize that neither envelope is from Josh.

One is from la Sorbonne, and the other is from Columbia.

One is an acceptance letter, and the other is a rejection.

Chapter twenty-five

“I can’t decide which is better, your hair or your dress.” Maman sighs. “They are
perfect
together.”

My wavy locks have been swept to one side and fixed, cascading over my shoulder, and my dress – which we spent all of yesterday frantically shopping for – is a dark shade of emerald green. For once, my pale skin is glowing thanks to a healthy dusting of shimmery powder and my natural flush at being reunited with my boyfriend. He flew in from DC only three hours ago. We haven’t seen each other yet.

Gen grins at us from my doorway. “It looks like prom night in here.”

“
Prom Night
, the slasher film,” Hattie says.

Much to the dismay of girls like Sanjita and Emily, the School of America in Paris doesn’t have any formal dances. I’ve never minded, but – now that I’m dressed up – I’m
almost
on their side. I twirl in a complete circle. “I feel like Cinderella.”

“Cinderella was blonde,” Hattie says. “Redheads are never the princess.”

“Bullshit,” Gen says, and Maman tut-tuts her. “Amy Adams.
Enchanted.
”

“Hello, Ariel?” I say. “She was a princess, too.”

“She was a fish,” Hattie says.

“Isla!” Dad’s voice booms from downstairs. “Your date is here!”

Is it possible to be both clammy
and
feverish? I don’t know what’s more nerve-racking: seeing Josh for the first time in two months, introducing him to my parents, or hanging out with
his
parents. Except, no. It’s definitely the last one. The thought of speaking to his mother again has kept me from being able to eat all day. At least my parents are glad – and relieved – to finally be meeting Josh. They’re also impressed that he’s taking me to such a prestigious party.

Maman acknowledges my worried expression with an encouraging smile. “Prince Charming awaits.”

“I wonder if he’s as skinny and weird as I remember,” Gen says.

“Hey,” I say.

I wait for Hattie to cattily agree with Gen, but she’s silent. She hasn’t spoken a single word on the subject of Josh since Halloween. Maman shoos them both downstairs. My stomach is in knots. I can’t decide which of his parents scares me more.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Maman says, reading my mind. “His father will love you. His mother will learn to love you. You’re intelligent, charming, and kind.”

“Of course
you
think that.”

“I would never describe your younger sister as charming.”

That gets me to crack a smile.

“Come on. Don’t you want to see what your boyfriend looks like in a tux?” Maman nudges me before whisking away. She calls out from the top of the stairs, “Joshua,
mon cher.
Lovely to finally meet you.”