Beautiful Americans Page 6

  “I can’t wait to go to Amsterdam,” George says excitedly. “My sister went there this summer; she said it was sick. You can take a tour of the Heineken brewery, and then they, like, pour Heineken down your throat at the end, and you get wasted.”

  “Fascinating,” Zack remarks. Before they arrived, Zack had made his impressions of George and Drew well-known: George is a pampered asshat with a sleazy Boston accent, and Drew poses like a chilled-out idiot surfer to hide his suburban Connecticut waspiness. Both of the boys lost marks with Zack for their bad shoes—loafers with no socks for preppy George, and old, dirty Vans slip-ons for Drew.

  “And they dress like their moms shop for them at the Nordstrom kids’ section back-to-school sale,” Zack complained earlier. When Zack is in this mood—judgmental and hyperaware of what people are wearing—I think it’s best just to ignore him altogether. He just hasn’t seen George’s excellent qualities yet—the things that make George absolutely perfect boyfriend material.

  George’s expensive brown leather loafers might be a cliché, but they are also an excellent metaphor for all that separates George out as the man of my dreams. He’s reliable, unconcerned with trends and what people think of him, and, best of all, he’s rich. I know that might sound superficial, but I believe it is incredibly important to know what you want. Dating can be such a royal chore when you have to spend the whole time wondering who is going to pay! Believe me, I’ve been there before, with Jeremy, my Park Slope pauper, art students from the Pratt Institute, cute guys playing Frisbee golf in Prospect Park. I’m ready for a prince.

  “That’s fabulous!” I say to George more kindly. “Are you planning a trip?”

  “Oh, hells yeah. Are we ever!” George shouts, Drew smacking him high-five across the table. “Dude, we are going to get so blazed in Amsterdam, we’ll probably never come back!”

  “It’s gonna be sweet,” Drew concurs. “Pot, hookers, whatever we want, whenever we want.” He rowdily starts drumming the tabletop with his hands, pounding out a long solo that attracts even more attention to our table. While he does it, he stares me right in the eye. Weird.

  “Drew!” Olivia scolds with a shriek of righteous, though giggling, protest. She smacks him playfully on the arm. “Prostitutes? That’s disgusting!”

  “Hey, man,” Drew says gamely. “When in Rome . . . or should I say Amsterdam? Whatever. I’m just sayin’.” He makes a lewd hand gesture that sends Olivia back into horrified hysterics.

  Even Zack, who I can usually trust to act like a gentleman in public, starts making fake-barfing noises. Shooting a look at our disapproving waiter, I flush with embarrassment. PJ, for her part, is at least acting like a grown-up. The rest of our group has devolved into a level of discourse that is just unsuitable for a Parisian café, no matter how much we’ve had to drink. And no matter how much I like George.

  “Shhh,” I scold them. “You guys are going to get us kicked out! Can’t we have a civilized conversation? One that doesn’t involve all the criminal activity you two are plotting in my unwitting presence?”

  Finally, I think with relief. I’m forming sentences like a coherent person again, rather than being struck dumb and making googly eyes at George. I toss my hair. There we go.

  George looks at me with a lopsided, guilty smile. “Of course we can, doll. What do you want to talk about? Jean-Paul Sartre? Sarkozy’s foreign policy? The plummeting rates of the dollar against the euro? Any of those civilized enough for you?”

  “No,” I giggle. “Those things are boring.”

  George shakes his head. “Alex, I’m quite positive that you’ve never uttered a single boring phrase in your life, no matter what the topic of conversation is.”

  “Besides,” Drew comments, “don’t you worry your pretty little head about our criminal activity. It’s 100 percent legal to smoke pot in Amsterdam. Europeans in general are way cooler about that kind of stuff.”

  “It’s true,” PJ says quietly. “Things are way easier over here.”

  We all turn to look at her, since it’s practically the first thing she’s said all night.

  PJ’s not even looking at us. She’s staring at an older couple, in their fifties at least, dancing slowly in the corner of the outdoor garden next to the old record player. When the man gently dips the lady, the people sitting near them break into pleased applause.

