“You ready to get to work?” Jay says. I pull my composition book out of my backpack.
“Definitely,” I say. Side by side, we sit for hours on the bench, writing down everything we can think of to say about Ingres. I fill half my composition book.
As a safeguard against any unforeseen disasters, I try to party-proof the apartment when I get home from the Louvre. This turns out to be no easy task, what with the Marquets’ collection of hugely expensive housewares and
objets d’arts
. I should cancel the whole thing. But I can’t back out and risk everyone’s suspicion. Alex and Zack will be so mad at me. I don’t want to lose our budding friendship.
As I’m debating whether to lock the china cabinets or just empty them and put all the dishes under my bed for safekeeping, the doorbell rings.
“Zack! You’re early.” I usher him into the apartment. “Where’s your better half?”
“Oh, you mean Alex?” Zack says as he gapes at the Marquets’ opulent apartment. “Alex is still at her house getting ready. I needed a little breather from her so I thought I would see if you needed help setting up.” He whistles. “This place is sensational. I had no idea. Though . . .” Zack marches into the living room and spins around.
“Can I make some changes?” he finally asks. “I mean, can we move some things around? Editorially, I’m just not loving the use of space here.”
Editorially?
“Sure,” I agree.
Zack opens a beer and chugs it. “Beer really gets my creative juices flowing.”
“Whatever works.”
As Zack and I move the purple velvet French Empire sofa against the window, he also tells me that Jay might be a little late to the party.
“But he’s definitely coming,” Zack reassures me, though I wasn’t worried to begin with. Honestly, one less guest would actually be a comfort to me right now.
“Oh, PJ,” Zack says as he takes notice of the portrait over the fireplace. “I know the French aristocracy love their ancestors and all, but that man is just plain repugnant. Can we cover him for the party? Or better yet, move him to an undisclosed location?”
“Don’t you dare touch that portrait, Zack,” I say warningly. Mme Marquet treats that portrait like a lost relic from Noah’s Ark, regarding it with almost religious reverence. She even cleans it herself for fear of Sonia damaging it. “Whatever you do, stay away from the portrait.”
“Fine, fine, the old geezer can stay,” Zack says, backing away from the fireplace. I notice he’s already on his second beer. “So what do you think of Jay? I’m just wondering.”
“Jay?” I say. “We’re partners for the Louvre project, but otherwise I don’t really know him. Seems nice though.” I turn away from the framed photos I’m storing in the bureau to look at him. “Why do you ask?”
Zack blushes, looking guilty. “No reason,” he says quickly, but he can’t hide a small smile. “I’m going to check over the kitchen really quickly.”
Did Zack see Jay take my hand at the Louvre today? Could he and Alex have been in the gallery when I almost fainted and Jay took off my scarf for me?
Aside from having moved all the furniture in the living room around “to create a better flow” (Zack’s words, not mine), Zack’s presence here is a little odd. Since when does he need a “breather” from the magnificent Alex anyways? Likely story.
Is it possible that Zack’s trying to set me up with Jay?
I think as I hear the doorbell ring. The chimes sound ominous to me. Here we go.
“PJ! You have more guests!” Zack shouts from the foyer, pushing Olivia toward me, surrounded by a group of older kids I’ve never seen before.
“Livvy!” It’s not like Olivia to bring guests without asking me, especially when I just talked to her on the phone about the party last night. She leans in to hug me hello with an apologetic grimace.
“Thomas is my host brother,” she explains, gesturing toward a tall, thin guy in a corduroy blazer. “These are his friends, fellow students at the Sorbonne. Sorry I didn’t tell you about them before! I hope you don’t mind.”
Each of the friends grabs me for a
bise
—the familiar French kisses on the cheek—without really registering my name. Olivia giggles. “We had a few drinks before we came over.”
“You did?” I ask, a little surprised. Olivia’s such a health nut she usually steers clear of booze. Tonight, however, she opens a beer before even taking off her jacket.
“Well, just one. I’ve been so antsy sitting at my house, waiting for my ankle to heal,” she complains. “Right, Thomas?”
“
Oui, oui,
mademoiselle
,
” Thomas jokes. “The doctor prescribed
kir royales
. So that is what the mademoiselle shall have!”
Olivia finds Thomas’s wit truly exceptional. “Thomas is a medical student. Get it?”
