Golden Boys (Golden Boys, #1)(27)

? Golden Boys ?

GABRIEL + HEATH + REESE + SAL





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

REESE

Aesthetically? Paris is perfection. The stone buildings are all intricately chiseled, and these charming cafés line the network of small angular alleys that make up this part of town. I’m trying to not look so touristy. I’m going to be living here for two full months, and I feel this urge to be immediately comfortable in this new environment. But I find that impossible to do when there’s so much to marvel at: a historic cathedral down the street, a storefront with stylish mannequins in the window, or even the cute French guy outside a café who’s casually smoking a cigarette, reading the paper, and sipping a tiny espresso.

Logistically, though? Paris is a nightmare. It’s not the city’s fault, to be clear. But French III did not prepare me for how truly immersive this immersive experience was going to be. I got a burner phone to make calls, but I haven’t been able to add data, which means I can only group chat or FaceTime the boys from my computer or when I use Wi-Fi on the iPhone I brought here. Even more challenging, I don’t have a Maps app to tell me where to go.

But on mornings like this, there’s something calming about walking the streets without a direction, following the smell of freshly baked bread. There’s something freeing about being untethered to my phone, though I’m really starting to miss them all.

Miss him, I guess.

It’s early in the morning, but the city’s starting to warm up, figuratively and literally. I find a corner café that’s situated in view of a roundabout, but it’s tucked away on a silent, tiny, one-way street. I go up to the bar and order a croissant and espresso in (what I think is) perfect French, but the barista clearly picks up on my American accent and replies in English: “Three five four, please.”

I take out an assortment of euros and hand them over, trying not to openly sulk about it.

I take my pastry and espresso to a table outside and watch the passersby as I take off my backpack. I pull out the full schedule and welcome packet I was given yesterday on that massively confusing bus ride to the dorm. I groan, thinking of the state I left it in—I pretty much just dropped my suitcase on the floor and crashed on the unmade bed. I still haven’t unpacked, but maybe I’ll have time to do some after my first classes today.

I look at my Studio Design schedule, and the class names pop out at me: Typography, Computer Modeling, Fundamentals of Design, Graphic Design Practicum. I wonder if there was ever really a time these classes actually appealed to me. I love illustration and design as an art, but the more I think of it as career, the less I’m sure I want to do it. This is by far the most practical of all the programs, but it’s only practical if I want to work in graphic design someday.

I flip through the pamphlets for the other classes and realize a lot of these don’t appeal to me either. I’m feeling low on inspiration, which is a laughable thought considering I’m in Paris, which is arguably one of the most inspirational places in the world when it comes to art and design.

I watch as a naked mannequin gets dressed and styled with a new look across the street in the boutique dress shop. Outside, a woman’s stopped to watch, and I see her tug at her own dress, which is much more conservative in comparison to the flamboyant garment getting put on the mannequin. She waves to the person in the shop, and once she leaves I see the finished product in the window. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before—a bold look, where a bright red strappy top billows out into a skirt so large it presses against the window. It’s impractical, I’d guess, but it makes a statement. Even on a mannequin it gives the feeling of movement, of perpetual motion.

Without thinking much, I pull out my journal and sketch the dress in the corner of this week’s plan. In this sketch, it’s being worn by a faceless woman, falling downward with her hair flying back, dress wrapping around her, alive with movement.

I look down to my bracelet, and the four dots on the charm stare back at me. An empty box still waiting to be filled in. I realize my hand has rested on a new program, one I hadn’t given any thought to when I was browsing the catalog.

The classes in this new program hit me with some unexpected inspiration, the feeling I’ve been missing: Photography & Fashion Design, Themes in Fashion History, Fashion Design Studio, the Business of Fashion.

I can visualize myself learning how to design dresses or how the fashion world operates, and a nagging feeling enters my brain.

Is there still time to switch? What would my parents think? As they’re halfway around the world, they probably wouldn’t even have a say in it. Inspiration floods my body for the first time since I crafted these bracelets, and it’s so loud I can’t ignore it. I shoot back the rest of my espresso and try not to gag at the bitterness. Maybe I’m imagining it, but a rush of energy hits me and I know what I have to do:

I’m transferring to Fashion Design.

? ? ?

Riley Design is the Paris extension of the famous American design school. When my tutor first brought up this idea, Mom really questioned why I would need to leave the country to learn something I could learn there just as easily. Though I didn’t have a great answer for that, Mamma fell in love with the program on my behalf and urged me to apply.

She wanted me to learn something new, to take chances and make this trip memorable … and this might be the thing to do it.