Tales From My Closet (15 page)

“Now? ”

“After dinner.”

“I have homework.”

“Indulge me,” she said.

What could I do? After dinner, I went upstairs and tried the suit on. The lining was silk. The fabric was perfect. It fit me like a glove. It also made me look like an accountant, and I absolutely hated it.

“Look at you!” Mama said, bursting into my room before I had a chance to take it off and announce that it was too big for me. “You look like —” She was close to tears. “You look like a
champion
!”

“But, Mama!” I said.

“Just wait until your grandmother sees you in this! I can’t stand it! I’m going to call Mama right now and tell her myself.”

I found myself beginning to mouth the word “but” again and again, but as I heard her in the next room, talking to Mama Lee in a voice filled with happiness, I knew it was too late. I’d never be able to tell her the truth now!

T
he morning Aunt Libby
and I arrived, Paris slid by our taxi windows in a gray-and-pearl-white mist. There was a frosting of snow on the ground, and even in the early morning, people were out strolling, carrying their morning baguettes, or walking their dogs. I felt that rush all over again — that rush of the whole world opening up to me, of endless possibility.

The only problem was that Arnaud was still in the mountains, skiing with his family. He’d written me an email saying that the minute he was back in town, he’d tell me. But in a way, the extra wait made things even more delicious, more glamorous, more intoxicating. I couldn’t wait to see the expression on his face when I told him that I wanted what he’d been wanting all along. . . .

The taxi pulled up at our hotel and two men wearing white gloves helped us out. Inside, it was beautiful, with views of the Tuileries and yellow silk curtains framing the windows. Libby and I shared a room with two double beds, each of them covered with thick white spreads that smelled like violets.

“Okay, I’m heading to dreamland,” Aunt Libby said. “Why don’t we both try to sleep a little?”

“Sounds good.”

As Libby settled in for her nap, I went to the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. As I texted Arnaud, my hands were practically shaking. “I’m here. And I can’t wait to see you!” I wrote (in French). It was six thirty, Paris time, so I knew I’d have to wait until later to hear back from him. As I unpacked, putting my things on the padded, silky hangers in the closet, my mind starting whirling around what I’d wear to meet Arnaud, what outfit would go best with the Hermès scarf Arnaud had bought for me on the rue Mouffetard. Just fingering it, as I took it out of my suitcase and placed it in the bureau drawer, made me feel like, just maybe, I could be a native Parisian. After all, I
looked
like one. I’d packed his raincoat, too — to give back to him, as I’d promised. I hated the idea of giving it up, though: It was my one sure reminder of our time together. On the other hand, every time I’d worn it, Meryl had gone into psychotherapist mode.

“You really want to wear
that
?”

“Obviously.”

“Why?”

“Because I do.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“What’s the problem? It’s only a raincoat, Meryl. Unless you need more information so you can write another article about me. I’ve even got a title for you. You can call it ‘The Daughter Doctor’s Daughter Has a Raincoat.’”

“I’m
serious
,” she said. “Why won’t you tell me where you got it at least? And don’t call me
Meryl
.”

“I
have
told you, Meryl,” I lied. “I bought it last summer in Paris. I forgot to pack a raincoat before I left. It was raining, and this old guy at a booth was selling it for, like, two Euros. It was better than getting soaked.”

She eyed me. “Even if that were the case,” she said, “why do you continue to wear it?”

“It’s no big deal. It’s a
raincoat
. Why do you care?”

“Because I already gave you a very beautiful and expensive raincoat, the same one you’d been obsessing over, and then you turned around and gave to Robin.”

“I know, Meryl. But she just kept begging for it. It was one of those girl things.”

I thought I’d won, but then, one horrible day in December when it was raining so hard that I came home soaked, Meryl said that she felt bad about how much we’d been fighting, and wanted to do something fun with me to make up. “How about a pedi?” she said. “Does that sound good?”

Actually, it did. But as soon as we’d relaxed into side-by-side pedicure chairs, our two sets of feet immersed in hot water and the two ladies scrubbing our calluses off, I could sense it coming — whatever it was.

“Honey,” she said, reaching over to take my hand.

“I hate when you use that therapy tone with me. What is it?”

“I need you to tell me. Who is he?”

“Earth to Meryl. Who is who?”

“Raincoat Boy.”

“
M’excuser?
”

“That thing,” she said, pointing to Arnaud’s raincoat, which I’d taken off and hung on the salon’s coatrack. “Who is he?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Mother.”

“I think I do, though. And whether or not you tell me anything, I need you to listen, and listen well. Because this is important. As important as — well, as your entire future.”

“Oh God,” I groaned, realizing how expertly she’d set the trap. I mean, what could I say, sitting there surrounded by strangers at Nails of Utopia while a petite Vietnamese woman with beautiful black eyes scrubbed and buffed my feet as if her very life depended on it?

“You’re fifteen,” she started by saying.

“I’ll be sixteen in about two minutes.”

“You’re fifteen, and a sophomore in high school, and at your age, it’s natural — healthy, even — to have strong feelings about all sorts of things. After all, you’re in the midst of one of the most exciting and wonderful changes that anyone ever experiences.” Oh God, I thought — here we go again. The Adolescence Lecture. It was straight from the pages of her Daughter Doctor series. “But you’re not stupid, Becka, and you must be aware that teenage girls are also prone to making decisions about their lives, about who their friends are, about the kind of person they want to become, and especially about their bodies, that can potentially have lifelong consequences.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but she cut me off. “I know what you’re thinking, Becka. I know exactly what you’re thinking and how you’re processing everything I’m saying. But if I, your mother, don’t say it, who will? I don’t know who Raincoat Boy is, and you may never tell me, but I do know that since you’ve come back from Paris you’ve changed — for the worse, I might add. You’re moody. You snap at me, at your brother, even at Lucy.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. “Anyhow, Lucy smells.”

