Again, But Better

by Christine Riccio

  Babe frowns and stares upward for a moment before her gaze drops to me. I nod at her encouragingly. She heaves a giant sigh and mildly rolls her eyes.

  “Fine.”

  “Yay! To the stairs!” I exclaim.

  Minutes later, we’re at the base of another never-ending staircase. I hurl myself upward, taking the steps two at a time, leading the way, Pilot climbing at my heels. Three hundred and twenty-eight steps later, we make it to the first tier of the tower. We spend a few minutes snapping pictures, leaning against the wire fencing, and admiring the view.

  Babe heaves a sigh. “Okay, guys, I’m going to take the elevator the rest of the way.” She looks at Chad expectantly.

  “Okay,” he answers, oblivious to her obvious hinting that she wants him to come with her.

  “Chad, can you come with me, please?” Babe asks pointedly.

  “Oh, um.” He sighs. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Thanks.” Babe looks at us. “We’ll meet you guys at the bottom!” They walk off into an indoor area.

  I look over at Pilot and raise my eyebrows.

  “And then there were two.” He smiles at me again.

  “Ready to head for the top?” I squeak.

  “Am I ready? Please, Shane.” He smirks, striding toward the next set of stairs.

  A sign lets us know we have 341 steps till the next tier. We climb in silence for a few minutes, our feet against the metal providing the soundtrack to our ascent.

  “So, I’ve been pondering that back-in-time question,” Pilot says out of nowhere.

  I grin in surprise. “Oh yeah? And?”

  “And I like your Constitution idea. I think I’ll hit that one up with you and sit in on that meeting.”

  “Oh cool, I’ll have a buddy to back up my I’m-a-man charade. You can jump in and be like, ‘No, I grew up in his town, he’s legit. Listen to all his genius, forward-thinking ideas,’ when they accuse me of female-ery!”

  Pilot smiles at the ground, and we continue up. “Have you cemented a second choice?” he asks.

  “Uh.” I look anywhere but his face because I’m blushing. “Yeah, I think I’ll hit up that Beatles concert with you.”

  He looses a breathy laugh. “Damn, when we find this time machine, it’s on.” I laugh too, releasing some of my pent-up giddiness.

  The wind whips at my cheeks, throwing my hair around as we step up onto the second tier. Pilot and I find a spot and lean against the protective grating that encases the area. In New York City, I’ve looked out from the windows of tall buildings at an endless sea of gray skyscrapers. Rome was a chaotic explosion of reds and burgundies. Paris … Paris looks like a painting. A work of art that was carefully laid out and organized to look beautiful from every angle.

  “This … is so cool.” The words fall softly from Pilot’s mouth. The wind is loud; I only hear him because we’re standing shoulder to shoulder. Chills run over my arms. Pilot pivots around, and I bounce nervously on my heels as he stops the first person who walks by. “Hey, could you take a picture of us?”

  He wants a picture of us? A white-haired woman takes the camera from my outstretched hand, and we pose, smiling next to each other, his arm at my back, against the edge of the Eiffel Tower.

  As the woman returns the camera, Pilot turns to me, excited again. “To the top?”

  “To the top!” I cheer, new energy zipping through me. Who knows what will happen when we reach the top—it’s just the two of us and I don’t know. I feel good about getting to the top together. It feels like things are … possible.

  We circle the tier, eager for the next set of steps, but end up back where we started.

  My smile wilts. “Is there no other staircase?”

  “What the heck?” Pilot’s expression falls.

  We venture inside to ask someone. It turns out you can only take the elevator to the very top, and today even that route is closed due to high winds. As if to prove a point, an aggressive spool of freezing air rams into us as we exit back out through the doors. My mental list of romantic reaching-the-top-of-the-Eiffel-Tower-together fantasies spins away on the breeze.

  Disappointment looms over us as we wind around and around, back to earth. Is he feeling what I’m feeling? Or is this just normal I-didn’t-get-to-scale-the-Eiffel-Tower level disappointment?

  When our feet hit solid ground, Babe and Chad are there waiting. The four of us cross a bridge and head along the bank of the Seine, moving toward an area populated with shops and restaurants. We’re still strolling alongside the river when Babe stops short to pivot around and look back at the Tower in the distance. The sun’s going down and the Eiffel’s golden lights have switched on.

