The Paper Girl of Paris

by Jordyn Taylor

  I’ve never heard him sound so upbeat, but it’s just what we need right now. Everybody is on board, including Arnaud, who sheds a single tear as he pins the star to his shirt. He very quickly wipes it away with the back of his hand.

  We step outside into the late-afternoon sunshine. “Good light,” observes Pierre-Henri, who’s wearing his camera around his neck.

  I don’t think I’ll be seen, as nobody in my normal life lives on this side of the river, but I keep my head down all the same, just to be safe. The five of us walk across the boulevard Saint-Michel to the Luxembourg Gardens, where we flop onto the grass under a chestnut tree. The water in the fountain sparkles in the sun. Luc disappears for a few minutes, and when he comes back, he’s carrying lemonades for the group. Being here feels surreal, like a dream.

  “I just realized something,” I say to Luc as I take my drink.

  “What’s that?”

  “With the exception of the first ten seconds we met . . . I’ve known you for a year and a half now, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you outside.”

  Luc nearly chokes on his lemonade as he starts to laugh, which only makes the two of us giggle even more. The break in our usual routine makes the war seem borderline absurd.

  “Did you think I was a vampire?”

  “I was beginning to worry.”

  He sits down next to me in the grass and tries to cross his legs. It looks uncomfortable. “I don’t fold up very nicely,” Luc confesses, before abandoning the mission and reclining on his elbow instead. I find myself noticing how the muscles in his shoulder flex under his shirt.

  “Do you come here often?” I ask.

  Instantly, I wish I thought of a more original question.

  “I did when I was younger, with my parents,” Luc says. “Sometimes on the weekends, they would close the shop for lunch and we would walk over for a picnic.”

  He gazes at his chest and smiles to himself.

  “What is it?”

  “I just remembered: My father used to tell me I should bring a girl here someday.” He looks up and studies my face, which suddenly feels hot, and not from the sunshine. “I never got around to it . . . until now,” Luc says. “He was right. It’s nice.”

  We smile at each other.

  I don’t regret my boring question anymore.

  “Luc!” cries Marcel. “Tell Arnaud about Jacques throwing the paper airplane at Stéphane when he was reading in Latin. Arnaud doesn’t believe me that I intercepted the plane and threw it right back at Jacques’s head.”

  Before he answers, Luc holds my gaze for one last second. Then he shifts toward his friends. “I can confirm it’s true!” he says. “It was the finest operation I’ve ever witnessed. A work of art, if you will. Jacques looked like he didn’t know what hit him.”

  Marcel beams.

  “I remember another fine operation: when you wrote the wrong answers on that test because you knew Jacques was copying you.”

  “A classic!” cries Pierre-Henri.

  I gape at Luc in disbelief. “You purposely failed, just to get back at this person for cheating?”

  “Of course not,” replies Luc. “I corrected my test as soon as Jacques handed his in. He was furious!”

  It doesn’t happen right away, but after about half an hour, we manage to get Arnaud laughing again like his old self. Luc and Marcel take turns telling stories about the pranks they’ve pulled at school, each tale more ridiculous than the last.

  Pierre-Henri, who’s now determined to become a professional photographer, wanders around snapping pictures of us. Occasionally, he directs us to strike poses.

  “Luc, smile. More,” he says. “Arnaud, poke Luc in the face until he smiles. Yes—perfect.” Click.

  Luc dodges out of the way as Arnaud goes to poke him again, and somehow the two of them end up play-wrestling like lion cubs. Arnaud takes it to the theatrical extreme, bellowing out battle cries as he launches each offensive maneuver, so that by the time the two boys eventually call a truce, I’m doubled over with laughter and gasping for air.

  Pierre-Henri continues to take photos of us. Here and there, butterflies drift through the air, and Arnaud’s face lights up when one of them lands on his finger. Click. Luc leans over to examine it, and when he does, he rests his hand on my lower leg. For three magical seconds, it feels like the whole entire universe exists in that spot below my knee. Click. His hand is in the grass again, just an inch or two from mine. Click. There’s that stirring again inside me. Luc really is handsome, especially with the golden sun hitting the ridges and planes of his face.

