Beautiful Americans Page 7

  But me? I never stop thinking about what’s going on in California—if Vince is liking school, how my mom is holding up without me, and especially about Brian. I still haven’t told anyone about my brother, and how horrible it feels to be so far away from him. I want to, but I don’t want to bring everyone down, or worse, make people feel sorry for me. Like right now—I could tell Alex and Zack, since they are supposed to be these great new friends of mine, but it would just kill the good mood they are in. They’d never understand how unresponsive Brian is over the phone if I try and get my mom to put him on when I call, and how Brian doesn’t actually comprehend what a computer is for just yet. One day, he will, but not while I’m in Paris. And I miss talking to him! I miss the way he lets me in. I miss our special bond.

  Even when Zack and Alex do complain about things they miss from the U.S., it’s things I can’t relate to. Zack misses driving around Memphis in his pickup truck with his friend Pierson, blasting hokey music like The Best of Dolly Parton, and Alex misses going to dive bars in the East Village with her cousin’s ID that doesn’t even look like her. I don’t have a car—if I need to go somewhere, I have to arrange it with my mom or ask Vince for a ride. And before the café in Le Marais where Alex almost got us all busted for smoking pot with George in the alley, I’d never been inside a bar in my life.

  Over Zack’s right shoulder, I see PJ coming into the café, letting in a gentle breeze of cool fall air when she opens the thick velvet curtains that hang in front of the vestibule. I’m not sure where PJ goes for lunch, but she never comes home with me to Mme Rouille. I’ve always wanted to ask her where she wanders off to, but I sense that she enjoys exploring the neighborhood on her own. When I see her across the café, I’m glad. She’ll provide some levity to Alex and Zack’s banter. And possibly get them to concentrate more on our studies!

  “PJ!” I call out to her. “Hey! Were you looking for us? We’re studying; we could use you.” Despite his sluggishness today, Zack is as anxious as I am about the end-of-the-semester exam, called the Final Comp, that all the Programme Americaine students have to take in order to continue studying at the Lycée. If we fail it, we’ll have to go home. At least, that’s the rumor—apparently no one has ever failed the test, because everyone always studies their butt off.

  Alex brushes it off when we try to remind her how important it is that we stay on top of our French, telling us that she’s already fluent and the test will be a breeze.

  I’ve heard Alex in action. Trust me, if she thinks she’s fluent, she’s going to have a big surprise when she sits down for the final exam! But, people always say that I’m a perfectionist about grades. Maybe I should just leave Alex alone. As she says, she is practically French herself.

  PJ hurries over, untying a hand knit scarf from around her long, thin neck. She’s totally oblivious to the admiring looks that some of the older men at the bar are giving her as she walks by. “Hey!” She pulls out the empty chair next to mine. “Great news. My host parents are back! They called Mme Cuchon just now. I don’t have to stay with you anymore, Liv!”

  “PJ, that’s great!” I lean over and give her a hug. “I know how much you’ve been wanting to meet them.” She feels skinny under her jacket and the baggy wool sweater she always wears. Again this morning, I noticed that she didn’t have anything besides coffee for breakfast at Mme Rouille’s.

  “When you get back from ballet class, I’ll be gone,” PJ says happily.

  “So where does this family of yours live?” Alex asks. “They must be loaded if they have a second home. Properties in France are among the most expensive real estate in the world.” She says this as shrewdly as if she’s just been perusing the home section of Le Monde.

  “Just down the street from Olivia in Ternes,” PJ tells her without looking at her. “I just went and checked out the building before I came over here. It seems pretty nice.” Even though Alex is my friend, and PJ is my friend, the two girls haven’t warmed to each other no matter how hard I try.

  “I’m sure it will be terrific, PJ,” I say. “Don’t read too much into the rocky start you guys might have gotten off to. I just know you’re going to love your new family.”

  “I hope they love me, too. Anyways, I better go.” She grabs her cloth shoulder bag off the floor, noticeably more sedate than when she walked into the café just a few minutes before. “See you guys,” PJ says as she walks out, her voice interrupted by a flurry of activity from the next table.