  “I love this city, too,” Olivia grins. “Zack, come dance with me.”

  Olivia slips off the red Louboutins and pulls Zack up to his feet. He twirls her over so that they’re slow dancing next to the older French couple. A few other pairs join them, too, enjoying what will likely be one of the last warm nights of the year. All around us, groups of people of all ages murmur to one another, smoking and happily clinking glasses. Olivia and Zack are elegant, easy dancers. They don’t look a bit out of place.

  That’s the beauty of Paris. There’s always room for an impromptu slow dance. You just have to move some of the tables out of the way.

  “Hey,” George says quietly, reaching for my cigarette and taking a long drag. “Drew managed to get a joint past airport security for me. Think anyone here will care if we smoke it?”

  “Really?” I say, a little scandalized. “Wow.” I’m not generally a huge fan of pot, but I will definitely smoke a joint right now if it means I can slip away with George. “Let’s go into that little alley over there.”

  We leave George’s Blackberry with Drew so he can call mine if he needs to. As I press my number into his contacts list, my pulse quickens.

  Leaned up against the side of the building in the dark, we take a few hits of the joint. The weed hits me all at once. Everything suddenly feels slower, more deliberate.

  George puts his hand on my back, rubbing the soft fabric of my dress between his fingers. “This is nice,” he says quietly.

  “My dress?” I ask, my voice thick.

  “Well, that, too,” he says. “But I meant . . . I meant this.” He gestures around.

  I look at the dumpster we are standing next to. It stinks like garbage. And urine.

  Past the dumpster, though, is the tiny Rue de Barres, and beyond that, the lustrous butte of the back of the St. Gervais church, one of the oldest churches in Paris. That’s what he’s referring to—the gorgeousness of Paris, the way romance and mystery creep into every darkened alleyway.

  “My mom took me to a concert there once,” I tell him. “Like, last year. It was a harpsa . . . harpsichordian . . . harpsichordist.” Why on earth is that word so fricking hard to remember right now?

  George wheezes like this is the funniest thing in the world. Suddenly, it is. It’s hysterical, actually. “She . . . she took you to what?”

  I can’t stop laughing, either. “She really wanted to see it! She talked about it all day. Don’t laugh!” I say, busting up.

  “You stop laughing!” George says. “You’re the one cracking up!” He leans into me a little. “Did you enjoy the concert? Did you like the harpsa . . . harpsa . . . whatever it was called?”

  I swat at him. “I did. I enjoy high culture very, very much.” With that, I take a long, serious puff of the joint. This makes George laugh even harder.

  “Whatever,” he laughs. “You totally fell asleep.”

  I double over in hysterics because he’s right. “I did!” I snort. “How did you know?” Neither of us can stand up straight after that we’re both laughing too hard and too stoned. George pulls me over to him, and just hugs me while we stand there shaking in silent fits of hilarity. I reciprocally put my arms around him, wondering if he’ll kiss me if I look up at him at just the right moment.

  Suddenly, I feel the insistent buzz of my Blackberry going off in my bag.

  Make it stop, I think in disbelief. Rewind back to the part where George and I were about to fall in love.

  George throws down the rest of the joint and stomps it out forcefully under his loafer. He pushes me in the opposite direction than we came, toward St. Gervais. “Run, Alex!
” he grunts at me. I don’t even answer my Blackberry, I just go.

  My stomach lurches as I force my legs to move. If I learned one thing from all my escapades last year, it should have been to eat before you party, but I of course skipped dinner so I could spend more time diffusing my hair properly before going out.

  We circle the church and find ourselves on the empty, darkened plaza facing the back of the Hotel de Ville, Paris’s City Hall.

  “Call your Blackberry,” I instruct. “Find out what happened. Should we go back?”

  George dials and listens for a second, but Drew doesn’t answer.

  I’m busy trying not to throw up and still look hot and alluring. Let me tell you, it is no easy task. “Come on, babe,” George gestures at me. Despite him holding me for so long before, we don’t touch as we walk swiftly down the Rue du Pont and toward the café.