  “Wait!” she shouts. We stop and look at her. “What time is it?” she asks, her hazel eyes alight.

  Chad looks at his watch. “5:45.”

  “We have a good view here!” she says.

  “A view for what?” I ask. My stomach growls restlessly as I glance at the Eiffel Tower. Now that we’ve stopped, the cold air cuts right through my boots. I scrunch my toes up against it.

  “Something cool is going to happen to the Eiffel Tower at six o’clock,” Babe answers, leaning against the barrier that lines the river’s edge. “You want to see this,” she says confidently.

  “What’s going to happen to the Eiffel?” I shoot, rubbing my hands together for warmth. I pull my puffy winter hood up over my head against the wind.

  “How cool?” Pilot asks skeptically, narrowing his eyes. He’s got his sweatshirt hood up and his jacket hood up over that.

  “Pretty cool. I think we should wait—if you guys are okay with that,” Babe answers.

  “It’s frickin’ freezing,” Chad says, leaning against the wall now, hugging himself, dark peacoat buttoned all the way up. “I hope this is good, Babe.”

  “Okay, I guess we’ve got fifteen minutes,” I say wearily.

  Five minutes pass. We’re all antsy, but we’ve begrudgingly stayed put.

  Babe paces back and forth. “I hope it works now that I’m making everyone wait.” She laughs nervously.

  “I can’t feel my hands,” Chad announces.

  “The Eiffel Tower’s preppin’ for takeoff,” Pilot announces.

  “If the Eiffel doesn’t go off, it’s going to be really upsetting.” I laugh.

  Six minutes left. I can’t feel my fingers, and I’m wearing gloves.

  We’ve all staked out spots against the barrier now, staring eagerly. The sun just disappeared behind the horizon. The Eiffel glows with the remnants of its orangey-gold light.

  “Are you sure it doesn’t just light up like this?” Pilot asks. I snort.

  “No, that’s not it.” Babe chuckles.

  “Come on, Eiffel Tower. Let’s go,” Pilot demands. We all cackle. He turns to smile at me, and I feel a little less cold. “Gosh, the Eiffel Tower is just letting us down,” he continues.

  “Two minutes!” I announce. “I can’t feel my feet, Eiffel Tower. I hope you’re happy.”

  “Come on, Eiffel Tower,” Pilot repeats.

  “One minute! I’ve got T minus one minute,” Chad adds.

  “You sure about this?” Pilot asks Babe again. She smiles and shakes her head.

  “Babe’s definitely wrong, and we’re definitely throwing her in the river,” Chad answers jokingly.

  And then, it happens. Glitter explodes all over the famous structure. Lights sparkle up and down its iron legs. It looks like Tinker Bell threw up all over it, and it’s having a sparkly seizure. We erupt into whoops and cheers.

  “Ohh snap,” Chad calls out.

  “OHMYGOD, OHMYGOD, OHMYGOD,” Pilot yells with mock fangirl-esque excitement, and I can’t stop laughing for a good twenty seconds as we dance around in the freezing air, admiring it.

  * * *

  We indulge in a dinner full of red wine, ham, and cheese at a French restaurant before taking a taxi to the area recommended to us by the girl at the hostel check-in desk—Bastille.

&n
bsp; The taxi releases us at the mouth of a street full of lights, buzzing with activity. Because it’s his birthday, we let Chad lead the way. He stops outside a building where music floods the street each time the door opens, and looks back at us with an overexcited smile before heading in. We follow, a few steps behind. Through the door is a coat check booth at the foot of a twisting staircase. The music is coming from the second floor, so we check our jackets and head on up.

  A live band is playing. The band’s at the far end of a large, open room full of people bopping around to the music. Here, on the opposite end of the room, is the bar. We grab drinks before zigzagging through the crowd to find an opening where we can watch and nod along. When the indie rock song they’re playing ends, they start a song I definitely recognize. I find myself bobbing around more purposefully.

  I took her out. It was a Friday night. I wore cologne. To get the feeling right.