  In this moment, I wish the world didn’t exist beyond the walls of the park. Because if not for the war—if not for the horrors we’ve endured, and the ones that still may come—this would be the most perfect afternoon.

  Chapter 7

  Alice

  Mom’s mood isn’t getting any better. I’ve been trying my best to cheer her up, but Gram’s death is still clearly weighing on her. We’ve been in Paris for two weeks now, and she’s spent most of that time in the Airbnb, doing nothing. There’s this sad, vacant look on her face that just won’t go away, not even when I tell her I’ve made a new friend.

  “He’s working in a bookstore this summer. He’s been letting me read all about French history, and he’s helping me figure out what happened to Gram and her family.”

  Mom takes a sip of her tea. She’s curled up in the corner of the couch with her knees to her chest, staring at a spot on the living room wall where the paint is chipping away. I wait for her to react to what I’m saying about Paul, but she never does. It’s like she’s trapped inside a thick glass box that muffles the outside world, and I can’t break in, no matter how hard I try.

  I’m starting to get worried, because this is exactly how Mom gets when she’s entering one of her dark phases. They happen pretty rarely, only once every few years or so, but they’re unbearable when they do. It’s like somebody turns off a switch in her head, and she totally powers down.

  Her darkest dark phase happened when I was in the first grade. We haven’t talked about it since, but I remember my lively, loving mother suddenly going despondent for months. The others have been shorter and less intense, but still awful. For a couple of weeks, she won’t want to go outside, or even get out of bed. Worst of all, there’s nothing Dad or I can do to turn the switch back on. We can only act positive and wait for Mom to gradually get her energy back.

  Maybe I’m overreacting. I doubt Mom’s actually in a dark phase right now. I mean, we know what’s bothering her. It’s Gram’s death, and discovering all the secrets she kept. Plus—and Mom’s too nice and conflict averse to say this out loud—I suspect she’s also hurt that Gram left the apartment to me, and not her. I still feel guilty when I picture the look on her face when we read the will.

  I want to take her mind off things, and the first step is getting her to talk to me.

  “Paul’s really sweet and smart,” I press on. “And he’s an amazing artist. You should see his drawings.”

  Still more silence.

  “Diane, are you listening to Alice?” Dad peeks over from the kitchen, where he’s been up to his ears all morning in paperwork for Gram’s estate; it’s spread across the surface of the table like a patchwork quilt. “It sounds like she has some real news to share.”

  Mom blinks. She looks at me, confused.

  “Sorry—what did you just say?”

  “I met a boy named Paul. We’ve been hanging out for like a week now.”

  “That’s nice.”

  Her gaze drifts back to the wall, and she’s sealed inside the glass box again.

  I hate that a part of me feels this way, but I’m kind of relieved when noon rolls around and it’s time to see Paul again.

  One thing I like about Paul is that it’s easy to be around him. I don’t have to think about what to say; I don’t have to pick up on what kind of mood he’s in and plan my behavior accordingly. In fact, the only thing that
’s complicated about my relationship with Paul is figuring out what, exactly, our relationship is.

  I’ve visited Paul in the bookstore twice now. Even though we have a good time when we’re together—and even though I’m pretty sure he might have flirted with me—so far, nothing has . . . happened. Both times there have been long stretches when it’s just the two of us in there, sitting shoulder to shoulder behind his desk, and he hasn’t made a move. To be fair, I haven’t either, but I’m the one with next-to-zero experience. Paul has probably been with tons of girls, so I’ve been waiting for him to take the lead. I can’t tell if he’s shy, or if he’s concerned about acting unprofessional at work . . . or if he’s just not into me that way. Maybe he wants to be friends, and that’s it. All I know for sure is that my stomach is Butterfly Central whenever I’m with him. I even feel them fluttering when his name pops up on my phone.