  “Shit!” George curses quietly. “What did they do?” There are cops surrounding the table we’d all been sitting at. There are at least four of them, each of them looking sternly at Drew, PJ, Olivia, and Zack, who are staring at the ground. The record player has been turned off, and other patrons are getting up to leave in the commotion. George and I hang back, unsure whether to wait or escape.

  “This isn’t a playground,” I hear one of the cops say to PJ in harsh French. “You kids are causing a lot of trouble here tonight. This is a quiet neighborhood, not your personal discothèque!”

  “Where did the others go? The ones with the drugs?” another cop demands.

  “Non, monsieurs, vous vous trompez,” a tinkling, melodic voice says in French. It’s PJ!

  PJ slips out of her old oversize cardigan and stands up to her full six feet, revealing just a thin white camisole and a wrap skirt. Her hair glows in the candlelight, spilling down her shoulders in messy waves.

  She gives the cops surrounding the table an expansive, open smile. I hold my breath. Even I knew Mme Cuchon was serious when she told us drugs were totally off limits in this program. If the cops saw us in the alley, George and I will be booted out of the Lycée for sure!

  One of the cops leans in to make his point. “In France, there are serious punishments for troublemaking kids. That’s a promise.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly! Drugs?” PJ exclaims, wrinkling her nose like a supermodel bunny rabbit. She’s acting like she has known these cops since they all went on family picnics together as young children. “Our friends? They’ve just been to get some chewing gum. See? Here they are now. Alex, cherie, show them the gum you just bought.” She reaches out to me, pulling me close to her and keeping her slender arm firmly around my shoulders.

  As a dedicated smoker who is also dedicated to having fresh breath, I always have several packs of gum on me at any given time. Anyone who knows me at all knows that, even PJ. I reach into my tote bag and pull out an unopened pack of Orbit.

  “Yup,” I say stupidly, hearing my own voice tremble. “I’ve got the gum. They sent me for gum. And I went and got it. And my friend here”—I cock my thumb at George, who is standing frozen to my right—“he came with me, because he’s so nice like that.” The cops’ unyielding expressions remain unchanged. We’re so busted. I close my eyes and start rehearsing how I am going to spin this to my mom. After everything that happened last year, she is not going to look on this fondly.

  PJ takes the gum from me and pops a piece into her luscious mouth. “Hmmm, great flavor, Alex. Want to try some?” she offers the cops. “It’s delicious.”

  They watch her mouth as she chews. Then they look at each other, their shoulders relaxing a bit.

  Each cop takes a piece.

  I shove a big wad into my own mouth to mask any lingering pot smoke smell. We are all standing there, noisily chomping on the gum. George, Olivia, Drew, and Zack are all staring at PJ and me, knowing all of our fates at the Lycée rest on our ability to charm these cops silly. If we screw this up, Olivia can kiss her scholarship goodbye, Zack will get sent back to the Bible-bangers in Tennessee, and George and Drew will never speak to me again. I pray PJ knows what she’s doing.

  “Now, is there anything else you’d like to know about me? I mean, my friends and I?” PJ titters attractively. I half expect her to ask one of them to sit in her lap next.

  She purses her full lips together. “Monsieurs, we are so sorry to have caused any trouble.”

  As if transfixed, the cops shrug and shift their weight. They can’t seem to figure out what they are doing with us.

  “Non, non,” one of the cops says with a small smile. One of the other cops takes a long look at me, and then at PJ—quick-witted, beautiful PJ—and shakes his head. Still nestled in the crook of her thin, pale arm, I give the cops my most innocent look.

  “Go home now, kids,” another cop says with a flick of his wrist. “Don’t forget to pay your bill on your way out.”

  The cops saunter away. I hear one of them say something like, “What a shame the girls were so young!” and all of them laugh. Blech.

  PJ drops her arm from around me and puts her cardigan back on.

  “PJ! You are incredible!” Olivia squeals once the cops are out of earshot. She does a triumphant leap into the air and hugs herself. “Wow!”

