Just One Day(15)

I stuff the T-shirt into my shoulder bag. “I’ll just hang on to this. To sleep in tonight.”
Céline’s eyebrow shoots up again. She probably never sleeps in a T-shirt. She probably sleeps in the silky nude, even on the coldest of winter nights. I get a flash of her sleeping naked next to Willem.
“Thanks. For the shirt. For storing my bag,” I say.
“Merci,” Céline says back, and I wonder why it is that she’s thanking me, but then I realize she wants me to say thank you in French, so I do, only it comes out sounding like mercy.
We go upstairs. Céline is nattering away to Willem. I’m beginning to understand how his French got so fluent. As if this didn’t make it clear enough that she was a dog and Willem her hydrant, when we get upstairs, she links arms with him and walks him slowly to the front of the bar. I feel like waving my arms and saying “Hello! Remember me?”
When they do that cheek-cheek-kiss-kiss thing, I feel so much of the excitement from earlier dwindle. Next to Céline, with her mile-high stilettos, her black hair, the underneath dyed blond, her perfectly symmetrical face, which is both marred and enhanced by so many piercings, I feel short as a midget and plain as a mop. And once again, I wonder, Why did he bring me here? Then I think of Shane Michaels.
All through tenth grade, I’d had a huge crush on Shane, a senior. We’d hang out, and he’d flirt with me and invite me lots of places and pay for me even, and he’d confide all kinds of personal things, including, yes, about the girls he was dating. But those relationships never lasted more than a few weeks, and I’d told myself that all the while, he and I were growing closer and that he’d eventually fall for me. When months went by and nothing happened between us, Melanie said it was never going to happen. “You have Sidekick Syndrome,” she said. At the time, I thought she was jealous, but of course, she was right. It hits me that, Evan notwithstanding, it might be a lifetime affliction.
I can feel myself shriveling, feel the welcome Paris bestowed on me earlier fading away, if it even really happened. How stupid to think a dog sniffing my crotch and a quick look from some random guy meant anything. Paris adores girls like Céline. Genuine Lulus, not counterfeits.
But then, just as we’re at the door, the Giant comes out from behind the bar and takes my hand and, with a jaunty “à bient?t,” kisses both my cheeks.
A warm feeling tickles my chest. This is the first time on the trip a local has been unabashedly nice to me—because he wanted to, not because I was paying him to. And it doesn’t escape my notice that Willem is no longer looking at Céline but is watching me, a curious expression lighting up his face. I’m not sure if it’s these things or something else, but it makes that kiss, which I get was just platonic—a friendly, cheek-handshake thing—feel momentous. A kiss from all of Paris.

Six
Lulu, we have something very important to discuss.”
Willem looks at me solemnly, and I feel my stomach bottom out in anxiety over another unpleasant surprise.
“What now?” I ask, trying not to sound nervous.
He crosses his arms in front of his chest and then he strokes his chin. Is he going to send me back? No! I’ve already had that freak-out once today.
“What?” I ask again, my voice rising in spite of my best efforts.
“We lost an hour coming to France, so it’s after two o’clock. Lunchtime. And this is Paris. And we just have the day. So we must consider this very seriously.”
“Oh.” I exhale relief. Is he trying to mess with me now? “I don’t care. Anything except chocolate and bread, please. Those might be your staples, but they don’t seem particularly French,” I snap, not entirely sure why I’m so peeved except that even though we’ve now walked several blocks away from Céline’s club, it’s like she’s following us somehow.
Willem feigns offense. “Bread and chocolate are not my staple foods.” He grins. “Not the only ones. And they are very French. Chocolate croissants? We can have those for breakfast tomorrow.”
Breakfast. Tomorrow. After tonight. Céline beings to feel a little farther away now.
“Unless, that is, you prefer crisps for breakfast,” he continues. “Or pancakes. That’s American. Maybe crisps with your pancakes?”
“I don’t eat chips for breakfast. I do occasionally eat pancakes for dinner. I’m a rebel that way.”
“Crêpes,” he says, snapping his fingers. “We will have crêpes. Very French. And you can be rebellious.”
We walk along, menu-browsing the cafés until we find one on a quiet triangle corner that serves crêpes. The menu is hand-scrawled, in French, but I don’t ask Willem to translate. After that whole thing with Céline, my lack of fluency is starting to feel like a handicap. So I stumble through the menu, settling on citron, which I’m pretty sure means lemon, or orange, or citrus of some kind. I decide on a citron crêpe and a citron pressé drink, hoping it’s some kind of lemonade.
“What are you getting?” I ask.
He scratches his chin. There is a tiny patch of golden stubble there. “I was thinking of getting a chocolate crêpe, but that is so close to chocolate and bread that I’m afraid you’ll lose respect for me.” He flashes me that lazy half smile.
“I wouldn’t sweat it. I already lost respect for you when I found you undressing for Céline in her office,” I joke.
And there’s that look: surprise, amusement. “That wasn’t her office,” he says slowly, drawing out his words. “And I would say she was more undressing me.”