“You close yourself in your room for hours at a time, just sitting there in front of your computer on Facebook, or texting.”

“Or doing homework, Meryl. How can I get my assignments, which, by the way, are posted online, if I don’t go online?”

“Or mooning over whoever this Raincoat Boy is.”

Trapped, cornered, with no way out. “You’re in therapy overdrive
projection
.” My using one of her own favorite words did it: Meryl winced. “What the hell is it you want from me?”

“I want my daughter back,” she said.

It was a draw. Meryl sighed — but a week later, I was in Paris, and nothing mattered anymore except Arnaud.

I was too hyper to take a nap, or even to hang out, so I went out for a walk. A few blocks from the hotel, I came across a row of boutiques and cafés. Though it was still too early for most businesses to be open, there was an
OUVERT POUR LES AFFAIRES
sign in the window of a hair salon. Literally: a
sign.
I’m not superstitious about stuff like that, but I walked right in there, and when, an hour later, I walked out, I had a whole new, much more sophisticated look. The hairdresser had not only thinned some of the bulk out of my hair, but also had given me highlights. True, I had spent almost every Euro I had, but I knew it would be worth it when Arnaud saw me and realized that the girl he was looking at wasn’t some kid he’d met over the summer, but his equal, his soul mate.

Aunt Libby was still napping when I got back to the hotel, but I knew that I’d never be able to fall asleep, not when my mind was whirling away with thoughts of Arnaud. It was almost nine. Why hadn’t he texted me back yet? Then it was ten, then eleven, then twelve. I was practically jumping out of my own skin! Even going shopping with Aunt Libby didn’t help much — even when she insisted on buying me a pair of sleek black pants with stirrup straps. It wasn’t until we were back at the hotel and I got a chance to go online that I FINALLY got his email. “If only I’d known that you were coming so soon. I’m with my family, skiing in the Alps, but back in Paris on Friday, like every year. Perhaps we can meet then? I would love to see your beautiful face, my sweet American girl.”

But I
had
told him that I was coming then . . . hadn’t I? What if he wasn’t even on a skiing trip, but making the whole thing up? What if Robin had been right and he was too old for me and had another girlfriend and was only playing with me? What if he’d somehow found out that I was still in high school? I’d die! In a panic, I emailed back immediately. “But when am I going to see you?” The answer came a few minutes later. “As soon as I return to Paris,” he said, and as relief flooded through me, he sent me something else: a picture of himself, decked out in skiing clothes and standing on top of a mountain.

I felt so much better that every stranger I passed on the street, every glimpse into the window of a café, every baguette and croissant seemed to be winking at me, as if they understood and had agreed to keep my delicious secret. I wore pencil skirts with billowing cashmere tops; high boots over skinny jeans; a midcalf camel-hair coat. As for my Hermès scarf, I wore it Parisian-style, wrapped several times around my neck and tied in front in an elegant little bow.

“Ooh la la,” Aunt Libby said, loading me up with designer jeans, blouses, and other things that she insisted she had to buy for me. “
Très très chic.
”

Finally the day came. I’d gotten an email earlier telling me when and where to meet Arnaud: one o’clock on the Pont Neuf. Could anything have been more romantic? I couldn’t wait to see his face when I told him my secret — the secret that the two of us, and the two of us alone, would share. The only question that remained was: What was I going to wear?

Libby was out all day that day — the only day, as it turned out, during the entire week that she had no time to spend with me. Which suited me just fine, first, because she wouldn’t get suspicious, and second, because of everything else! I told her that I wanted to go to the Louvre and then, if there was time, to visit Notre Dame.

I wore the most sophisticated and Parisian thing I could think of: black knit pants tucked into my black leather low-heeled boots, topped with a black cashmere sweater and, of course, the Hermès. On my ears I wore the simplest of simple gold hoops, but otherwise I wore no jewelry at all. I was going for sleek and sophisticated, and when I saw my reflection staring back at me in the hotel mirror, I knew that, had I wanted to, I could pass for a real Parisian. My black boots shone with polish; my pants fit me perfectly; the sweater was simplicity itself.

The Pont Neuf wasn’t far from our hotel. As I walked toward it, it began to snow, fine crystalline snowflakes falling gently from the sky and landing on my hair and eyelashes. I carried a black Michael Kors purse in one hand, and in the other I had Arnaud’s raincoat, which I’d wrapped in tissue paper and put in a Clare et Clarent shopping bag. It was getting colder and colder, my breath coming out in a burst of grayish steam. But I was so excited, I was warm. Plus I’d timed myself perfectly to be just a few minutes late. Even so, when I arrived on the bridge — right in the middle, where we’d agreed to meet — I saw that I’d gotten there first. Impossible, I thought, glancing at my watch and then looking around. On one sidewalk was a family of tourists, the dad backing up to take a picture of his wife and kids. On the other side was a middle-aged man walking very fast, a woman walking her dog, and a group of university students — or at least they looked like university students, kind of on-purpose shabby, but too old to be teenagers. They were joking around and smoking cigarettes, wearing heavy black winter coats or parkas, with hats and gloves. But no Arnaud. I checked my watch
and
my phone. It was five minutes past one. Then it was six minutes past one. Seven, eight, nine minutes past one! Finally, I positioned myself on the sidewalk, in the dead middle of the bridge. Which is when one of the students from across the bridge walked up to me and said: “
Ah, mon petit oiseau américaine est ici
.” Then, also in French: “Everyone! Come meet Becka, my friend from America.”