  “Seriously, great job—those cops didn’t know what hit them,” Drew agrees. “That was pure witchcraft.”

  Zack, his brow dripping with nervous sweat, just nods emphatically and pulls at the damp collar of his button-down shirt.

  George sighs with dramatic gratitude, staggering comically toward PJ with outstretched arms. “Oh, man, that was close! You really saved our hides there, Miss PJ. I thought I was Boston-bound for sure. How can I ever repay you?”

  I feel the vomit creep into my throat when he actually puts his arms around her in a grateful hug. It’s a little too friendly for my comfort.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I say quietly. Now I’m going to have to be eternally grateful to you, you freak!

  PJ just shrugs. “This kind of thing has to stop happening to me,” she says.

  “What, are you in the business of saving everyone’s ass all the time?” George gibes, still standing right next to me.

  “With varying success rates,” PJ comments. Everyone laughs. Everyone but me.

  OCTOBER

  6. OLIVIA

  Keeping the Faith

  “Do your host parents actually talk to you in French, like they’re supposed to?” Zack asks us over lunch at Café Dumont, the Ternes café where he and Alex can often be found during lunch and after school.

  The French kids all go home for lunch. (Yet another reason that none of us has really gotten the chance to know them . . . that and they avoid us like our lack of worldliness will somehow rub off on them.) Some American guys, like Jay and some of his friends, and George and Drew and their hangers-on, eat at this fast-food kebab place on the main drag, Boulevard de Courcelles. The rest of us split ourselves up between one of a few other dimly-lit cafés near the Parc Monceau.

  Most Americans who live in this ritzy neighborhood near our school (like me) go home, too, but today I’m in the mood for a Parisian café. I like this one best because it makes every day feel like a cozy rainy day— the café is dark and moody, with small candles in red votives, and the air is heavy with steam from hot drinks and the delectable smell of the roast chickens rotating in the rotisserie behind the bar. Today is one of those days when I just want to lounge around and soak up the atmosphere. Paris must be rubbing off on me.

  “Mme Rouille barely talks to me at all!” I groan. “And when she does, it is always in English. How am I ever supposed to learn how to speak naturally if we only speak French with our teachers and other Americans?”

  The waitress has long since cleared our dishes away, and the three of us sprawl out across the table, lazily looking over our French textbooks. What we should be doing is practicing the pluperfect tense, since it’s one of those concepts that none of us seem to be able to get a grasp on. What we’re really doing is practicing the
age-old art of French lethargy.

  “I know. It’s so frustrating,” Zack says. “Finally, I just flat-out asked them to speak to me only in French.” Zack, like Alex, lives with a French family who insists on family meals every night. Both Alex and Zack have younger siblings at their homestays that they couldn’t care less about, but Zack at least knows their names. Alex calls her little host brother “le Morceau de Merde”—the Piece of Shit.

  “My family is all trolls,” Alex tells Zack and me in a bored voice. “I can’t figure out what language they’re speaking. English? French? Who knows? They all just mindlessly mumble at me.” She sips from her frothy café crème.

  “Alex, you should try to get to know them better,” I urge her. “That’s the whole reason you’re here. To see how the French live!”

  “Honey, I know how the French live,” Alex says exasperatedly. “I am one. My dad was raised here. My mom spent the most important years of her life here and now practices the most Francophile lifestyle possible in New York. Remember?”

  Zack giggles. “Pretty soon, Alex, we’re all going to feel like we’re as French as you are. I myself can barely remember what real barbeque tastes like—I don’t even know if I can call myself a Tennessean anymore!”

  “I can’t say I’m sorry to hear that,” Alex teases snottily. “I’m really going to miss it when you stop talking about fried okra and Kenney Chesney—it’s been so thrilling to hear all about your life back on the farm!” The two of them snicker at each other affectionately, reminding me once again how uncanny it is that they’ve only known each other a few weeks. Both Alex and Zack seem to have settled into Paris so easily. They hardly ever talk about home except to make fun of something cheesy Americans do for fun.