Chapter 4
I don’t know whether it’s the sight of rabbit kidneys on the plate across from me or the complete and utter shame I’m feeling, but I’ve lost my appetite.
I’ve barely touched the French onion soup I ordered, even though French onion soup is my favorite soup in the world, and it’s the first bowl I’ve ever ordered in France, so it should be so mind-blowingly good that it’s making me smell colors and taste music.
I’m sure the soup is that good. We’re in a historic restaurant decorated with heavy, tasseled curtains and portraits of disapproving Parisian nobles on the walls. The air is thick with the smells of butter, wine, and roasted meat, and a French pop song plays on the speakers.
Mademoiselle Alvarez told us, as we sat down to dinner, that this restaurant is known for its old-school French dishes like the aforementioned rabbit kidneys, which Gaston ordered and immediately regretted.
(“They’re like giant baked beans and smell like pee” was his review.) Unfortunately, Gaston is sitting across from me so I have to look at the rabbit kidneys all night.
Mademoiselle Alvarez, on the other hand, has devoured her escargot. When she ordered it, Nneka raised her eyebrows.
“Mademoiselle, snails are a bold choice, especially after they took out Monsieur Higgins.”
Mademoiselle Alvarez grinned at Nneka and said, “Those were Georgia snails, Belle. They’ve got nothing on Paris escargot.”
Now, as Mademoiselle Alvarez puts down the tiny fork she used to pull the slimy snail bodies from their shells, she looks a little green and queasy. But that might just be the ordeal I put her through.
She presses her lips together and says, “étudiantes … I’m having second thoughts about your solo time tonight.”
My stomach falls. Of course.
Protests ring out around the table. “But mademoiselle,” whines Karen, looking up from her plate of duck confit, “that’s not fair. Most of us didn’t do anything wrong.”
I slump in my seat.
“It’s not that you did anything wrong,” says Mademoiselle Alvarez, biting her lip. “It’s just … maybe it’s a bit too much to ask of everyone on your first night. And I can’t have one of you walking around the city without your phone.” She looks at me. “I can’t track you on the app, Remy.”
I stare down at my ooey-gooey soup. The layer of hardened cheese on top is sweating out beads of grease.
I’m sure eleven pairs of eyes are blasting laser beams of fury at my head, and I deserve all the hate, all the rotten tomatoes.
Within the first few hours of touching down in Paris, I’ve managed to get my phone stolen by a pair of British pickpockets.
I should have known better than to think that Clark—if that’s his real name, which it’s probably not—would want anything to do with me.
Spontaneous romances don’t happen to guys like me.
I feel invisible, even to other gay guys—or especially to other gay guys.
It’s been that way ever since I came out in ninth grade and joined the LGBTQIA+ Alliance at school.
Why would things be any different in Paris?
“Mademoiselle Alvarez,” I say, feeling lower than French poodle merde on the bottom of a chic Parisian woman’s high heel.
“The others shouldn’t be punished just because I’m an idiot.
I can go back to the hostel while everyone else enjoys their night out.
” So much for not spending time in the hostel.
The rest of my classmates look down at their plates guiltily, which feels worse than them all being mad at me.
Mademoiselle Alvarez frowns. “Maybe that’s for the best, Remy,” she says gently.
I swallow hard.
“But you weren’t being an idiot, Ben,” says Nneka, taking a bite of her quiche Lorraine. “That London guy was super convincing.”
“Yeah,” agrees Gaston. “He could have charmed the pants off me, too. If I were a gay dude, I mean.”
Nneka elbows him. I smile at them weakly. One underrated—and unexpected—plot point that could be developing on this trip: making unlikely friends.
“I’m not blaming you, Remy,” says Mademoiselle Alvarez, looking pale and a little sweaty. “I should have been watching you more closely.”
I feel terrible for making my teacher’s life so much harder.
When it became obvious that my phone had been stolen by Clark and his accomplice—I’m pretty sure the British bloke who bumped me from behind was his brother—I alerted Mademoiselle Alvarez, who went into crisis mode.
She sent the rest of the group into the museum with our Louvre tour guide before marching me straight over to Louvre security, who were no help at all.
If they investigated every teenage tourist’s stolen iPhone, there’d be no time to guard all the important paintings inside.
I was panicking by then. Mademoiselle Alvarez thought to open her Find My Phone app—and there was my phone, a green dot labeled “Remy Lim,” racing away from the Louvre toward the Latin Quarter in the Fifth Arrondissement.
