“Just a week, huh?” He’s not really asking, though. We both know the deadline we’re facing. Louis sighs and puts his arms around my waist, pulling me close. It feels so good, so right, so perfect, to be against him. Then he kisses me.
He was right about the desserts, and lunch practically puts us in a sugar coma. I love American pastries, and I’m not picky: donuts, carrot cakes, brownies, I’ll have them all. But there’s something special about the French ones, from the shiny glaze on top to the delicate placement of fruits, or the funny names like“religieuse”for a double cream puff pastry, or“Paris-Brest”for what I think might be the ancestor of the Cronut. But, forever brave, we soldier on for partdeuxof our Tour de Degas.
Painting number two is even harder to access. It’s housed at the headquarters of Givenchy, a famous French fashion house, and displayed in the head designer’s office. Under normal circumstances, we wouldn’t be allowed to just pop by, but, luckily, Dr. Pastels helped the company acquire this piece many years ago.
Since it’s Saturday, the building is empty. The only person here is the designer’s assistant, a young guy named Vincent who is wearing a black suit and has a shaved head, and who, thanks to Dr. Pastels’s insistence, has been assigned the task of shepherding us through the building. As we walk past a room-sized closet in which hundreds of couture dresses are hanging, I realize that I could never have found this painting by myself. If Louis hadn’t given me the hope that we could, I’d never be here, so close to coming face to face with yet another masterpiece.
This one is actually a sketch, framed simply in black and taking up half the wall behind the desk. It features three dancers and is so simple—just charcoal on a white canvas—yet incredibly precise. The girls are captured doing aplié,and every detail—from the position of the tutu to the curve of their arms—makes it obvious that Degas wasn’t just an observer. He really understood ballet.
“This is it,” I tell Louis. I can’t explain how I know it. I just do.
The girl in the middle looks so familiar, and soon I realize why. Still, I need to be sure. I pull the picture of Élise Mercier and her two friends from my bag. Louis takes it from me and places it on the wall near the drawing, while Vincent frowns at us. I’m guessing he’s not a Degas fan.
“Look,” I say, comparing each girl in the photo with one in the drawing. “Their height matches.”
We stare at each other, smiles gradually spreading over our faces.
Louis studies the sketch again, and then nods slowly. “This is your ancestor.”
I take a deep breath as my eyes well up. I haven’t forgotten what Dr. Pastels said. There’s no way to be certain. But my heart knows. Louis knows. We’re standing in front of a Degas sketch of my great-great-great-grandmother, adanseuse étoileat the Paris Opera. My family legend is true. There isn’t the shadow of a doubt in my mind.
“See,” he whispers in my ear, like he can read my thoughts, “ballet is your destiny.”
Louis exchanges a few words with Vincent, and mentions me taking a picture. Vincent’s eyes grow wide with disgust, as if Louis had asked if I could just scrunch up the sketch and put it in my pocket.
“Ah non!”Vincent says sharply.“Ce n’est pas possible!” No way! That’s not possible.
“Je comprends,”Louis replies.I understand.But then he winks at me. As he continues talking to him, I notice that Louis is slowly turning his back to me, obstructing Vincent’s view of my hands. Seizing the opportunity, I slowly slip my phone out of my bag and take a few discreet snaps. I can’t quite see what I’m doing, but when I glance at my screen before putting my phone away, I see that it worked. Élise Mercier’s Degas will be with me forever.
“How do you feel?” Louis asks, taking my hand in his when we’re back outside, walking along a busy boulevard.
Nervous about the upcoming show. Over the moon that we found the Degas we were looking for. Sad about leaving Paris soon. Excited about this wonderful day with him. And then confused about all of the above.
“Happy,” I finally say, smiling. It’s definitely the word that sums it up best.
“Me too,” he replies, running a hand through my hair. Then he presses his lips on mine. The usual Mia would feel self-conscious about all the strangers witnessing this moment. But Miala Parisiennejust fills with glee and butterflies.
I want this day to go on forever, but since that’s not possible, I opt for the next best thing: making it unforgettable.
“You’re going to call me a tourist again,” I start, immediately bringing a smile to Louis’s lips, “but I can’t see a Ferris wheel andnotgo for a ride. I’ve been thinking about it ever since we walked past it the other night.”
“Going up in the sky is not touristy,” Louis replies seriously. “It’s romantic.”
Louis and I sit next to each other in the pod, admiring the view. Every time I spot a monument I know—the Arc de Triomphe, the Sacré-Cœur, or the Tour Eiffel—I can’t help but squeal, making Louis laugh. His body feels warm against mine, and I shiver as his lips press against my neck.
“Today has been amazing,” I say with a sigh.
“It really has.”
“Every day with you has been amazing,” I continue, my voice catching in my throat. “I don’t want to leave.”
My heartbeat goes on a ride of its own as Louis just stares deeply into my eyes.
“Then don’t,” he says, so quietly that I almost wonder if I’m imagining it.
I take a deep breath, but I know this isn’t the moment for promises or life decisions. I just want to enjoy what Louis and I have, for as long as we have it. And right now, what I have is the chance to kiss Louis in the sky.
ON MONDAY MORNING,we’re all a little giddy as we get to school. For once, we won’t be putting on our leotards and heading straight into a dance session. Instead, the entire cast ofSwan Lakeis scheduled for our final costume fittings. I, for one, have never been so excitednotto dance.
