For a while I follow a group of girls my age, who are laughing hard and regularly tapping each other on the arm in a teasing way, as they keep mentioning“ce mec.”Intrigued, I edge closer to them as I search the word in my app. It’s slang and meansthat guy.They’re talking about boy troubles. I feel a pang of guilt as I think back to breakfast. I haven’t told a soul about Louis, not even my friends back home. I know it makes me sound paranoid, but I’m afraid that if I even put it in a text, one of the girls at the dorm will find out, and my life will be over: the program, performing Odile, and my chances with ABT.
The crowd around the Pyramide du Louvre is even thicker than in front of Notre-Dame. The contrast between the striking triangular glass structure and the traditional building is fascinating, and I spend some time doing what everyone else seems to be doing—taking selfies. I wish I had someone to share this with, because it’s so much more beautiful in real life than on my phone screen.
I mosey over to Rue Saint-Honoré, a street lined with gorgeous boutiques.
Looking around, it seems every girl on the sidewalk is dressed like she has just stepped out of a magazine. Silk dresses, elaborate strappy sandals, and designer handbags seem to be the norm around these parts. I feel more self-conscious with every step.
It was fine for Louis to be all mysterious, and I have nothing against surprises, but they do present one big problem: what do you wear when you don’t know what you’re going to do? In the end, I decided to play it safe and settled on a black sleeveless cotton jumpsuit, brown wedge sandals, and a ponytail.
By the time I arrive close to Opéra Garnier, I’ve come to the conclusion that my outfit is all kinds of wrong. When I left the dorm, I felt like I could almost pass for a trueParisienne,but now it’s clear that I don’t even qualify as a pale imitation.
Before I have a full-on panic attack, I tell myself two things: I’m an hour early for our date, and I just happen to be right around the corner from some of the world’s best department stores. Grandma Joan gave me special “Paris money” before I left and made me promise I would treat myself. Now seems like a perfect time to do just that.
Galeries Lafayette is bustling with people, and my head quickly spins. There are so many corners with various brands—most of which I’ve never heard of—and I don’t even know where to start. After I check the directory, I go up the escalators, past a floor dedicated to luxury jewelry, and another for high-end designers. Finally I come to a section that looks more my style, and my budget. I’m not much of a shopper—unless we take my large collection of non-white leotards into consideration—and I quickly realize that I have no idea what I’m doing.
I’ve been browsing, overwhelmed, for ten minutes when a salesgirl in her early twenties—with bleached blond hair, rings on every finger, and a name tag labeledKim—approaches me.
“Je peux vous aider?”she asks with a kind smile.Can I help you?
“Non,”I say quickly. I don’t know what else to say.
But she smiles even deeper.“Vous cherchez quelque chose de particulier?” Are you looking for something specific?
“Well, uh,”I start. I look down at my outfit and picture Louis. How do you say,I want his jaw to drop all the way to the groundin French? “J’ai un‘date.’ ”
She chuckles and switches to English. “You have a romantic rendezvous with a guy?” She smiles, like she’s excited for the challenge.
I nod. “Oui,and I…kind of want to impress him.” Even though she’s a total stranger, it’s nice to finally tell someone about Louis.
“Come with me,” she says, leading me through a few racks. “I have some ideas.”
I watch in awe as she pulls out half a dozen items in quick and precise moves. The way her hands flick the hangers off and hook them on her arms, and how she twirls around the space she clearly knows so well, it almost looks like a dance.
Moments later, she sets me up in a changing room with her loot.
“I’ll come back to check on you in a minute,” she says.
I take a deep breath and start scanning the pieces she picked out. There’s a black dress with tiny polka dots, a short-sleeved white shirt, slim pink pants, a silky floral blouse that feels as light as air, among others. They all look really nice, but I’m not sure any of them are my style. Maybe that’s the point?
“How are you doing in here?” Kim suddenly asks from behind the curtain.
I pop my head out, and she notices that I’m still dressed in my boring black jumpsuit.
“I don’t know where to start,” I say with a laugh.
She smiles and slips inside the changing room with me. She studies each piece carefully, and pouts. “The real question is, how do you want him to see you? This dress is flirty and romantic, but this shirt would look great with the buttons half-undone for a kind of sexy look.”
She pauses, waiting for me to weigh in.
“Sexy sounds good, but nottoosexy, right?”
She looks almost offended. “Of course not! Sexy the French way. Suggestive, sensual, but never too much.”
I chuckle. “I want that.”
“Wait!” she says, struck by an idea.
She runs off and comes back a moment later with a slinky, no-frills navy dress with a V-neckdécolletéand spaghetti straps. It looks almost like lingerie, but the fabric seems so luscious that I can’t help but immediately stroke it. It’s buttery soft, and I don’t want to take my hands off it.
