Monsieur Dabrowski lets out a frustrated sigh. “Level five students wear the classic leotard from Repetto, white and sleeveless. It’s a tradition at our school.”
“I don’t have a white leotard,” I say in a whisper. “I’m not sure if I can get one tonight—” I’m about to say more when the look of contempt on his face stops me.
“The rules apply to all, Mademoiselle Jenrow. There will be no exceptions. Being assigned to level five is a badge of honor.”
“Iamhonored! Very, very honored. It’s just that…”
“That what?”
I look down, but I can feel his gaze burning through the top of my head. “I swear I’ll do my best,” I add, desperate.
For a brief moment I think that I could borrow one from Audrey, but aside from the fact that we’re not the same size, I can’t imagine she’d be so generous as to save my butt.
Monsieur Dabrowski clicks his tongue. “It sounds like your best might not be good enough. Please don’t make me regret my decision.”
“I won’t, Monsieur Dabrowski. I promise.”
And to keep this promise, I’m going to scour this city for as long as I have to, until I get my hands on that mythical leotard.Ready, steady…
GO.THE MAPon my phone says that it will take approximately twenty-four minutes to get to the Repetto store, which closes in half an hour. Now is probably a good time to start panicking. I type in a few more searches, sweat coating my palms. There’s another location a few blocks away from school, but it’s already closed for the day.
I take one more look at the map, stumble down the main stairs, and rush to the exit. I jerk the front door open, but don’t see the leather satchel on the steps until my foot slips over it. I catch myself just in time—any ballerina worth her tutu has perfect balance—but the contents of the bag go flying.
“Aargh!” I cry out.
“Enfin!”a boy shouts.Finally.
The shout belongs to a guy about my age who’s standing at the bottom of the steps, staring at his stuff, which has now gone everywhere.
I do not have time for this.
“Oh, c’est pas toi,”the boy mutters to himself when he looks up and sees me.It’s not you.
He’s not very tall, probably average height—but that’s the only average thing about him. He has a lanky frame, his creased linen shirt billowing around him; thick, dark brown hair falling over one eye; and a mesmerizing dimple, even as he frowns.
I stare at him blankly, so he switches to English. “You’re not…Never mind.”
To be clear, my total state of confusion is not about his French. Okay, it’s a little bit about the French, but it’s mainly because he might be the most beautiful, no, cute, no, charming, no, sexy, no, gorgeous guy I have ever laid eyes on.
Ever.
Yes, that’s a bold statement, but he is. Enough to freeze me in space. Enough to render me speechless. Enough to make me forget what I’m supposed to be doing.
“British?” the boy asks, coming up the school steps. He glances at the objects scattered on the ground—his keys, a phone charger, sunglasses—and I realize that I should stop staring and help him pick them up. I kneel down beside him, and our hands almost touch as we both reach for his keys.
“American,” I answer. My throat catches, and it comes out in a raspy, barely audible, totally not attractive way. To top it off, I’m pretty sure that I’ve turned bright red, and I can’t blame that solely on my talk with Monsieur Dabrowski and my race down the stairs.
“Américaine,”I correct myself.“Mon français…pas très bon.”I cringe. I must sound like a child. Surely the first rule of learning the language is that you should be able to say in proper French that you don’t speak French properly.
“It’s good enough,” he responds in perfect English, his accent slick and not too pronounced. “Most girls here still can’t speak a word of French by the time they leave.”
The boy jams his belongings in the satchel and hangs it over his shoulder. As he stands up, he glances behind me to the front door, squinting to see through the glass.
“Je prends des leçons sur…umm, I have an app,” I say, attempting a cute smile as I stand up, too. A few other things I should be taking lessons in: how to soundcharmanteon any occasion, and how to get to the other side of Paris while staying right here, smiling at this mysterious boy. Oh, and how to figure out if I’ll see him again without sounding like a creep. So, basically, learning charm, teleportation, and mind reading. French may be easier after all.
“I’m Louis, by the way,” the boy says with a little wave.
He pronounces it Loo-ee, the French way.Obviously.It’s so unbearably cute that I wish he would say it one more time.