  A group of girls from our program, a few of the others who live too far away to go home for lunch, is getting up to leave for class at the same time. The blonde twins from Texas spot us and stop to chat.

  “What are y’all doin’ this weekend?” one of them asks us. “Any plans?”

  “Get to the point, Tina,” Alex says, snapping her red manicured fingers. “Is there something going on that we should know about?”

  Zack covers his mouth to hide his amusement.

  It drives Alex bonkers how the twins literally mosey about every conversation, especially when they’ve got something important to say. They relish every detail that keeps them in the spotlight.

  “I’m Patty,” the twin snaps at Alex.

  Alex holds up her hands in a mockingly apologetic gesture and smirks. Zack muffles his laughter behind his coffee mug.

  “We were just curious to find out if Sara-Louise has invited any of you to her party yet,” the real Tina muses.

  Zack nearly spits out his café au lait.

  “Wait a second,” Alex says, her eyes flashing. “Sara-Louise is having a party? At her apartment? In Paris? This weekend? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “Oh, it’s all over school,” Patty twitters. “I even heard some of the French kids are going. Saturday night. 8 P.M.” Her sister Tina raises her eyebrows at us and pulls Patty towards the door. “See y’all there.”

  “Well, shit.” Alex is truly dumbfounded that she’s the last to know. “Thank God I still have time to figure out what on earth I am going to wear.” She immediately pulls out the oversize issue of W she’s been carrying around today and starts frantically thumbing through it again.

  “Well, hot damn and hallelujah!” Zack says with a whoop. “It’s about time someone had a good old-fashioned clambake this year! I was wondering when we were all going to get down to the business of getting good and plastered!”

  Even I can’t help bouncing up and down a few times with excitement. It’s not like I’m going to be getting hammered like Alex and Zack, but I don’t need to be drunk to have a good time. I just need good music, good conversation, a little distraction from all the pressure. . . .

  But back at school, as I quickly check to see if there’s anything from Vince in my email before I have to run to class, there’s something from my mom.

  Hey, long-lost daughter! I’m sorry I’ve been a slacker about keeping in touch, but I have to say that I really miss you, Livvy, and I’m really starting to appreciate how much you lighten everything up at home. Now that you’re gone, all this driving back and forth to Brian’s school and all the specialists and therapists is a real drag. I guess you don’t appreciate things until you lose them, but I really miss my co-pilot. Sure you don’t want to drop out of the Opera and come on home to SD? : ) Haha, just kidding (sort of).

  Attached to the message is an “inspirational” YouTube link to a recent UCLA dance performance. I don’t bother to watch it. Instead I spend the last three minutes of the lunch period scanning Vince’s Facebook page for signs that he misses me as much as I miss him.

  I message him quickly.

  To: Vince Palatella

  1:57 P.M.

  Subject: French Kiss

  I miss you. That’s all.

  After I send it, I realize that Vince changed his profile picture. It used to be him in his UCLA sweatshirt, a photo I took of him the day he left for college. Now it’s an old one of us, taken the same day as the photo from this summer I carry around in my purse. He does
miss me. Sometimes I still can’t believe that we are really going out. I remember when I was so shy around Vince that I couldn’t even talk to him!

  Vince’s mom, Liz, has been best friends with my mom since they swam together on the La Jolla High School Varsity Champions team back in the seventies. My mother jokes that Liz is the real love of her life, not my dad.

  Liz and my mom are best friends like no other best friends I have ever seen. They dress alike. They finish each other’s sentences. They go for highlights at the same hairdresser together. And while I take care of my brother for a few hours, they go for a swim in the ocean together, coming back a shade of deeper brown than when Liz picked my mom up. When my mom gets overwhelmed handling Brian’s care, Liz steps in for a few days, leaving her own husband and son to take care of themselves. When Vince’s parents fight, Liz sleeps over in our living room, and my mom sleeps down on the couch with her. It’s always been like that; I’m pretty sure it always will be.