  Babe and Chad are dancing too. Pilot’s smiling and singing at me on my left. I join him, throwing my arms about as the chorus comes in.

  “And that’s about the time she walked away from me,” we scream at the top of our lungs, laughing and throwing ourselves around. “Nobody likes you when you’re twenty-three.”

  We bounce and laugh our way through the weird mix of oldies the band continues to play—mostly classic rock and punk rock from the early 2000s. When “Eye of the Tiger” comes to a close, Pilot asks if I want to get another drink. Another familiar tune starts up as we head to the bar.

  Pilot orders a beer. He turns to look at me as the bartender fills his order. I hold eye contact, the lyrics to the latest song automatically flowing out of me, my head whipping side to side with the beat. “This is the ANTHEM, throw all your hands up!”

  He laughs.

  When the bartender returns with his drink, I lean up against the bar. “Um, water, please,” I request before turning back to Pilot’s eyes. Music pulses around us so I lean in as close as I dare (not very close; there’s still at least a foot of space between us). “Do you not like to dance?” I talk-yell with a smile.

  “I’m not really a dancer,” he says as my water is placed in front of me.

  “But anyone can dance. We’re all dancers!”

  He grins and rolls his eyes.

  We stroll back to approximately where we were standing earlier, but we’ve lost sight of Babe and Chad. The band has started playing the Beach Boys “Wouldn’t It Be Nice.” We sway back and forth, casually singing along. We’re not close enough that we’re touching, but now that Babe and Chad have moved, it feels like it’s just us here, out alone together.

  Fifteen minutes later, we head back to the bar. I order another water. “When we live such fragile lives, it’s the best way we survive. I go around a time or two, just to waste my time with you,” belts the lead.

  “This band is like my iPod on shuffle,” I comment, lazily leaning up against the bar and gazing out at the singer. “Except without the Beatles. Where are the Beatles? And also Lady Gaga.”

  Pilot snorts. “Don’t forget Taylor.”

  “Oh my god, it would be amazing if they played some T-swizzle rock style.” I sigh. “You should play at bars like this, with your music,” I suggest cheerily.

  He grins at the floor. “That would be cool.”

  We head back out. Twenty minutes later, we’re at the bar again. Pilot orders another beer. He watches me as we wait for his drink.

  “It’s been a really great day,” he says, “a really great day, I’ve had a lot of fun—” He’s smiling with teeth, like an adorable goof. Heat spreads across my chest. We have an eye contact moment before he continues. “… with Chad, of course. What would Paris be without Chad to see it with?” he finishes. I convulse in laughter.

  Back on the dance floor, a song I don’t recognize finally blasts though the room. It’s a punk-rock song I’m not as familiar with, but it demands movement all the same. I sing blindly, making up words. Pilot is still smiling. I’ve never seen him hold a smile for such an extended period of time. He’s standing right next to me now, and we’re bumping into each other as we jump and sway. My skin sings in response: Houston, we have contact.

  He keeps turning to smile at me. I smile back and follow up each burst of eye contact with a giant swig of water. It’s a good excuse to break away and center myself. I’m slowly morphing into an anxious ball of nerves. What’s happening right now? Are we flirting? Like, flirting more intensely than before? What do I do? Nothing, just be cool, keep doing what you’re doing. I’m hyperaware of my movements as this unknown magical song that made Pilot more smiley comes to a close.

  I think this is flirting. It has to be flirting. The band starts up a new, more mellow song. I know it—I gasp and break into a little happy dance as everyone starts singing along. “Yellow Submarine.” Pilot’s smiling so big at the band. He starts to sing along and I start to sing along, and then his arm comes to sit around my back.

  I go full statue. He’s not looking at me this very second, but his arm is on me. His arm is wrapped around me like we’re together. My heart is drumming too fast for the music.

  Okay, it’s fine. Just keep singing. I can’t remember the words.

  I can’t think of anything but his arm. His hand has settled around my waist. I look up at him. He’s still singing. We sway together. He sways normally. I sway like a statue that someone’s knocked into by accident. At least I’m moving.

  He pulls me closer to his side, and my heart kicks up to light speed. Oh my god. We’re smooshed together now. Body contact all along my left side. His warmth mingles with all of mine.

