Chapter 2
Twelve Weeks Ago
Nick and Sophie rang our buzzer the next morning while I was scavenging a breakfast of jam and a leftover baguette.
I’d thought I’d be by myself for the two days until Dad got back, but our new housekeeper had shown up half an hour after my adventure with the code box, just when Dad had asked her to.
If I hadn’t been so jet-lagged, I’d have remembered that my flight had arrived early and not panicked about her not being there.
“Hi!” Sophie said when I opened the door.
Nick grinned and waved. In the fog of yesterday, all I’d really noticed about him were his eyes, his skill with a code box, and his friendliness.
Now I took in his height—almost a foot above my five feet and three inches—his adorably messy dark hair, and the warm smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.
And then I remembered what I was wearing.
Dad went to U of Oregon—go Ducks!—and I have a large and embarrassing collection of duck-themed clothing.
“Hi,” I said, hiding as much of my yellow-and-green T-shirt as I could behind the door and trying to keep my mouth closed because I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet.
“Mom said we could invite you and your dad over for dinner. Can you come tonight?” Like Nick, Sophie was dark-haired and brown-eyed, but her hair was straight, cut in a chin-length bob, and pushed back with a yellow-and-black polka-dot headband that matched her capris.
I smiled at her enthusiasm. “My dad doesn’t get here till tomorrow. Can I tell you what day would work for us when he gets home?”
She made a “tchu” sound. “Just text him, silly, and you can tell us now.”
“That’s rude,” Nick told her. She frowned at him.
“I don’t have a French SIM card for my phone yet or I would,” I said.
“We can help you get one. Right, Nick?”
He nodded. “Absolutely.”
“Wow, that’d be excellent,” I said. “I can’t do anything without my phone. I’m about to lose my mind.”
“Okay, but we have to go to school now.” Sophie took Nick’s hand and pulled him toward the elevator.
“Hang on,” Nick told her, turning back to me.
“You have school?” I stepped out from behind the door. Sophie giggled.
Nick gave me a smile and an eye roll. “The French believe in the maximum-torture method of education. We’ve got three more weeks.”
“Ouch.”
“We can help you after school,” Sophie said. She leaned close to me and stage-whispered, “Do you have a shirt that doesn’t have ducks on it that you can wear?”
“Sophie,” Nick said. “That’s rude.”
I laughed. “It’s okay. This is just for at home. I would never go out into Paris looking like this. There’s probably a law against it.”
One corner of Nick’s mouth quirked upward. “Decree number 177 of 22 April 1693. It is forbidden upon pain of death to go forth into the streets, avenues, boulevards, passages, alleys, byways, or other ways paved or unpaved wearing clothing upon which humorous waterfowl are emblazoned.”
I snorted out a laugh, and he grinned at me.
Sophie tugged his hand. “We’re gonna be late.”
“Just a sec,” he told her. Then, to me: “Is after school today okay? Like a little after five?”
“They make you go to school till five p.m.?”
Nick’s face went tired and serious for a moment. “Like I said, torture is a curriculum component here.”
“Wow. Okay. Yeah, a little after five sounds great.”
—
At six p.m., we were having Cokes in a sidewalk café with a red awning on a busy, tree-lined boulevard.
My phone worked, I had a booklet of Métro tickets, and Nick and Sophie had shown me how to navigate the closest station.
I took a photo of them and texted it to Dad over the caption, “Nick and Sophie—our neighbors who helped me get my phone working and figure out the Métro.”
“I can’t wait to meet them,” he texted back. I told him we were invited for dinner with their family as soon as he got home, and then Sophie wanted to know what he looked like, so he texted a very dadly selfie of himself in an office.
“He’s got a big nose,” she said when I handed her my phone.
“Rude again,” Nick said.
“Dad’s terrible at selfies. His nose is fine in real life,” I assured her.
“Tell him I think he looks…friendly,” she said, handing my phone back.
“Good save,” Nick told her. She smirked at him.
—
And the first thing she said when we walked through their door Friday night for dinner was “Tosh was right. Your nose is fine.”
“Thank you,” he said solemnly. “I’ve always felt that way about it.”
“We’re having un apéro,” she informed him.
We followed her into the living room and discovered that it was French for “an appetizer.” Nick’s mom handed around the olives and charcuterie, which Sophie translated for us as “salami and stuff,” while his dad poured wine for the adults and Orangina for Nick, Sophie, and me.
“What’s your favorite thing about Paris so far?” Mr. Wallace asked as he handed me the glass.
I thought for a minute. I’d barely arrived, but Paris had already embraced me. “It feels like a city that really likes its people.”
“Intriguing,” Ms. Wallace said, putting her arm around Sophie, who snuggled next to her. “What is it that makes it feel that way to you?”
“It’s really easy to get around on foot.
” She nodded. “And it’s built on a human scale.
Buildings don’t tower over you looking down their noses at you because they’re immense and you’re not.
I haven’t seen a building yet that was over six stories.
And so many of them have pretty details—carvings or wrought iron work or doors—just so people have something nice to look at.
There are so many street trees. There are unexpected tiny parks.
The best thing, though, is the light. The buildings seem to glow. ”
Dad and I had come to Paris in March to find an apartment.
