“I can’t wait to meet them,” he texted back. I told him wewere invited for dinner with their family as soon as hegot home, and then Sophie wanted to know what he looked like, so he texted a very dadly selfie of himself in an office.
“He’s got a big nose,” she said when I handed her my phone.
“Rude again,” Nick said.
“Dad’s terrible at selfies. His nose is fine in real life,” I assured her.
“Tell him I think he looks…friendly,” she said, handing my phone back.
“Good save,” Nick told her. She smirked at him.
—
And thefirst thing she said when we walked through their door Friday night for dinner was “Tosh was right. Your nose is fine.”
“Thank you,” he said solemnly. “I’ve always felt that way about it.”
“We’re having un apéro,” she informed him. We followed her into the living room and discovered that it was French for “an appetizer.” Nick’s mom handed around the olives and charcuterie, which Sophie translated for us as “salami and stuff,” while his dad poured wine for the adults and Orangina for Nick, Sophie, and me.
“What’s your favorite thing about Paris so far?” Mr. Wallace asked as he handed me the glass.
I thought for a minute. I’d barely arrived, but Paris hadalready embraced me. “It feels like a city that really likes its people.”
“Intriguing,” Ms. Wallace said, putting her arm around Sophie, who snuggled next to her. “What is it that makes it feel that way to you?”
“It’s really easy to get around on foot.” She nodded. “And it’s built on a human scale. Buildings don’t tower over you looking down their noses at you because they’re immense and you’re not. I haven’t seen a building yet that was over six stories. And so many of them have pretty details—carvings or wrought iron work or doors—just so people have something nice to look at. There are so many street trees. There are unexpected tiny parks. The best thing, though, is the light. The buildings seem to glow.”
Dad and I had come to Paris in March to find an apartment. We’d left sodden, dreary Portland and arrived in rain-soaked Paris, and the first thing I’d noticed was how bright it was despite the rain. Unlike in Portland, the gloomy sky didn’t hang a foot over my head leaking an endless drool of rain. We didn’t need streetlights at noon. When I pointed this out to Dad, he gestured to the cream-colored stone buildings that surrounded us. “Paris is built of limestone,” he said. “And the pale color reflects light.” Portland was made of wood and brick and glass and metal, and they all seemed to get darker in the interminable winter rains. Maybe it was the way moss and mildew crept across their surfaces. Decay was a constant in Portland.
Nick grinned at me. “I have a friend who talks about buildings like that. It’s one of the reasons we’re friends.”
“Paris just seems so alive and vital.” I sipped my Orangina, which was so fizzy it made my head bubble.
“It is alive,” Nick agreed. “That’s why it’s such an incredible city.” I smiled at him, feeling a tug of connection betweenus.
The Wallaces were from Minneapolis, and they’d been in Paris for three years. Nick’s dad was some kind of manager for 3M, and his mom did freelance tech support for small businesses. Dad told them about how Great Outdoors had just acquired a French recreational gear company and had sent him here to manage the European supply chain.
Ms. Wallace turned to me. “Where will you be going to school, Tosh?”
“École Jarret.” I jiggled the ice cubes around in my glass.
“Oh, Nick goes there. It’s a great school; I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”
“My school’s just down the street,” Sophie volunteered, “but Nick has to walk twenty whole minutes to go to school.”
“So you speak French already, if you’re going to EJ,” Ms. Wallace said.
“Well, I thought I did. I took the entrance exam remotely, back in Portland, and they told me that I’d have to take an accelerated French class over the summer so I could keep up when school starts.”
Nick grimaced. “Ouch.”
“Yeah. I had totally different plans for this summer.”
“Like what?” Sophie asked.
“Oh, you know,” I told her. “Frenchy stuff like sit in cafés and buy glamorous shoes and eat all the pastries. See the Louvre. Get a beret.” Nick made a choking sound.
“Only tourists wear berets,” Sophie informed me, her face serious.
