“Trust me,” the salesgirl says firmly.
I do, and even before I exit the changing room, I feel like there’s not enough fabric on my body. I step outside, feeling like I should use my arms to cover the rest of the bare skin.
“I feel kind of naked,” I say, staring at myself in the mirror.
Kim says nothing, just studies me from top to bottom. I spin around, thinking that of course I can’t wear this out, but also, it feels good.Ifeel good.
“Can I be honest with you?” Kim asks.
I nod, not taking my eyes off my reflection in the mirror.
“You have amazing legs, so I would definitely show them off. And look at the fit around your butt.”
It’s true—the smooth fabric flows perfectly around my curves.
“But…,” I say.
She raises her index finger, silently telling me to hold that thought. Then she steps inside the changing room, retrieves the white shirt, and helps me slip into it. She does up just two of the buttons, ties the ends in a knot at my waist, and then pulls on the dress a little to adjust the whole look.
“There,” she says, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “How do you feel?”
I stare in the mirror. “Is it wrong if I say that I feel kind of hot?”
She laughs and retrieves a shoebox that I’m only just noticing. “And now, my favorite trick: sexy outfit, casual shoes. It’s the best way to look like you just threw an outfit on, even if you’re wearing a ball gown.”
She opens the box to reveal a pair of navy espadrilles. I’ve seen girls wearing these all over town with everything from fancy dresses to smart pants.
I slip them on—she guessed my size correctly—and feel immediately at ease, like I’m standing on sand.
“One last thing,” she says, reaching behind me. She pulls on my hair tie, and my waves cascade around my shoulders.
As I study my reflection, my stomach fills with butterflies. I know I’m supposed to dress for myself. This is about me, not about what a boy might think. But Louis always seems so confident that I sometimes wonder why he’s hanging out with me. Today I want to feel like he looks: dashing, irresistible, and like Paris is my oyster. I cannot wait for him to see me like this.
“WOW,” LOUIS SAYSwhen I meet him at the corner of Boulevard Haussmann and rue Drouot, a few minutes away from Opéra Garnier. His eyes sparkle as he keeps taking me in. “Did you do something to your hair?”
“Not really,” I say, giving myself a mental high five.
“Oh. Well, you look great,” Louis says. “Reallygreat.” He lingers on me for another moment, his lips pursing. That look alone was worth breaking the bank.
“Thank you,” I say with a casual shrug. My old outfit is tucked inside a tote bag swinging from my shoulder, but there’s no way I’m admitting to the sartorial crisis I just went through.
“So what are we doing here?” I ask.
Not that I want to switch the topic from how good I look, but Iamcurious. I did some Googling when Louis gave me our meeting point, but it didn’t give me too many clues.
Louis starts walking down the smaller street, and I follow.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about your family legend,” hesays.
“Really?” I ask, intrigued.
We stop in front of a modern glass building covered in red flags stamped withDROUOT AUCTION HOUSE. A few older people, holding catalogues with the same color and lettering, walk past us and go inside.
“Come,” Louis says, following them.
“Are you going to tell me why we’re here?” I ask.
“We,” he whispers, grabbing my hand and leading me through the hall, which is packed with well-to-do gray-haired people, “are at an auction house, the most famous one in Paris.”