  Until my freshman year I always loathed Vince; maybe it was because I really didn’t want to live out Liz and Mom’s dream of having the cutest-couple-for-children award, but I always hated him before. He was cocky, really good at sports and school, and had a steady stream of different girlfriends at all of Liz’s summer barbeques. But something changed when I got to high school. On the first day, I’ll never forget it, Vince pulled up into our driveway as my mom was hurriedly trying to get Brian and me ready for school on time. Brian was in the middle of a meltdown, my dad was already at the office, and I was horrified to find that my mom had shrunk my new skirt so that it was a good four inches shorter, leaving my bare thighs horribly exposed.

  Vince had called out to my mom that day, I’ll never forget it, “Let me take Livvy—you’ve got enough to deal with right now.” And before I could change into something less revealing, my mom pushed me into the front seat of his car.

  “You’re a lifesaver!” she thanked him.

  When he parked I could see the other freshman unloading onto the feeding grounds of the senior lawn, where the seniors lay in wait to torment all the newbies, and Vince casually escorted me in through the side entrance without incident. You are a lifesaver, I silently told him as he dropped me at the auditorium for freshman orientation.

  “Hey, Livvy,” Vince called me as I scanned the rows for an empty seat.

  “Yeah?” I said shyly.

  “Great skirt,” he told me, and I blushed so hard I thought I would die. A month later, I was his homecoming date, and two years later, here we are, still the perfect couple.

  At least, we would be the perfect couple if we were in the same city!

  Besides missing Vince—it doesn’t matter if it’s Paris or San Diego—it all feels alike when you spend all your free time in the same black leotards and tights. Between my insane schedule at school and in dance class, I feel like I never get a moment to myself to even appreciate where I am!

  Tonight, exhausted from an especially brutal session at the Opera, I decide to skip my usual shower and just go straight to bed to crash. Flinging open the door, I close my eyes, relieved to finally be home after the madness of another day in Paris, so far from everyone and everything I love: Vince, Brian, the beach, Mexican food, everything. I don’t even turn on the light; I just flop into a heap on my bed.

  “Oh my sweet Jesus!” I shriek, bounding right back up as I realize that I’m lying not on the flat surface of my covers but on top of the bulky frame of a real live human being.

  A male human being—Good God, some strange dude is in my bed!

  A young, strange, and actually incredibly good-looking dude!

  7. PJ

  Faded Empire

  “PJ!” a voice calls from behind me. “PJ wait up!”

  Oh, God, not now. I turn around reluctantly. I’m in such a hurry. I can’t be late to finally meet my host family after all this time.

  “Yeah?” I curtly ask Jay, who’s jogging toward me down the Boulevard de Courcelles in his mesh Adidas jersey and shorts. He must have ducked out of soccer—excuse me, football practice to come talk to me. What on earth does he want?

  “PJ, hey,” Jay smiles, catching his breath. His cleats are wet with fresh earth from the field.

  “Hey,” I say. “What’s going on?”

  “Oh, not much,” Jay says casually His muscular arms and legs are covered in goose bumps from the chilly day. “Just, you know, settling in at the homestay, getting to know my host family.”

  “Awesome,” I say impatiently. “I mean, what did you want to talk to me about?”

  “You break up with your boyfriend yet?” Jay asks slyly. “The one you were talking to the other day on the phone.”

  I blush. “Oh, him!” I stammer. “Yeah. Things weren’t working out. So we’re not together . . . anymore.”

  “Oh, good. Then he won’t mind if I ask if you have a partner yet for the Louvre project?”

  The Louvre project? “Oh, right. No, I don’t have a partner yet. Want to work together?” The Louvre project is an interdisciplinary project that Mme Cuchon dreamed up in which the Lycée Americaine students will work together to write a paper in French on the life and times of one of the many artists showcased in the huge Musée du Louvre, the crown jewel of all the art museums in Paris. For extra credit, we can also turn in a painting or artwork that we do in the style of whichever artist we choose. As a massive art history nerd and wannabe painter, I’m really looking forward to working on it. Just not right now!

  “Okay, cool,” Jay says, invigorated. “Is there an artist you like? How do you feel about doing Ingres? He seems really cool, with all the portraits of all the different people. But if you’d rather do someone else . . .”

