Chapter 4 #2
But Mademoiselle Alvarez has gathered her things and is already halfway out of the restaurant.
She calls back over her shoulder, “It’s not a request but an order, garcons!
” She holds up her phone. “And remember, I’m tracking your locations.
When I see Marcel’s dot on my app, I’ll assume Remy is glued right next to him, understand?
If you’re not all back inside the hostel by ten, you’ll turn into much worse than pumpkins. Au revoir!”
She breaks into a full sprint outside the door, no doubt racing toward our hostel. I’m fuming, and Tyler doesn’t look much happier than I feel.
But everyone else is thrilled. People are pairing off into groups of two, laughing and making plans for their next stop.
Nneka lifts her phone to record herself. “Snails, two. Chaperones, zero,” she reports to her followers.
* * *
Everyone leaves the restaurant and fans out in different directions, some people going to get hot cocoa at Angelina, a famous café, while others say they want to get photos of the iconic Notre-Dame cathedral.
Gaston and Belle, of course, say they need to go take a video of themselves kissing in front of the Eiffel Tower.
So cheesy, I think, a little enviously.
I want to go to the Louvre.
I don’t say a word to Tyler as we walk down the crowded cobblestone street away from the restaurant. When we come to a stop on the corner, I turn to face him and declare, “Well, this is where we part.”
I realize we’re standing next to a street performer—a mime, I guess.
He’s not what you’d call a traditional mime, like with the black-and-white-striped crewneck and white clown makeup.
Instead, he’s a buff man covered in grayish paint posing absolutely still, trying to fool passersby into thinking he’s Michelangelo’s famous statue of David—which I know, thanks to my Intro to Art History elective, is not even in Paris but in Florence, Italy.
“What are you talking about?” asks Tyler, running his fingers through his flaxen hair.
Ugh. Why does he have to look so objectively handsome under the streetlights? The hordes of strangers passing by seem to stop and do a double take at him—although I’m not sure if they’re checking out Tyler or the nine-tenths-naked man standing on a marble pedestal next to us.
“Um, we’re not really going to spend the next hour together,” I say, layering the attitude onto my voice like Nutella onto a Costco croissant. “I’ll just meet you outside the hostel at fifteen minutes to ten, and Mademoiselle Alvarez will never be the wiser.”
Tyler makes a pfft sound with his lips. “Not one singular chance,” he says, glancing at his Apple Watch. “I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight.”
I bristle. “I’m not a child, Tyler,” I snap.
“Hey, I’m the one doing you a favor. Do you even know where we are?”
“Yeah, we’re right between the hostel and the Louvre, which is where I’ll be spending my free hour.”
“But I was just at the Louvre,” says Tyler.
“Well, I wasn’t. And lucky for you, you don’t have to come with me. Since my phone is most likely being dissected for parts right now, Mademoiselle Alvarez will have no idea that I’m not actually with you.”
Tyler massages his forehead. “Ben, stop. I’ll come to the Louvre with you.”
“No,” I snap, a little too loudly. The last person I want to share Paris with is arrogant, obnoxious Tyler Travers. He’ll spoil everything.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think the fake statue of David beside us let out an annoyed sigh.
“You’re not coming with me,” I add, for good measure.
“I’m beginning to suspect you don’t like me very much,” Tyler says, cocking his head. He gives me a look that I can’t quite place—it’s somewhere between confused and amused.
I roll my eyes. Tyler is one of those entitled guys who stomps through life with no idea of the effect he has on people—the people he forgets, the people he breaks apart.
“Please,” I say. “You go do whatever cool thing you want to do and let me be my basic self and go see the basic Mona Lisa.”
Before Tyler can respond, I turn around sharply and walk off, nearly colliding with the fake statue of David, who definitely hates me now.
I walk quickly. I pass by clusters of people eating and drinking in outdoor bistros and cafés, chic girls carrying shopping bags, and a cloud of cigarette smoke before I glance back to make sure Tyler isn’t trailing behind me. Thankfully, he’s not. There’s no sign of him anymore.
I am on my own.
* * *
Later, as I’m pushing upstream against the rushing current of tourists and Parisians, I can’t believe Tyler actually let me walk away from him alone in Paris without a phone.
I mean, sure, I was rude and did everything in my power to make myself as unpleasant as possible for him to be around, but I’m convinced that he performed some sort of evil reverse psychology to trick me into demanding that he leave me stranded in a foreign city without lending me his phone or his Apple Watch.
My heart is racing as I remember that I’m about as directionally challenged as Dory and Nemo put together. (I even got lost in the aisles of HomeGoods, and Lucas would have to text me directions for how to get from the baby section to yard furniture.)
I glance around, my eyes blurring at the street signs all in French (duh). How do I get to the Louvre from here?
I start to sweat. How do people even travel without their map apps to guide them?
I take a deep breath and try to remind myself that when my parents came to Paris on their honeymoon some nineteen years ago, they didn’t have smartphones yet and they managed just fine.
Not to mention all the eons before that when people navigated the Parisian streets in, like, carriages or on horses or whatever without a map app in sight.
I try to calm down and keep walking, and by some miracle, I do find my way back to the Louvre.
But I feel a surge of nervousness as I walk up to the glass-pyramid entrance.
The huge museum looks different and intimidating now that I’m by myself.