  I messaged Hannah and Camila last night about how confused I was, only I didn’t give them details in case it ended up going nowhere. That was the most likely scenario, judging by my love life thus far—namely, the Pomorski Incident. I texted them: “When two people like each other, how long does it usually take for someone to make a move? Is it supposed to happen immediately?”

  Camila was the first to reply. “Why??? Did u meet someone???”

  That was classic Camila. She loved love.

  “Not important at the moment,” I wrote back. “Just need your wisdom.” Anxiously, I watched her type. Of the three of us, Camila knew the most about relationships. She and Peter had just celebrated their seven-month anniversary.

  “Some people don’t make moves right away,” she said, and my spirits lifted instantly. “Remember how Peter didn’t kiss me until after our mini-golf date?”

  “Yes!” I typed back. I was tremendously relieved.

  Then I realized she was still typing.

  Her next message hit me like a ton of bricks.

  “Still, if nothing steamy has happened by like the third hangout, I feel like maybe the right chemistry just isn’t there?!”

  As the weight of her words sank in, Hannah finally chimed into the conversation.

  “Hey you guys!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I agree with Cam!!!”

  My heart plummeted. I quickly thanked them and put away my phone. Paul and I were at two hangouts, and that wasn’t counting either of the times we sat in the bakery together. According to Camila’s rule, a lot was riding on our third arranged meeting.

  At exactly 11:59 a.m., I lace up my Converse sneakers, say goodbye to Mom and Dad, and head downstairs to meet Paul. Since it’s such a nice day outside, he offered to meet me at the Airbnb and take me through the Tuileries Gardens on our way to the bookstore, where I’m going to hang out with him during his shift.

  As soon as I open the door, I hear his voice.

  “Alice!”

  He’s waiting at the curb in his usual white T-shirt and jeans, two American-sized cups of coffee in his hands. He’s smiling, and the sun makes his hair shimmer like copper. There go the butterflies again.

  “For you,” he says, handing me a cup. Did he feel that jolt of electricity as our fingers touched, or was it just me? Would Camila say that was chemistry?

  “Thank you! That’s so sweet.”

  “Of course.”

  We grin at each other stupidly for a second.

  “Well . . . should we walk?” he asks.

  “Okay,” I reply.

  We set off down the sidewalk, sipping our drinks. I notice he’s holding his coffee in his right hand, leaving his left hand free to potentially hold mine.

  “Paul, I’ve never asked you, is your apartment around here?”

  “No, it’s down near my school. In the Latin Quarter.”

  “You mean . . . you walked all the way up here just to walk back down again?”

  “Yeah,” he says happily.

  My cheeks flush. Then again, it is a beautiful day. Who wouldn’t want to go for a long walk outside? Paul leads me down to a spot on the rue de Rivoli where the sidewalk becomes a sandy path, the Louvre on the left and the Tuileries Gardens on the right. When I came here with Mom and Dad, we went straight to the glass pyramids and the museum ticketing line; I never turned around and marveled at the sprawling green lawns that seem to stretch on forever. It’s beautiful geometry, the way the bright yellow tulips and white marble statues form rings around the circular fountain in the middle. There are flowering trees with bright pink blossoms, and small clusters of daisies peeking out from the grass.

  “It’s incredible,” I say, feeling like no word could truly do it justice.

  “I know,” Paul replies. “When I first moved to Paris, I could not believe all the beautiful things just sitting in the middle of the city, you know?”

  “It’s so funny you just said that. I’ve been thinking the same thing since I got here.”

  “Maybe we are reading each other’s minds?”

  “I think so.”

  Maybe I should try it out. Paul, If you really are reading my mind right now, I wouldn’t object to holding hands. Hmm, no response. We walk around the fountain, then along a shady, tree-lined path that emerges at yet another big water feature. We compare our favorite things at the Louvre, and laugh about how tiny and underwhelming the Mona Lisa is when you finally see it through the crowds. Sometimes there are lulls in our conversation, but not in an awkward way—they’re more like pleasant pauses, giving us time to take in the scenery.

