Beautiful Americans Page 4

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to pry.”

  I shifted on the bed so I wasn’t directly facing her anymore.

  Olivia smoothly took the hint and went back to stretching.

  “My homestay?” Alex snorts dismissively as she applies more hot pink lip-gloss. We’re still waiting for Mme Cuchon to start orientation, but she and a pretty young history teacher named Mademoiselle Vailland are wrapped into deep conversation in the hallway. Apparently this is just a getting-to-know-each-other session for the Programme Americaine students. “My homestay is . . . well, who cares? My host parents are squares—they’re the type of family who wants to watch TV together after dinner every night.” Alex gags.

  “You’re funny,” Olivia laughs. “That’s lucky. I thought I’d have a real family here—you know, siblings, a dad . . . like at home. But it’s just me, Mme Rouille and her dogs! And, of course, PJ.” She touches my arm with mock sentimentality. “At least we have each other, don’t we, PJ?”

  “I’m not going to be there forever,” I say quickly, shrinking back. I know I must seem like a scared animal.

  “What do you mean?” Alex gives Olivia’s hand on my arm a puzzled look. “Do you guys share a homestay or something?”

  “For the time being we are,” I explain, trying not to sound too bitter, considering how nice Olivia and Mme Rouille have been. I crack my knuckles, making Alex wince at the sound. “My host parents never showed on Saturday.”

  “Ha!” Alex bursts out. “Are you kidding? You really haven’t met them yet?”

  I shake my head.

  “I bet they are just at their house in the country or something,” Alex muses. “French people have a very laissez-faire attitude towards dates, deadlines, etcetera. You know how it is.”

  Actually, I wanted to say, I don’t know how it is. Why wouldn’t they come get me on my first day in Paris? Why wouldn’t they call Mme Cuchon if they had other plans? Is it possible they know everything that happened this summer . . . and that is why they don’t want anything to do with me?

  Alex snickers. “If you’d ever been to the Dordogne, you wouldn’t want to come back, either.”

  Spotting some of the other girls we met at the airport yesterday, Alex stands up and straightens her black shorts and jersey tank top.

  “Hi, ladies!” she calls, stepping around the desks to chat with them. Kids gravitate toward Alex as if she has a magnetic switch—she’s left alone when she wants to be, but when she’s ready to be social, everyone flocks to her. The other girls are admiring Alex’s gold sandals, asking if they are real Jimmy Choos (whatever that means), and the guys clustered off to the side all steal appreciative glances of her, surely noticing the way her thin top grazes over her chest with just a hint of sultriness. Alex is not tall, but her shoes and little shorts lengthen her legs. Her shiny blue-black hair, arranged in artful layers with just the right amount of product, is her crowning achievement. She manages to look as put together as if a team of stylists came to her homestay this morning to get her ready for school.

  “My Blackberry is getting wretched service in here,” Alex complains to Sara-Louise, the girl I met yesterday from South Carolina, and Zack, another Southerner. “You want to come outside with me and see if I can get it to function from the courtyard?”

  “Alex is a lot of fun, huh?” Olivia comments after Alex leaves with Zack and Sara-Louise. “She’s so grown-up. And she knows, like, everything about Paris!”

  “I guess.” To me, Alex seems like everything I’ve always thought I would detest about people from big cities. She’s a know-it-all and a name-dropper, a snob who can’t resist the opportunity to draw attention to herself. Already this morning, she’s told us at least four times how her mom works for Luxe in New York. Growing up in the woods of Vermont, I’ve never met anyone from a town larger than Burlington.

  “She didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” Olivia leans forward to tell me.

  “The way what sounded?” I pull at the little pills on my old sweater.

  “What Alex said about your host parents. I’m sure they are really excited to come back to Paris and meet you. They probably just got tied up with something, or got confused about when they were supposed to come get you. I’m sure they can’t wait to get to know you,” Olivia says. “Besides, you can stay with me as long as you need to.”

  “I just don’t get it, though. Why would you sign up to be a host parent if you don’t really want to be there for the kid?”

  “Maybe there was a family emergency, or they got the flu,” Olivia reasons. She offers me a drink from her water bottle. I shake my head. Olivia bends her neck back and takes a drink, wiping her mouth on her small hand when she’s done.