Plus, it’s the scene of the crime. I keep thinking of London Boy’s face, how much excitement and hope I felt before it all turned out to be a lie.
I guess independent exploration is a lot more fun in theory than in reality.
I stop in my tracks, then turn around. I decide to skip the Louvre for now and come back on another day, when I’m feeling braver.
I wander away from the museum and browse postcards of Paris at a nearby kiosk.
They remind me that if Lucas and I were still together, I’d probably be sending him a postcard each day of the trip.
Once we started dating, I’d considered backing out of this trip, even though I’d been saving up for it since before I met Lucas.
I was so head over heels that I figured I would rather spend spring break with him in Georgia than alone in Paris.
But I’m glad that I didn’t. Although Paris feels a little bit lonely right now, I can still make the most of it. Even without my phone.
Two teenage girls cross the street in front of me, holding hands and kissing. Reminders of romance are everywhere. I guess this is the City of Love, after all. I think of Belle and Gaston and their plan to kiss in front of the Eiffel Tower, and then I remember the second item on my to-do list:
See the Eiffel Tower at night from the Pont Alexandre III bridge.
My pulse jumps. Maybe this night can still be salvaged. I know from studying the Maps app before my phone was stolen that the Seine River is just a few steps south of the Louvre, and then I can find the Pont Alexandre III from there.
Yes! I have a plan now.
I walk in the direction that I’m sure is toward the Seine River, which I crossed in a taxi twice with Mademoiselle Alvarez earlier. I can practically hear the gentle lapping of the water beckoning me closer.
But this time, my reliably bad sense of direction betrays me. There is no Seine to be seen anywhere. I walk and walk, the streets becoming narrower and darker, and less and less familiar.
I have no idea where I am or how much time has passed.
I should give up on going to the Eiffel Tower and go back to the hostel, but I have no clue how to do that.
Suddenly, my fun Parisian adventure is feeling more like a suspense thriller, bordering on horror—and I’m way too anxious a person to enjoy genres that feature such harsh lighting.
I know I should stop someone and ask for directions, but after the Clark incident, I’ve lost all sense of trust. And Mom’s warning reverberates in my head, even though that’s the last thing she intended: You’re a target. You’re a target. You’re a target.
Finally, when my heart rate reaches three-energy-drinks level, I take a deep breath and blurt, “Excusez-moi!” to a group of four impossibly cool twentysomething women enjoying dinner together at a sidewalk café.
They abruptly stop laughing and turn to stare up at me, stone-faced. There’s a blonde, a redhead, a brunette, and a girl with long black braids. This is exactly the kind of squad I’d love to be part of when I grow up.
As they stare at me, supremely unimpressed, all the French I’ve learned in the past year decides to vacate my head. I’m racking my brain for conjugation rules. “Umm … je cherche … l’auberge de jeunesse—”
“Thanks for trying to speak French, but you can go ahead and speak English,” the stunning girl with long black braids cuts in impatiently, taking a long sip of pink wine. Her English, of course, is nearly perfect.
Relieved, I launch straight into my tale of woe.
There’s something about these girls’ unfriendliness I trust. I ramble way too long, explaining Mademoiselle Alvarez’s curfew, the haunted-seeming youth hostel, my stolen phone, even parts of my breakup with Lucas and how it was all Tyler’s fault before I finally get around to asking for directions to the corner of Rue La Fayette and Rue La Fleur.
The brunette checks her watch. “It is nine fifty-five exactly,” she announces.
My heart sinks. “Oh non!” I exclaim. “Is the hostel far from here?”
“It’s approximately ten minutes away if you walk very fast,” says the redhead, tapping out a cigarette butt into an ashtray on the table.
Agh. Ten minutes means I won’t get there until five after ten. Which means the door will be locked forever. My life flashes before my eyes, and the French language returns to me. “Tout espoir est perdu!” I wail. All hope is lost!
The girl with braids cracks a smile at my dramatics. “But you could get there in three minutes if you take a scooter,” she says, nudging the redhead.
The redhead rolls her eyes and gets to her feet. “Very well,” she drawls. “I’m going to give this poor, unfortunate child a ride. I haven’t had any wine yet.”
“You are a kinder person than I, Marielle,” says the blonde, smirking.
“Oh, thank you!” I gush to the redhead. “Seriously, merci. Merci beaucoup. How can I thank you enough?”
Marielle sighs again. “All I ask is, please do not try to speak to me when we are on my scooter.”
“I promise,” I say, clasping my hands in gratitude.
“Ladies,” Marielle tells her friends, “I will be right back.”
* * *
As promised, I don’t say a word while Marielle speeds among the cars and pedestrians. I hold on tight to her shoulders and squeeze my eyes shut as we careen through the city.
By the time I open my eyes, we’re stopped in front of the youth hostel. I’m so happy to see it I could French-kiss its filthy walls.
I sling my phone-less tote bag back onto my shoulder and stammer, “Seriously, Marielle, how can I thank—”
“Boy, RUN!” she shouts, lifting the visor of her helmet and glancing at her watch. “It is nine fifty-nine!”
I let out a squeak as I jump off the scooter and sprint into the courtyard. I hear Marielle drive off as I see the giant medieval door speeding toward me. I grab the grapefruit-sized brass knob and turn it, and—
It doesn’t budge.