  Stay cool, Shane, stay cool. What is staying cool? More swaying. Is the band still playing “Yellow Submarine”? Concentrate on the song. Yes, they are. The overhead lights keep whirling over us, the band keeps playing, and I keep my movements to a minimum in an effort to ensure our skin-to-skin contact stays intact.

  I don’t know if he’s looking at me now. I haven’t looked over at him in ages. The idea of looking at him now stresses me out.

  You have to look at him, Shane. This is it, this is a moment.

  Slowly, I’m talking at molasses speed, I turn my head to the left. He’s already looking at me. Chills race up my limbs. It feels like when the band stops, this moment is going to stop, and I don’t want this to stop. Anxiety shoots up through me, bouncing off the walls of my insides.

  His green eyes study mine. We’re looking at each other, but I don’t even know what I would do to initiate something. I’ve never kissed someone, and I don’t want him to know that. If we kiss, will he know that? Oh my god, he’ll know. How could he not know? I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t even know what I would do with my arms! Where do arms go when you kiss? Do I just, like, grab him? I can’t just grab him! What if I do it wrong? Is grabbing him an invasion of personal space? Oh my god, I’m going to stand still like I’m doing a pencil dive with my arms flat against my side, aren’t I?

  He leans forward a bit. His lips are right there. Panic takes the wheel, and before I even realize what I’m doing, I’ve raised the glass I’m clutching back up to my mouth, and turned forward to face the band.

  I chug a cowardly swig of water. Disappoint torrents through my system. My eyes glaze over as I stare unblinkingly at the guitarist. He wasn’t going to kiss me, right? That wasn’t a big enough lean, was it? Oh god. I don’t know how to reinitiate whatever almost happened. I have to pee. I have to go. His arm is still there. I don’t know how long we’ve been like this.

  Abruptly, I spin toward him. “Hey, Pies, I’m gonna run to the BR. I’ll be right back.”

  I’ve startled him with my sudden transformation from unmoving statue back to living, breathing human being.

  “Oh, okay!” he projects over the music. “Do you want me to—” he starts, but I’m already leaving, weaving back through the people to the hall off the end of the room where I saw restroom signs earlier.

  I plow into the bathroom. The stalls are
painted black, and the lighting is all neon blue. I walk over to the sink area, which is just a big trench across the front of the room, and stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is wild and extra big from the humidity. Tears burn in the corners of my eyelinered eyes.

  What is wrong with me? A choked sound escapes my mouth. I take a few more deep breaths in front of the mirror. Do not cry. I curl my hands into fists, a physical threat to the salt water gathered in my eyes. You’re okay. I pee, wash my hands, and head back out into the abyss of the dance floor.

  Rather than navigate directly through the sea of humans, I edge my way back along the perimeter of the room.

  “Hey, girl!” I hear a familiar voice and stop, spinning around to find Chad walking over with a fresh vodka cranberry.

  “Hey!” I say, a little relieved to catch a glimpse of him after losing him and Babe pretty early on in the night. He walks up to me until he’s a little too close. I find myself up against the wall as I step back, trying to maintain a bubble of personal space. “Where’s Babe?” I ask over the music.

  “At the bar, I think,” he says offhandedly. “How are you liking this place? It’s dope, right?” He smiles, eyes drooping drunkenly.

  “Yeah, it’s good. I like the music. I was just heading back to find Pilot.” I crane my neck, looking over Chad’s shoulder.

  “You have really pretty hair,” he says, staring at me. I narrow my eyes.

  “Okay, thanks.” I turn my head, still searching for Pilot. When I turn back …

  “What the—” I’m cut off as Chad’s squishy lips hit my face, landing half on my own lips, half lopsided on my check. I bend my legs, sliding down the wall toward the floor before falling sideways slightly and jumping back up, a foot to the right of where I had just been. Chad’s gawking at me with his jaw hanging open.

  “What are you doing?” I demand.

  “It’s my birthday!”

  “Babe likes you,” I scold. I bolt away from him, weaving in and out through the crowd now. That didn’t happen. My first kiss isn’t from some drunken doofus who’s supposed to be here with my friend. It isn’t. It doesn’t count. It didn’t happen!