  “Did you ever follow up with Mme Cuchon about what’s going on with them?”

  “No,” I admit. “I don’t want to stir up any drama.”

  “Well,” Olivia smiles, “I really do like having you with me at my apartment. You know so much about Paris, too! I feel like I have a lot to learn from both you and Alex. I’d love to explore some of the museums you were talking about last night while we were eating dinner, like the Picasso Museum. The paintings you were describing sound amazing!” Her freckled face is open and sincere.

  I grin in spite of myself. “Even when I go to my rightful homestay,” I promise, “we’ll definitely have to delve into Paris together.”

  Alex prances back into the room on the arm of dark-haired, handsome hipster Zack. In the van, I heard Zack tease her about her “Crackberry” addiction, but apparently it doesn’t stop him from adoring Alex like I can tell Olivia does, too. I hope Alex’s return means that I can finally use the payphone out there without anyone overhearing me.

  I’m off to such a great start in Paris, making an enemy of Alex before the plane even took off. Now everyone, probably even saintly little Olivia, will turn against me when she finds out about my past. I know I’m acting totally bizarre, but how can I explain why without revealing everything?

  My head is killing me. I need rest. New faces and voices are swimming around me murkily like a bad, weird dream.

  Olivia starts to say something about taking a walk along the Seine together later, but just then Mme Cuchon claps her hands and says it’s time for orientation to begin.

  Oh, no. I missed my chance. I really needed to make that phone call.

  After Mme Cuchon does a rundown of our classes—math, chemistry, and history in English, then French class, then art (also taught in French and my very favorite subject), and then PE—she has to spend some time reiterating to Alex and Zack that PE is indeed mandatory.

  “Unless, of course, you choose to join one of our many sports teams here at the Lycée. It’s an excellent way to get to know the French students here,” Mme Cuchon says pleasantly.

  I relish the sound of Mme Cuchon’s rich accent, the way her mouth moves over our names and explains the things we’ll need to know. It’s comforting to listen to her because it means that I’m finally here, that much closer to what I’ve been wanting. Her flowing, whimsical clothes remind me a little of my mom, I notice wistfully.

  “I’ll join a team over my cold, dead body,” Alex tells Zack in a low voice.

  “Entendu,” Zack laughs. “Je crois que non.” He doesn’t exactly strike me as the athletic type himself, with his perfectly tailored trendy clothes and accessories, like the leather bands encircling either of his wrists.

  “Eh bien,” Mme Cuchon went on. “Shall we introduce ourselves to one another?”

  Introductions mean that it’s Mme Cuchon’s turn to stop talking, and our turn to start. I sit on my hands to keep them from quavering. As everyone takes turns telling us all who they are and where they are from, I can barely pay attention. It’s torture trying to keep perfectly still like everything is absolutely normal right now.

  I try to listen and remember all their names. The preppy guy from Boston who winks at Alex after he introduces himself. The surfer sitting next to him. A girl in a spi
ked belt with choppy black hair who unnervingly ends every sentence with “Right?” More and more people, each one happy, well-adjusted, with nothing at all to worry about except getting over their jetlag and being a little bit homesick. I wonder if I will ever experience that luxury again.

  “Penelope?” I hear Mme Cuchon calling to me. Olivia pokes me in the side.

  “It’s PJ!” I say, too loudly. Everyone, especially Alex, laughs. “I mean, I’m PJ. I’m from . . .” Should I even tell them where I’m from? What if there’s someone else from Vermont here? What if they’ve heard something? They might know that it’s me, and then I’ll be ruined for sure.

  “Je suis malade. I need to get some air,” I cry out as I jump up from my chair. “Sorry!” I can’t get away fast enough.

  I rush into the hallway, needing to get to the phone, needing to talk to Dave right away. Luckily, the front steps are empty and the phone just outside the school’s entrance is free. I shakily dial the calling-card number and, finally, after what seems like an eternity, get connected to Dave’s cell phone.

  “Pick up, pick up,” I plead into the phone.

  After five rings, Dave answers gruffly. “Who is this?”