  “Have you always loved art?” I ask as we exit the gardens and head for the nearest bridge across the Seine.

  “Yes,” Paul says. “I was always drawing, from when I was little. My teachers would be angry at me for making pictures during class, but actually, it helped me focus.”

  “You seemed really sucked into your sketchbook when I saw you in the bakery the first time.”

  He nods. “Drawing is very calming to me.”

  “Oh, Paul, this is beautiful!” I stop in my tracks, floored by the view from the center of the bridge. The water is a stunning turquoise, and over on the Left Bank, the Musée d’Orsay rises like a royal palace. “I think I have to stop and take a picture. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  I set my coffee cup down on the balustrade and pull out my phone. Paul steps to the side so I can capture the whole scene. I’m working on taking the perfect shot when a warm breeze sails in, and my near-empty coffee cup skids toward the edge of the wall. Paul lunges for it at the same moment my finger taps the camera button—and the result is a blurry action shot of Paul leaping through the air with an expression of utmost intensity on his face.

  It’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. Wiping tears from my eyes, I show it to Paul, who bursts into laughter, too. He doubles over, gripping my shoulder for support, but no sooner does his hand touch my skin than it falls down to his side again, a little stiffly. Is he trying to minimize contact with me? I don’t get it.

  We make our way to the bookstore. La Petite Librairie, as it’s called, might be tied with Vivi’s bakery for my favorite spot in Paris. The orange awning is tucked on a quiet cobblestone street, a hidden gem among the rows of residential buildings. When I first went inside, it seemed there were too many books for the small space; the stacks were so close together you had to turn sideways to pass between some of them, and the smell of yellowing pages was overwhelming. I loved it immediately.

  After the clerk from the morning shift hands over the keys and heads out, Paul retrieves an extra stool, and we both sit down behind the front desk. Sometimes I peruse the English-language history books when we’re here, but mostly I like to be next to him. Right now, our shoulders are almost touching. I can smell his laundry detergent.

  Paul dives in to cataloguing a new shipment of books, and I decide to pick up on my translations. Adalyn’s diary is long, and her writing is small, but I’m making good progress; I’m in early 1942, and my great-aunt just finished writing about another frigid winter without enough heat. App
arently, she and Gram used to huddle under the covers to keep warm, sometimes sleeping together on the coldest nights.

  I still haven’t told Paul the whole truth about Adalyn. It’s why I keep waving away his offers to translate the entries for me; I’m scared my great-aunt could go bad at a moment’s notice, so I have to be the one to read them first. By now I’ve read enough about the Occupation to get the picture: France is still pretty ashamed that a bunch of its own people collaborated with the Nazis. If your family member was one of them, it’s not the kind of thing you want to go telling the world.

  I roll out my wrists and start translating an entry from July 20, 1942.

  Oh no. This one is really upsetting.

  I can hardly write. My hand is shaking as bad as Papa’s. But I must keep a record of everything that has happened. I apologize if I am scattered. I cannot think straight—not when my friend’s whereabouts are still unknown.

  There was a massive roundup on Thursday and Friday. It began very early in the morning. Thousands of Jews were forced onto buses and taken to the Vélodrome d’Hiver, where they are now being held in the most frightening conditions. One hears sickening snippets of information in the bread line and on the metro—people crammed inside the bicycle arena without any food or water or a place to use the lavatory. Many are said to have died already. And what will become of the living? What if they are all deported, and he is among them?

  I am trying my best not to cry right now. I don’t want Maman and Papa to hear me.

  I had to pause to cry into my pillow.

  The stories of the arrests are terrible. Parents ripped from their children. Once they are separated, how shall they ever find each other again?

  A family of five poisoned themselves so as not to be taken—a mother, a father, and three little children. All dead now. Another woman threw herself from a window. There are tales of policemen being shot for refusing to comply with the roundup orders.

  Every account is appalling, but nothing frightens me more than not knowing what has become of my friend. I have neither seen him nor heard from him since the day before the roundup. It does not help to know that many Jews in the Vel’ d’Hiv are Poles.