We’d left sodden, dreary Portland and arrived in rain-soaked Paris, and the first thing I’d noticed was how bright it was despite the rain.
Unlike in Portland, the gloomy sky didn’t hang a foot over my head leaking an endless drool of rain.
We didn’t need streetlights at noon. When I pointed this out to Dad, he gestured to the cream-colored stone buildings that surrounded us.
“Paris is built of limestone,” he said. “And the pale color reflects light.” Portland was made of wood and brick and glass and metal, and they all seemed to get darker in the interminable winter rains.
Maybe it was the way moss and mildew crept across their surfaces. Decay was a constant in Portland.
Nick grinned at me. “I have a friend who talks about buildings like that. It’s one of the reasons we’re friends.”
“Paris just seems so alive and vital.” I sipped my Orangina, which was so fizzy it made my head bubble.
“It is alive,” Nick agreed. “That’s why it’s such an incredible city.” I smiled at him, feeling a tug of connection between us.
The Wallaces were from Minneapolis, and they’d been in Paris for three years.
Nick’s dad was some kind of manager for 3M, and his mom did freelance tech support for small businesses.
Dad told them about how Great Outdoors had just acquired a French recreational gear company and had sent him here to manage the European supply chain.
Ms. Wallace turned to me. “Where will you be going to school, Tosh?”
“école Jarret.” I jiggled the ice cubes around in my glass.
“Oh, Nick goes there. It’s a great school; I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”
“My school’s just down the street,” Sophie volunteered, “but Nick has to walk twenty whole minutes to go to school.”
“So you speak French already, if you’re going to EJ,” Ms. Wallace said.
“Well, I thought I did. I took the entrance exam remotely, back in Portland, and they told me that I’d have to take an accelerated French class over the summer so I could keep up when school starts.”
Nick grimaced. “Ouch.”
“Yeah. I had totally different plans for this summer.”
“Like what?” Sophie asked.
“Oh, you know,” I told her. “Frenchy stuff like sit in cafés and buy glamorous shoes and eat all the pastries. See the Louvre. Get a beret.” Nick made a choking sound.
“Only tourists wear berets,” Sophie informed me, her face serious.
“I see,” I said, matching her solemnity. “Well, I’m going to be in class for half the day and studying for the other half, so I wouldn’t have time to go buy one even if I wanted to look like a tourist.”
“I could help you with your homework,” Nick volunteered. “And if you want to see the Louvre, I could take you tomorrow.” He smiled, and my insides went fluttery.
I smiled back at him. “I’d love that. Thank you.”
“The Nick Wallace Tour Company is at your disposal.”
“You’re not a tour company,” Sophie said.
“I am if Tosh wants me to be.”
“I’d love to tour the Louvre with the Nick Wallace Tour Company,” I said, and we arranged to meet next morning just as Ms. Wallace announced that dinner was ready.
The adults talked about work and the exchange rate and where to find kitchen cabinets over the salmon in butter sauce while Sophie told me about visiting the Astérix theme park.
We’d read some Astérix comics in French class this year, but I didn’t know there was a whole park. I asked her what her favorite ride was.
“Les petits chars,” she said. “I smashed everyone.”
Nick saw my blank look and translated. “Bumper cars. She’s a demon in those things.” She told me about her bumper-car strategy, which was to bang furiously into another car until she scared the driver away, as Ms. Wallace brought dessert out.
“Yum,” Sophie said, and looked at me with a sly smile. “Do you know what this is?” She pointed to the plate in front of me, which held a slice of chocolate cake surrounded by a ruby-colored pool of sauce.
“Looks like chocolate cake?”
“In blood sauce.” She widened her eyes at me, smiled, and nodded hard. Nick groaned.
“It’s your fault,” Mr. Wallace told him.
“It was Halloween,” Nick said. “I was just trying to make it festive for her.”
“Yes, and now every time we have raspberry coulis with anything, it’s blood sauce.”
“It looks like a vampire bit it,” Sophie said around a mouthful of cake. “Did you know that there’s a vampire in Paris?”
Mr. and Ms. Wallace looked at each other. “Where did you hear that?” Mr. Wallace asked.
“Clémence said. She said he bites people on the neck and makes them bleed, and it looks like blood sauce.” She had a ring of chocolate and raspberry around her mouth.
“Clémence is exaggerating, sweetie,” Ms. Wallace said.
She looked uncomfortable. To me and my dad, she explained, “Somebody with a mental illness bit some people recently, although he seems to have stopped now. He’s not a vampire, and the police will find him and help him get treatment so he doesn’t do it again.
” She addressed the last bit to Sophie, who said, “Can I go watch Princess Merida now?”
“Yes,” the Wallaces said in unison, looking relieved.
“Who wants coffee?” Ms. Wallace asked, getting up and starting to clear away plates. Nick and I rose to help.
“Sorry about that,” Mr. Wallace said in a quiet voice. “We had no idea Sophie knew about the attacks.”
Nick and I followed his mom into the kitchen, carrying glasses and silverware. “I’m sorry my sister was annoying,” he said.
I shrugged. “It’s okay. I like cake with blood sauce.”
He grinned. “Next time you come over for dinner, we’ll have ice cream and blood sauce. It’s even better.”