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“Hey,” Olivia leans over to me and whispers. “Before I forget. My host mom was talking about your host parents today! With some friends that she had over for tea.”
“Oh, really?” I say, going a little pallid at the mention of the Marquets.
“All the ladies think M. Marquet is just the most handsome,” she laughs. “You should have heard them all going on about him today.”
I wrinkle my nose. M. Marquet is an old man, over fifty. “Anyway,” she goes on, “he was this legendary bachelor until Mme Marquet snagged him a few years back. There’s a rumor that by the time she married him, he’d practically gambled away the entire family fortune in Monte Carlo! But now that he’s the magistrate of the Dordogne, she keeps him on the straight and narrow.”
This is odd, talking to Olivia about the Marquets like this. I feel paranoid that they might be listening somehow. “That’s just chitchat,” I say. “The Marquets are loaded. Can’t you tell?” I gesture to the affluence surrounding us.
Olivia looks embarrassed, like she didn’t mean to gossip but couldn’t help herself. “I’m sure,” she says. “They’re being nice to you, right?”
I nod. “Of course. I’m gonna go check on the other people who just came in.” I leave her with her older friends, not sure how to process what she just told me. Are the Marquets really hurting for money? It makes the train ticket they bought for me that much sweeter.
Zack’s already ushering in more guests, acting as the de facto host, offering drinks and showing people how to get to the balcony to smoke.
Placing a beer into my hand, Zack drunkenly gives me a
bise
himself. “PJ! Lighten up, my dear,” he slobbers into my ear. “I think Jay will be here soon.”
I swig my beer without answering him, registering with discomfort that the party has grown in mere minutes from a small get-together to a raucous house party complete with a game of beer pong being set up on the antique cherry wood refectory table in the dining room. “No!” I dash over to stop them, imagining long, crusty beer stains eating through the three-hundred-year-old varnish, but I’m intercepted by Alex, who’s decked out in a brown satin jumpsuit with her red stilettos. The collared halter top stretches low to reveal ample cleavage and the barest hint of a brown lace bra.
“Great party, doll,” she compliments me. “It’s like Bungalow 8 in here. I’m so proud of you. Our little girl is growing up so fast!” She pinches my cheeks. “Is George here yet?”
“Haven’t seen him.”
“Oh, too bad. I wonder where he is?” Alex ducks as Zack tosses her a beer from where he’s standing near the fridge, talking to Sara-Louise. Luckily, she catches it before it crashes to the floor. “Anyway—I told you the party would be fine. What were you so worried about? This from the girl who got the cops off our tail in Le Marais that night. You’re a pro, PJ. I’d think this would be baby stuff for you,” Alex tells me as she attempts to pop off the top of the beer with a lighter.
“Give me that,” I say, opening the beer with a bottle opener I have on my keychain in my pocket. The bottle opener says Harvard on it—Dave gave it to Annabel as a joke. Neither of them would ever get into Harvard if they tried. They are both high school dropouts. Along with
Madame Bovary
, I took the keychain with me in my backpack to Paris.
I think about what Alex said while we stand there, drinking beer and surveying the crowd. At the time, Alex looked so pissed about what I said to get the cops to go away. She’d never thanked me for saving her ass. I guess I’m a little bit pleased that she really does realize she’d have been toast if not for me.
“Did you not have time to change?” Alex asks me, looking down at my jeans and cardigan, the same thing I wore to the Louvre today.
Never mind. Alex has not changed a bit since her first bitchy days at the Lycée. She wanders off to find Zack again.
Pretty soon, the Marquets’ apartment is packed with people, most of whom I’ve never seen before. George and Drew are here, tucked into a game of Kings with Patty and Tina in the dining room. I guess Alex will stumble upon them soon enough.
I go to the guest bathroom off the foyer to collect my thoughts. I splash cold water on my face, soaking the front of my white T-shirt. I never wear makeup. Tonight, I wish I had some. My eyes are sunken and hollow. I realize I didn’t have anything to eat all day. You can see it in my face.
My mom always told me to inhale for three counts, then exhale for six counts, ten times. No matter what, you’ll feel better, she always told me. I wonder if that tactic is making her feel any better right now. It’s not really working all that well for me.
I step out of the bathroom, running into a long line of waiting partygoers. The girls glare at me for taking so long.
“It’s
my
party,” I bark at them. “It’s
my
house. I can take as long as I want.”
