Audrey gasps. “It’s couples’ dancing. I’m not a couple.”
I shrug. “Should have thought of that a few minutes ago.”
I give her a little shove, which she resists. Right in front of us, a man and a woman our parents’ age rub their bodies together while casting each other hungry looks. It’s kinda gross, but they’re very good. When the song stops, he swings his partner back and plants a big wet kiss on her lips.
The look on Audrey’s face is worth the price of admission alone. I shove her once more, and she reluctantly takes two steps forward. She casts me yet another pleading glance, but I have no mercy. In fact, I cannot wait for this show.
That’s how a tall, graceful yet suddenly very awkward American teenager finds herself attempting hip shimmies, barely able to move in the tiny space she carved for herself among middle-aged couples. I’m not saying it’s funny, but several people around me try, and fail, to suppress giggles while whispering to each other. This isn’t an audience plunged in darkness underneath the stage; we’re standing right there. But Audrey soldiers on, focusing on the dancers’ feet as her face turns different shades of red. And, as much as she tries to shake that booty, I think it’s fair to say that salsa is not her calling.
I start to wonder if I should rescue her, but someone else beats me to it. The woman from the couple we were just observing points at Audrey and whispers something in her partner’s ear. Nodding, he steps out to the side as the woman takes Audrey’s hand.
Regarde-moi,she mouths to Audrey, pointing to her feet.Watch me.
Audrey does, and together they practice a few steps back and forth. Then, the woman points at her hips, shifting them from left to right, showing her how it’s done. Audrey’s French has room for improvement, but she understands the language of dance.
So she learns. The woman nods encouragingly, placing her hands on Audrey’s hips to guide her as they go. There’s still tension in her eyes as she focuses, but her shoulders relax, and she’s no longer clenching her jaw. The crowd, who has been studying them closely, starts clapping with a beat. The claps get louder as the woman lifts Audrey’s hand into the air, taking her for a spin. After another go-around, Audrey breaks out into a huge grin. Then she turns to me, beaming. “I’m having fun!” she screams over the music.
I laugh, and so do a few others around. I glance at the crowd, which is only getting thicker. Everyone cozies up together on the narrow sidewalk, young and old, couples or larger groups of friends. That’s when I see him, on the other side of the small circle. Black hair, loose shirt, holding another girl’s hand. I can’t breathe. I never wanted to see him again, but now my heart crunches as I pray he turns around and sees me. It’s been like that since the moment we met: everything I’ve felt about Louis has been completely contradictory. Simple and complicated. Impossible, yet natural. Another song ends, and people shuffle about, including Louis. I clench my fists, trying to figure out what to do.
He turns toward me.
But it’s not Louis. Just someone who looks like him. The realization hits me hard, and I exhale deeply.
Audrey comes over to me, pulling me out of my thoughts. Her partner has gone back to her man for the new song, so she’s alone again.
“Don’t worry, I’m not leaving the dance floor,” she says before I have time to protest. “But now you’re coming withme.”
She grabs my hand and guides me into a dance.
“I want to go home,” I say, my eyes full of unshed tears as I glance back to the Louis lookalike.
“Not happening,” Audrey says with a laugh.
I try to smile, but it probably comes off as a small grimace.
“Come on, Mia,” she says, shimmying around. “Show me what you got.”
I take in the result of my handiwork: Audrey Chapman goofing around on the street, for all of Paris to see.
“Thank you, Mia,” Audrey says as she spins on the spot. She bangs into the couple next to her, but doesn’t seem to care. “This is actually fun. We should do it again.”
I smile, for real this time. I didn’t find love with the perfect French guy, but it looks like I gained an improbable friend along the way.
AFTER OUR FRIDAY-NIGHTsession of street dancing, we agree to take a break from rehearsing for the whole weekend. Strangely enough, it was Audrey who suggested it.
“My body needs to reset once in a while,” she informs our group over breakfast.
Eye rolls are exchanged, then plans are discussed for the day. The girls decide to take a trip to Jardin du Luxembourg, a manicured park with a large pond not far away. We’ve been there before, and I couldn’t believe my eyes the first time. Green metal lounge chairs circle it, making it a perfect spot for sunbathing or picnicking. It’s also a popular spot for children to play with miniature boats—with sails in bright shades of blue, red, green, or yellow—that they push around the water with wooden sticks. Even though the weather is perfect for it, I don’t feel like joiningthe girls. I don’t feel like anything, in fact. I decide I need a day all to myself.
I start by doing laundry, and then check the state of my pointe shoes. They look pretty tired, but half a bottle of glue and many stitches later, they’re ready for Monday, and our last full week of the program. Then I paint my nails, call my parents, and answer texts from a few friends at home. They all think I’m having the time of my life in Paris, so I don’t mention that I’m spending a beautiful summer day inside in my yoga pants. Our dorm provides sandwiches and salads for weekend lunches, which are left in the fridge for us to have on our own schedule. No one else is around, so I eat a sandwich while standing in the empty kitchen in complete silence.
More excitement awaits in the afternoon: after a long nap, I fold the clothes that I’ve scattered around. When I open the drawer of my nightstand to put away my jewelry, I find a small envelope inside. At first I wonder what it is. And then I remember.
It feels like months have passed since Vivienne handed me those pictures. I remember the look on her face that day, full of hope that I would resolve the mystery that’s been on her mind for decades. I sigh as I sit on my bed, studying the photographs. I quickly debate with myself. I only have a short time left in Paris, but I can’t get distracted. I still have the details of the Musée d’Orsay curator that Louis gave me, but I don’t have a “Louis” to do this with anymore. My heart grows heavy as I think about our aborted adventure. But this is my family legend, my history. I don’t need a boy to help me figure out where I came from.
A phone call and a métro ride to the other side of Paris later, I’m perched at the counter of a colorful kitchen, sipping iced black tea opposite Charlotte Ravier, aka Dr. Pastels, a young-looking woman with buoyant red curly hair.
“There is a record of an Élise Mercier dancing at Opéra Garnier from its inauguration in 1875 to 1886,” she informs me. I didn’t tell her much on the phone. As soon as I mentioned Louis’s mom and Degas, she immediately invited me over, saying it’d be easier to discuss it in person. She’s composed and speaks quietly in perfect English, like this is just another day at the office for her. Still, I’m impressed that she managed to find this information since I called her. I guess that’s why she’s the curator of one of the most famous museums in the world.
