I had taken a picture of the paper with my phone after she left, then forgot all about it. Until now.
I scroll through my photos until I see the cursive scrawl of my grandmother’s handwriting. I know I promised, but I don’treallywant to call up a random relative who I can’t even have a conversation with, do I?
Even though it’s getting late, I can’t go back just yet. The light is glorious—soft and a little fuzzy, like I’m seeing the city through a vintage lens. I’ve gone to New York City many times—it’s only a short train ride away—but it seems so harsh in comparison. Paris is just…different. There are so many things to look at: the tidy newspaper kiosks on the sidewalks, the little blue placards with street names onthesides of buildings, the vintage wrought-iron signs for the métro stations.
I find myself on a bustling street, packed with bistros and restaurants. It’s so narrow that people and motor scooters fight to share the space. Tiny round marble tables flanked with checkered rattan chairs spill onto the street. The chairs face outward, and people sit next to one another, watching the world go by.
Just then, a man wearing thick-rimmed glasses and a cap pulls out a few coins, drops them on his table, and leaves. I rush to take his place, sliding into the black-and-white woven chair. Sitting next to me is a woman with several shopping bags at her feet, talking quietly on her cell phone. A baguette peaks out of one of her bags, and my mouth waters at the intoxicating smell of fresh bread. Would she notice if I tore off a piece? I’m kidding. Sort of.
The waiter, dressed in a white shirt and black apron, looks just a couple of years older than me. He’s kind of cute,in a rumpled sort of way. I hope he ignores me for now, because I don’t know what I want. Or rather, I don’t know what I’m supposed to want. What do glamorous French girls order to drink? The woman next to me covers her phone with her hand. She turns to the waiter and says,“Un Perrier rondelle, s’il vous plaît.”
The waiter nods and walks off. I repeat the words under my breath.“Un Perrier rondelle, s’il vous plaît.”I do it over and over again, trying to mimic her accent, to remember where she put the intonations.
After a few minutes, the waiter comes back with a small green bottle of sparkling water. He pours it in a tall glass with a slice of lemon on the rim. He also places a bowl of chips and the check on her table. The woman thanks him with a nod before going back to her conversation. It’s not that difficult, I tell myself. I can do this.
The waiter then turns to me to take my order.“Et vous, mademoiselle?” And you, miss?
It sounds formal, but kind of charming, too. He smiles as he waits for me to answer. I smile back.
“Vous avez choisi?”He asks if I know what I want, not taking his eyes off me. Come on, Mia, focus. I sit up straight, holding my head high—nevernota ballerina—and say,“Un Perrier rondelle, s’il vous plaît.”
“Tout de suite,”he answers.Coming right up.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t pause. He understood me on my first try. I beam.
Two minutes later, he returns with my drink, and I swear he takes as much time as possible to put everything down. His eyes flick up toward mine, and the hint of a smile is forming on his lips. Is he flirting with me?
“C’est mon premier jour à Paris,”I say in a way that I hope sounds kind of cute.It’s my first day in Paris.
“La chance!”he responds.Lucky you!
I nod and bite my lower lip. Someone a few tables away tries to wave him over, but he doesn’t move. Okay, Mia, enough. You’ve never had time for boyfriends before, remember? That’s what I told Cameron, anyway, after we dated for a few weeks last winter. His family lives down the street from mine, but between school and ballet, it just didn’t work.
I’ll admit it was nice at first, having a boyfriend. After each date, Cameron would send me a song link that reminded him of me. Then he started suggesting we spend more time together and got grumpy whenever I left to go to ballet. I liked him, but…I got kind of annoyed about that. One night we stayed out until midnight, chatting and kissing after a movie. The next day I missed my alarm and got to my Saturday ballet class late. My teacher didn’t let me in, even after I pleaded with her. I broke up with Cameron that afternoon.
“À bientôt, j’espère,”the waiter says as he starts to back away.See you soon, I hope.
His eyes linger on me for another second, and my heart flutters.
“Merci,”I say. My cheeks must be bright pink.
Sipping at my sparkling water, I lean back in the squeaky chair and let the moment wash over me. I look at the reddening sky. The sun sets so late over here, like the evenings know that they’re magical and should last for as long as possible. I breathe in the warm, sweet air of summer. And the best part? It’s only day one. Hello, Paris. I’ve arrived.
“TO SUCCEED HERE,you must understand that there will be no downtime, no room for error,” Monsieur Dabrowski informs us as we take position at the barre for our first class of the afternoon. “You have been given an incredible opportunity. Do not waste it. I want to see complete dedication to your craft, starting right now.”
I definitely want to be fully dedicated to my craft starting right now, but I’m not sure my body is up to the task. I barely slept last night, after my dreamy evening of wandering around Paris making eyes at cute waiters (okay, just the one). Now my limbs feel stiff. Mom had warned me about the effects of jet lag, but I had sort of assumed I’d be too excited to feel it. I was wrong. At least, I’m lucky that classes are taught in English and that I don’t have to rack my brain to understand what our revered teacher is saying.
Lucy shoots me a furtive glance. I know we’re thinking the same thing. Monsieur Dabrowski was all anyone wanted to talk about last night at dinner. We had all heard the rumors prior to arriving in Paris. Monsieur Dabrowski can make or break your career. He makes dancers cry sometimes. He only wears black to avoid distractions. He never compliments students during class.
So far he is exactly what I expected, especially after watching the few movies he’s been in. He always plays the role of a ballet dancer or choreographer, and he looks just as mysterious and cold in real life as he does onscreen.
“I am going to be observing each and every one of you. I want to see how you move, where your weaknesses are. Did you give everything you had in your five-minute audition video, or do you have what it takes to survive six weeks of intensive ballet? Will you be one of the swans in the final performance? Will you have a chance to shine in front of the entire school?”
The jet lag hits me again as he talks, my mouth going dry and my eyelids growing heavy. Eachrelevéburns my calves, even though I stretched for almost an hour last night after dinner. Audrey had insisted I couldn’t do it in our room, because she needed total peace and quiet, so I had grabbed my foam roller and spread myself out on the floor of the communal living area along with a few other girls. We grimaced in unison as our respective hamstrings suffered from the pressure.
I wonder how Audrey is doing, and if Monsieur Dabrowski was even tougher with her morning class. He’s themaître de balletfor level five, but assesses the top two levels on the first day, which means that this is our first and last class with him. Thankfully.
My neck cracks as I turn my head. I want to roll it out so badly, but I resist. There’s no way I’ll admit to feeling off in front of him. The bottoms of my feet are sore from all the walking I did yesterday, and my shoulders are tight. It’s like every part of my body is paying the price for my hot date with Paris. Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed out so long at that café, letting the warm summer air brush my face, and hoping the waiter would come back to check on me. And when he did, twice, I told myself that it was a great opportunity to practice my French, but I may have been carried away by the excitement of being in the most romantic city in the world. I liked this idea of Mia Jenrow,Parisienne-in-training, engaging in witty banter with a cute guy on a gorgeous summer night. I felt grown-up, charming, daring, and totally unlike myself. Now I just feel tired.