  “Dave, it’s PJ,” I tell him.

  “PJ!” Dave exclaims. “Man, you really missed a shit show around here. But I guess that’s why you left in the first place, so you wouldn’t be a part of it.”

  “I can’t talk long,” I whisper into the mouthpiece, manically checking behind me to make sure no one is there. “What’s happening?”

  “Things are not good, my friend. Your parents got busted almost as soon as you got on the bus. Majorly. They’re facing time,” Dave tells me, reluctance in his voice. “I hate to say it, but you probably shouldn’t try and contact them for awhile. Everyone who wants to talk to them will probably have to go through their lawyer. You don’t want to get into that mess. It’s getting blown wayyyy out of proportion.”

  This can’t be happening. “I can’t call them?”

  “No, dude!” Dave insists. “Your parents may have been trying to help people, trying to save the world, but they got caught in a freaky web with some shady characters. You and me are lucky we escaped unscathed!”

  I feel like I can’t breathe.

  “So, how’s Paris? You been to see the Mona Lisa yet?”

  “You know it’s not like that, Dave.”

  “Well, you were always talking about Paris. But this isn’t you, not now. Annabel, yeah. She’s been a runner her whole life, just waiting for the right moment. I’d do anything to know where that girl went,” Dave says. “But you? You oughta help your parents make things right, Penny Lane, instead of heading for the hills like your sister did.”

  “My parents want me to be here,” I argue. My knees weaken when he calls me by Annabel’s old nickname for me. “That’s what my dad told me. Please, Dave, I—” I fight the tears welling behind my closed eyelids.

  “PJ?” a shy voice asks softly from behind me.

  I whip around, my heart pounding. In front of me is a guy I recognize from the program pastry session back in the classroom. He didn’t drive over from the airport with us yesterday; he must have flown in later than the rest of us. He’s built, about the same height as me, if not a tiny bit shorter, with olive skin and dark eyes. His dark hair is shorn close to his head in almost a military style. He wears oversize denim shorts and a white collared shirt. On his feet are beat up white Converse sneakers, just like the ones I’m wearing.

  “Holy crap!” I nearly scream in surprise. “Dave, I gotta go. I’ll call you when I can. Keep your phone on.” I slam the receiver back onto the hook.

  “Hey, sorry to interrupt. I’m Jay,” the guy says. He’s got the slightest hint of an accent, but it’s not a French accent; it’s something else, maybe Spanish, or Italian. “I had to use the bathroom myself. On my way, I saw you over here looking really upset. Is everything okay? Do you need me to get one of the teachers?” Jay looks genuinely concerned.

  “I’m fine,” I say, trying to catch my breath. What did I reveal before I knew he was standing there? “I just had to make a phone call. Don’t worry about me.” What is this kid doing, sneaking up on me?

  “Were you talking to your boyfriend?” Jay asks. “Are you guys in a fight or something?”

  Is this kid eavesdropping on me?

  “Yeah,” I lie quickly. “Yeah, Dave’s my boyfriend. We’re in an argument. It’s complicated.”

  “Oh, wow, that’s tough,” Jay grimaces. “Anything I can do? I hate to see such a pretty girl look so sad.”

  Oh, good, a ladies’ man. I snort. “That’s okay. I can take care of myself.”

  “Well, if you ever need anything, just let me know,” Jay says, and despite his jokey charm, I can tell he’s being sincere.

  But I have too much on my mind. My parents have been arrested? Can Dave possibly be telling me the truth? My parents went from being questioned at a gas station to possibly serving time? All for trying to do right in a twisted, inhumane system. They never meant for it to take the bad turn that it did. I’m sure of it. It’s all I can be sure of.

  “Thanks,” I say, distracted. What is Jay still doing here?

  “Well, I heard you’re an amazing French speaker,” he says, changing the subject.

  “Oh, thanks, not really.” Didn’t he say he was on his way to the bathroom?

  “You want to study together sometime? Maybe get a coffee or something?” Jay offers. “I saw that you like espresso—you were drinking a bunch of them back there.”

  “Sure, sure,” I say. “Listen, is orientation over? I’ve got to talk to Mme Cuchon.”