Mademoiselle Alvarez hailed the nearest cab, and she commanded the surly, cigar-smelling driver to follow the dot.
As the cab driver tore through Paris, the Eiffel Tower whizzed by our window in all its glory, but I couldn’t even enjoy it—I didn’t feel like I deserved to enjoy it, not in that moment.
We hit some major traffic, and once we got to the other side of the city, the dot disappeared from the app.
I guess those British thieves had deactivated my phone or taken out the SIM card or whatever.
At that point, we had to give up. It was hopeless.
The worst part of the whole ordeal was that Mademoiselle Alvarez had to call Mom to tell her what had happened.
Mom was already worried about me being in Paris without her, and I know it took a lot for her to sign those consent forms, but she did it anyway because she trusted me and didn’t want to stand in the way of me becoming my own person.
And when I’d called her earlier, Mom had sounded so proud of me, if still a little nervous.
But when Mademoiselle Alvarez called Mom from the cab and broke the news to her about my stolen phone, I knew all Mom’s fears had been activated. Mademoiselle Alvarez passed her phone to me, and Mom was crying.
My heart cracked at the sound.
“Please, please take care of yourself,” Mom told me. “I hate that this is your reality, but you have to be extra careful, no matter where in the world you are, Ben-oonies. You’re Asian and you’re queer and you’re trusting—that’s going to make you a target to some people.”
That gutted me. Even worse, it proved Tyler had been right—maybe the beret I wore really did make me a target for pickpockets. In that moment, in the cab, I yanked off the beret and stuffed it into my tote bag, vowing never to put it on for the rest of the trip.
“I’ll be fine,” I promised Mom, trying to sound strong.
And the icing on top of this merde cake? Because the whole not-fun cab tour of Paris took forever, I missed seeing the Louvre—and the Mona Lisa. My opportunity to check the first item off my list.
Now sitting here at this fancy restaurant I’ve been looking forward to forever, I wish I could just go back to Sandy Springs, Georgia, early.
“You know, it’s kind of my fault,” mumbles Tyler through a mouthful of frites, which he’s dipping in the juices from the steak that he finished devouring.
He chews in this exaggerated, very bro-ish way that I’ve noticed is how a lot of jocks eat in the cafeteria.
His jaws seem to work extra hard, the muscles of his temples and face bulging, as if he’s flexing them like biceps.
“The friendship bracelet scam is a total tourist trap. I would have spotted it right away if I was paying attention. I’ve been to Paris before, you know.
Plus I guess I gained some street smarts after living in New York for so long. ”
Yeah, I’m sure the streets of the Upper East Side are really rough, I wish I could say. I glare at Tyler with the hate of a thousand hells, but he doesn’t notice. He’s too focused on his meat.
“That’s good to know, Marcel,” says Mademoiselle Alvarez distractedly. When the server comes by with the little electronic credit card reader, her eyeballs bulge. She looks like she’s about to throw up—our meal must have been super expensive.
Mademoiselle Alvarez’s forehead is shiny with sweat as she writes her signature hurriedly with her finger. Our server, in an impeccable white shirt, shifts uncomfortably, then thanks her in French and hurries away.
“Mon Dieu,” Mademoiselle Alvarez pants, clutching her stomach. “Change in plan, étudiantes. I think I’m gonna have to head back to the hostel. Lie down for a sec.”
Uh-oh. Were those escargots a bad idea? I frown at my teacher, momentarily forgetting my own woes.
“Well, what are we going to do with our night?” asks Karen, tapping her water glass with her knife, as if trying to get everyone’s attention. “My parents didn’t pay for this trip just so I could sit around in a dirty little hostel.”
Mademoiselle Alvarez stands up. “You know what?” she says, trying to sound perky and casual, despite clutching her stomach even tighter.
“I trust all of you.” She glances at me nervously, as if she means to add, Except you, Remy.
“Why don’t we use the buddy system for independent exploration?
I’ll leave it up to you all to pair off, although …
Remy, why don’t you and Marcel buddy up?
Since Marcel’s comfortable walking around a big city and all. ”
My stomach plummets. Marcel?
“But Mademoiselle Alvarez!” I protest. “Shouldn’t we all get a choice in the matter?”
What I really mean: I’d rather give myself a bowl cut and be burned at the stake like Joan of Arc than let Tyler Travers be my tour guide.
Tyler’s mouth falls open. “Yes, Mademoiselle Alvarez, I didn’t mean I wanted to be a babysitter …”