“Doctor’s orders!” I hear Olivia’s host-brother yell over the energetic pop-punk record one of his friends has spinning in the Marquet’s ancient turntable. “I have to carry you everywhere you want to go!”
I go back into the living room and see Thomas, whose tweed jacket has been tossed aside, carrying Olivia on his back around the living room, piggyback style. The portrait above the mantle stares down at the party in extreme disapproval.
“Let’s get more beer!” she cries with glee. “Take me to the fridge!”
“No, Olivia!” I shout as I see what’s about to happen.
Olivia’s outstretched, pointed foot whacks firmly into the oversized antique vase on the end table Zack and I just moved across the room for safety’s sake, pushing it off its stand and shattering it all over the marble floor.
“Oh, no she didn’t. That wasn’t a
Ming
vase, was it?” Alex says in horror, for once her face registering a stricken look appropriate to the situation. “Oh, God, PJ.”
Thomas and Olivia tumble to the floor, wasted and barely coherent. “Olivia!” I yell. “Look what you did!”
“Oh, Peej,” Olivia mumbles sloppily. “I’m so sorry . . . I made Thomas carry me because my ankle was hurting so bad . . . . Didn’t you carry me, Thomas?” She giggles, pulling herself onto her knees and crawling over to Thomas in hysterics. He reaches out for her and pulls her on top of him.
What happened to Vince?
I wonder briefly as I gather the pieces of the vase into a paper bag and take them into the kitchen.
Jay must have arrived sometime in all the madness. He follows me into the kitchen, obviously concerned.
“I can’t talk right now,” I say, without meeting his eyes. “Olivia and some college guy just broke this vase. Alex thinks it was super expensive.”
“No, I know,” he says. “I just thought that I could help you clean up. . . .”
“I’m so stupid,” I say bitterly, spreading out the larger pieces of the broken vase onto the kitchen table. “I thought I might be able to put the vase back together, but this is hopeless. I’ve always hated putting puzzles together.”
“I like puzzles okay,” Jay comments, surveying the pieces. “Some puzzles are more satisfying to figure out than others, though.”
Jay takes the dustpan out of my hand and holds it for me so that I can sweep the smaller shards into the waste basket in the kitchen.
“Listen, PJ,” Jay says kindly. “Just because you broke the vase doesn’t mean you had a party. You could even—you could blame it on your maid. An apartment like this surely must have a housekeeper, am I right?”
“What?” I choke out. “Are you kidding? What kind of person do you think I am?”
Jay chuckles. Not for the first time, I notice what a nice smile he has. “My mom cleans houses. You should see the stuff she has to take the flack for. It sucks, but it’s kind of part of the job description. Don’t sweat this. I’m sure your host parents could afford another. No one would blame you if you were forced to tell a little white lie to save yourself.”
Jay’s right. The vase—Ming vase or not—was an accident. I would never blame it on Sonia, but the Marquets don’t necessarily have to find out about the party. It’s not like the Marquets ever have to know that Olivia was overcome by a sudden and out-of-character wild streak and knocked it over as she was being seduced by some older dude who’s not her boyfriend. I could pretend I knocked it over trying to get a better look at it during a quiet weekend night at home.
No one would blame you if you were forced to tell a little white lie . . .
Tears pricking my eyes, I look at Jay. He’s so sweet, so chill. I wonder if he does like me; if what Zack was hinting at was true. Will there ever be a point this year where I could get beyond all the things on my mind and explore whether or not I like him back?
I imagine him taking me on a date, maybe coming over here to work on the Louvre project instead of meeting at the library at the Lycée. In my mind we’re walking down the Boulevard de Courcelles with the leaves on the trees turning orange and red and yellow; we’re passing the Parc Monceau as the schoolkids in plaid uniforms climb all over the statues. I’d have my periwinkle hat on, the one that my mom knitted for me last winter from wool she’d shorn and spun herself. Jay would be wearing his North Face beanie, and we’d both be wearing our Converse sneakers. About the same height, with his dark coloring and my pale skin and hair, we’d make a cute couple. In my fantasy of us, I’d ask him questions about growing up in Guatemala before he moved to the U.S. in kindergarten, and I could tell him all about my parents, and Annabel, and how everything got so messed up. And he wouldn’t scorn me, or want nothing to do with me.