  “I love Ingres,” I interrupt him, turning to go before he’s even done talking. It’s true, I really do love his work. He’s a relatively obscure painter from the 19th century. I’m surprised Jay even knows who he is. From his shaved head and his strong build, I’d take him for more of a jock than an expert on French artists. “Great choice. Look, I’ve got to be somewhere. Call me over the weekend; we can get started working on the project.”

  “Definitely,” Jay says. When he smiles I see that the corners of his eyes crinkle, like a little kid. “Looking forward to it.”

  “Bonjour!” I call to an older couple coming out of the doorway at the address I have for Monsieur and Madame Marquet just off the Place des Ternes. “Je suis Penelope! Vos fille!” The quiet, narrow side street echoes with the sound of my loud voice.

  “Our daughter?” asks a tanned, handsome older man in confusion, taking in my loose, wild hair, tangled from running down the wide, windy Boulevard de Courcelles. My cheeks are flushed. I take off my hat and try to smooth out my hair and cool off a bit. I’d hoped to be a tad less bedraggled when I met my new family.

  “Oh, yes! Bonjour!” the man says, dipping to place a warm, wet kiss on either of my cheeks. He’s quite tall, with longish silver hair slicked back with gel. I can’t help but be a bit taken with him. My host father looks like an old-fashioned movie star.

  “You must be Penelope,” says a diminutive woman with high cheekbones and shining white teeth. I tower over her. “I recognize you from your application photo.

  “Ah, oui,” the man jokes. “Your photo was the reason we chose you to come live with us while you study at the Lycée. So much prettier than all the other prospective students!” He bows his head to me. “Je suis Monsieur Marquet. Our deepest apologies for not being here to greet your arrival in Paris. We’ve had so many things keeping us in the Dordogne, new job, blah, blah, blah.” He mentions his job as if it’s just something he does to fill the time between parties and benefits.

  Mme Marquet tenses. “Yes, well. We’re here now, aren’t we?”

  “I’m so glad to finally meet you!” I say enthusiastically, resisting the urge to pull them both into a bear hug of gratitude.

  “Penelope, ma belle, we’re just leaving for a gala for Médecins sans Frontières
—we’ve had the tickets for months and we only just remembered that the benefit was tonight of all nights,” M. Marquet clucks his tongue in apology. “We’ll be there until late.” He takes Mme Marquet’s elbow and steers her toward the waiting limousine.

  “Oh,” I say, hoping to hide my bitter disappointment. “I didn’t realize . . .”

  “Cherie, just run upstairs and introduce yourself to our housekeeper, Sonia,” M. Marquet says. “We’ll all get to know each other over the weekend when you join us at our house in the Dordogne. That is, unless you have other plans.”

  “Really?” I squeak in disbelief. After just a few minutes of knowing me, they are inviting me to their house in the Dordogne for the whole weekend? Getting them to love me might be easier than I thought. “No, I don’t have any plans!”

  “Oui, darling, of course you don’t,” Mme Marquet says. Her mouth is set in a hard, unyielding line as they wait for me to go inside. She taps her gold watch.

  “See you Friday then,” M. Marquet says, wiggling his long fingers at me as Mme Marquet gingerly steps into the limo, careful of her dark red beaded gown. His eyes sparkle as if we’ve shared a secret. I smile back though I’m still hurt that they’ve abandoned me so quickly. “Bon soir for now!”

  I’m pleased to find that their housekeeper, Sonia, is as warm and friendly as the Marquets are rushed and distracted. A plump, heavyset Caribbean woman, Sonia speaks a clipped, accented French that puts me immediately at ease from the moment I walk through the front door.

  Like Olivia’s apartment down the street, the Marquets live in a splendor that most people only dream about. The main difference here, of course, is that the Marquets’ apartment is nearly three times the size of Mme Rouille’s. Mme Rouille only has two bedrooms and a maid’s quarters, but as Sonia shows me around, I count at least three bedrooms besides the master suite and my own sprawling room on the opposite end of the apartment. This apartment is also much darker, with the thick brocade curtains drawn, and dingier than where I was staying before. Elise keeps Mme Rouille’s apartment sparkling clean, but there is a distinct layer of dust over all the surfaces here. It’s obvious the Marquets have not been spending much time in Paris lately.