“I’m…,” I begin, getting lost in his smile for a second. Everything about my mad dash to Repetto comes crashing back. “I’m late, I’m so super mega late!”
Still, I can’t move. Fun fact about this street: it was absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent designed to make people fall in love, with its lush plants and flowerpots hanging from windowsills, the old-fashioned lampposts, the notes of a violin coming from a nearby apartment, and the stacks of bicycles with wire baskets. It’s almosttooromantic.
“Then I should let you go….I’m waiting for…a friend,” Louis explains.
He’s waiting for a girl. Of course.Lesigh.
“I think everyone’s gone,” I say. I didn’t come across anyone on my way out.
“I should probably call….” He trails off, looking a littlesad.
“Okay, then…” I edge down the stairs.
He ignores his phone though and keeps staring at me. I can’t walk away from him; that would be extremely rude. But I also can’t break my promise to Monsieur Dabrowski. “I have to get this leotard or I won’t be allowed back tomorrow. My instructor, he’s…Well, let’s just say that my life is pretty much over if I don’t make it to the shop in time.”
This puts a smile back on Louis’s face, and I stop wondering why I even told him all that. It’s not like he asked.
“A true ballet emergency,” he replies. “You’re going to the Repetto on Rue de la Paix, right?” He follows me down the steps and pauses in front of a Vespa that I’ve only justnoticed.
I nod. Nodding is so great. It’s the same in every language.
Louis starts undoing a lock that holds two helmets in place. “It looks like my evening just freed up.” He offers me one of them with a smile.
My arms suddenly feel like noodles. No way he’s suggesting what I think he’s suggesting.
Louis puts on his helmet, straddles the scooter, and kicks it into gear. “Are you coming? We don’t have much time.”
I bite my lip. Well played, Paris. Well played.
We zip through the Marais, past the rows and rows of chic boutiques, then turn onto a large boulevard (so many other scooters!) and ride along the picture-perfect Canal Saint-Martin for a while. Even though it’s all breathtaking, I can only really think about my hands around this boy’s waist. Am I squeezing too hard? I am, I’m totally squeezing too hard. Maybe I’ll just say that I was scared, that I’ve never been on the back of a scooter before. Right, and then he’ll think of me as the silly American girl who’s afraid of everything. I force my hands to relax, which only gives me a better sense of his firm abs under his thin shirt. My heartbeat quickens.
Louis is an expert, zigzagging between cars and buses, avoiding cyclists, and even glancing in his rearview mirror long enough to give me a smileanda wink. What am I doing, going off with a guy I don’t know? I think Paris has messed with my head. Scratch that. IknowParis has messed with my head.
I catch a glimpse of Opéra Garnier—theOpéra Garnier!—just before we turn onto Rue de la Paix, and I crane my neck to get a better look at the ornate building through the visor. Louis zooms up to the curb in front of the Repetto store, and I’m already removing my helmet as he parks. There isn’t even time for a hair check, or to admire the intricately beaded ballet costume in the window. I rush off before I realize that I forgot one major thing.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I call back. “Merci,I mean.”
Louis gives me a dimpled smile in response.
But that’s when my luck runs out.
“Désolée, nous sommes fermés,”the shopkeeper announces as soon as I walk in.Sorry, we’re closed.Her black bob frames a face full of sharp edges. When I don’t respond, she waves the keys in her hands to show me that she was just about to lock the door. I muster all the French I know to explain my problem and convey the state of emergency, but the woman keeps shrugging and telling me that they’ll be open tomorrow.
“But it’ll be too late!J’ai besoin d’un, non…deux, non…trois…umm…leotardsblancs, maintenant!” I say just as the chime of the door rings. It’s Louis. I’d assumed he’d left already, and the last thing I want is for him to hear me beg in lousy French, my cheeks flush, my words stumbling over each other as the shopkeeper looks on sternly. He did me a huge favor by driving me here, but I can’t ask for his help again—I don’t even know him.
“Louis!” the shopkeeper says, with a smile.
“Christine, comment ça va?” Christine, how are you?
He comes closer to give herla bise.One kiss on each cheek.
I look from one to the other, flustered. Louis is not a student at the school; I would have noticed him. He mentioned a friend, but that doesn’t explain why he’s on a first-name basis with the staff of this famous ballet store. They chat for a few moments, but they speak so quickly, I don’t catch what they say.
“Everything okay?” Louis asks me. “You look…confused.”
Confusion doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel rightnow.
The woman looks from me to Louis and pouts. “Fine, I’ll get them for you,” she says in French, to him.