  “Yeah, they were wrapping up when I stepped out.”

  Dave had probably just gotten home from the bar he tends when I called. After all, it is 4 A.M. in Vermont right now. I can picture what he was likely wearing, an old T-shirt and a pair of Carhartt workpants. I can picture Dave’s bed, the way he rolled over to his cell phone on the nightstand when it rang, probably hoping it was Annabel, back from the abyss. Instead, he got me, Annabel’s gawky kid sister.

  Jay looks at me steadily, nodding his head as if he’s just figured something out, something that he’s been thinking about for awhile.

  “Listen, great to meet you, PJ,” he says. “Don’t forget about our study date.” As he walks down the hall toward the bathroom, he looks behind him and grins when he catches me watching him walk away. Rolling my eyes, I can’t help but find him the tiniest bit sweet.

  “See you back there,” I say, knowing I should hurry back to befriending Alex, Olivia, and the others before it’s too late.

  Alex reminds me a little of Annabel, in some ways. Like the way Alex surprised me by stuffing herself with buttery pastries rather than eschewing the rich food the way you’d think a girl like her might. Annabel had a huge apetite, too. Me, I’ve always been different. I’d forget to eat at all if my mom didn’t tempt me with her homemade scones or fresh vegetables from her garden.

  Annabel was a heartbreaking conundrum, for me and for Dave. Impossible to live with, impossible to resist. She does everything big. Her steak was always cooked rare. When she helped my mom bake cookies, she drizzled them with rich dark chocolate and ate them for breakfast. She and Dave used to play their guitars together on the back porch, and her voluminous voice would fill up the whole backyard, all the way to my dad’s work shed. She really did have a beautiful singing voice.

  On the day of Annabel’s wedding, we spent all morning curling her hair with my mom’s old barrel curling iron, turning her long dark hair into a pile of ringlets woven with fresh wildflowers on top of her head. I dusted her cheeks with sparkly pink powder and dabbed dewy sheer gloss onto her lips. Her face, usually so similar to my own, was transformed from familiar into angelic.

  “I can’t believe you’re leaving me,” I told her when she was all ready.

  “I know,” Annabel grinned. “But you’re leaving me, too.”

&nbs
p; “It isn’t the same. I’m coming back from Paris in a year. Aren’t you scared?” I asked. She was going to be a real adult now, married, with her own house.

  “No, Penny Lane,” she laughed. “I never get scared.”

  She had a point there; she never did. Annabel was the first one to go splashing in the creek behind our house every spring as soon as the ice thawed. She always drove just as fast as she pleased, and gave anyone who cut her off on the road the finger and a big smile. When she stepped on a nail, she pulled it right back out and kept running barefoot through the backyard.

  She must have run because of my parents, but why then? What happened between our sweet last moments together and when I heard the shriek of car wheels spin over our gravel driveway, the only goodbye I ever got from my sister? By the time we were gathered in the gazebo that my dad built for Dave and Annabel to get married under, Annabel was nowhere to be found. Her car never pulled back into the driveway. She never showed up to her own wedding.

  All I had was an old paperback copy of Annabel’s favorite book, Madame Bovary, left on my bed in the room we shared, a note inscribed on the title page:

  Bon voyage! Love, Annabel.

  Annabel always was so excited about my big Parisian adventure. I should be, too. I head into the classroom, determined get through this alone.

  I’m going to come clean to Mme Cuchon and straighten out my homestay tout de suite.

  It’s time to make Paris my new life. And turn away from the past for good.

  4. ZACK

  Maybe Now, Maybe Never

  “You and I will grab a drink and then meet everyone else at Odéon,” Alex suggests on Friday afternoon, twirling a strand of black hair around her finger. We’re standing on the steps outside the Lycée, each of us having blown off PE class, Alex to go shopping and me, well, because PE is a massive pain in the butt. Besides, the outfit I have on today, cuffed dark denim jeans, boat shoes, and a white blazer over a navy blue v-neck tee, begs to be taken for a long walk in the Trocadero. I’m headed over to the park after school to people-watch while sitting next to the grand fountain, from which you have the best view of the Eiffel Tower in all of Paris.