When the Heart Falls(112)

No matter how stunning she looks as she turns and runs to catch up to the others.



Inside the Sorbonne is like a museum. Ornate trim and detailed paintings bring the walls to life. The lecture hall is large, forming a semi-circle around the center stage area. We huddle into the first few rows, and Monsieur Bellugue addresses us. "First, we will cover rules, safety tips and important information you need to make your time here enjoyable. Then, the instructor will come to do the first part of the placement exam, the dictation, after which you will be called in for individual interviews in French. D'accord?"

"D'accord," we murmur.

"Tres bien. The French word for condom is préservatif and the slang is la capote anglaise. Many of you will find yourselves out with members of the opposite sex. Some of you might even engage in the act of sex. Others of you don't have to worry about that."

Students snicker throughout the auditorium.

"The first rule is to remember the French words. The second rule is to actually use a condom. You will bring many new things home from our great country, but there are some souvenirs I'm sure you don’t want. Comprenez-vous?"

Someone giggles from behind me and everyone says, "Oui." Even as my eyes wander to Winter, who's sitting next to me, her legs crossed to expose her thigh, I assure myself I won't be needing this lesson. And a hidden part of my mind hopes that Winter won't be needing this lesson either. My jaw clenches at even the thought of her with someone else.

The rest of the instructions are basic. What to do if we get lost. How to make change. Weather patterns this time of year.

I can't concentrate on any of it as I focus my free attention on pulling up all the French I've crammed into my brain in preparation for today.

Someone passes down paper, and I pull out my pen, stowing my book bag under my chair. Once the introductions are handled, a stern older woman, bun tightly bound on her head as if it's trying to escape, stands at the podium and begins speaking rapid French.

This is nothing like what I imagined. I used audio tutorials to study, but they spoke at a normal human rate, not this hyper-speed auctioneer rate.

I'm lost after the first word.

Winter's hand moves back and forth over her page, her penmanship elegant. As I write, pulling out one or two words in each sentence and hoping they, at least, are correct, my page looks like a chicken stepped in ink and scratched over my work.

When called into a private room to face the imposing professor, my mouth is dry. All my confidence is gone, lost in the scribbles on my pathetic dictation sheet.

The professor rapid-fires more French at me like bullets—as if she's trying to slay me with her words alone. She might even succeed.

She sits and waits for me to respond.

I don't understand, but I'm doing my best to learn French. Now, if I could just remember how to say that all in her language, since I fear she'll use a hidden whip on me if I utter a single word in English. I sound out each word in my head before saying it out loud. "Je ne comprends pas. Je suis encore à apprendre le fran?ais." I hope I said that right. I hope that my answer appeases her, that she'll see I'm trying.

When I leave the auditorium, the walls no longer impress me. I just want to get out of there and get some air.

Winter is waiting for me on the lawn. "How'd it go?" she asks.

I sling my book bag onto my shoulder and walk with her. "Not good. You?"

"I think okay."

Jenifer runs up to us and grabs Winter's arm. "I just heard about an epic party tonight from this guy I was talking to. We have to go. Have to."

I don't know if she's talking just to Winter or to us both, but I could use a distraction tonight. "We should go. It sounds fun. What do you think, Winter?"

Her mouth drops open, and she snaps it shut and smiles. "Sure, yeah. But this time I'm not eating anything some random guy gives us."





WINTER DEVEAUX

CHAPTER 7





WE HEAR THE club before we get to the door—loud hip-hop music rumbling through the building.

After getting ready—with Jenifer insisting I borrow her miniskirt and halter-top— we follow other students to a part of Paris I've never been before. I'm lost, so I really hope Jenifer or Cade knows how to get us back to our dorms.

Clutching my purse, Jenifer pulls me forward, and we get through the line and into the club. It's full of writhing, dancing bodies pressed against each other. Outside small groups of people smoke and laugh.

We get to the bar, where Jenifer orders a shot of Sex on the Beach, probably because of the name. The bartender looks at me.

I search for a menu and find none. "Um, something non-alcoholic, please."

Jenifer bumps me with her hip. "Where's your sense of fun and adventure? Have a drink. We're in Paris, for Christ's sake."

"I don't drink." Never. Ever. Ever. Again.

Cade is standing to the side, but I'm hyper aware of him, have been since he helped me with my hand—maybe since the plane. I'm not looking for love, or any kind of attachment, but something about him pulls me in, and that scares me.

When my drink arrives, I take a sip, hoping the cool liquid will ease the itching in my throat. Even my ears feel itchy. Strange.

Jenifer is already dancing with two guys, rubbing up against each of them as they grope her from the front and behind. I don't know how she can allow strangers to touch her like that. The thought of some random guy touching me makes my skin crawl.