I’ve never actually had champagne, but this seemed as good as any time to try it. Since I’m in France. Where Champagne comes from and all. I think. We all toasted and clinked and sipped.
Then Harold and the Pennies joined us so we clinked and toasted and sipped some more.
I tried to focus on the plan—chatting up Vlad.
He told me he was backpacking across Europe for the entire summer, and that his next stop was Zurich. Then he was planning on going to Juan-les-Pins in the Riviera.
“You should come to Nice instead,” I said, extra flirty. “We’ll be there next week.”
“Maybe I will,” he said, inching closer to me. He smelled smoky and sexy.
“I heard the beach in Juan-les-Pins is much better,” Tommy said, out of nowhere. “Do you know the beach in Nice is all rocks?”
Um, hello? We’re trying to encourage him to join us not convince him to stay away. I gave Tommy my best butt-out-annoying-boy glare, but he totally ignored me. Then he tried to convince Vlad to skip the Riviera all together and go straight to Spain.
Why, you wonder, was he talking crazy? Oh, you shall see.
Joanna returned with Pierre and Mike and then the entire Teens Tour France! Group, plus the two Russians headed down to the wide Champs Elysees for the parade.
Big mistake.
Why did I think it was a good idea to invite my potential fling out with the Pennies? They sidled up to him immediately, and started yapping about who knows what. Pigtails, maybe? I wanted to claim him in some way, but what was I supposed to do, grab his hand? Put my arm around him? Pee on his shoe? That’s what Ralph does to trees when he marks his territory.
I scouted the area to see where Pierre was at, and as I suspected, he was in a conversation with Abby who was bursting out of her bustier. Yes, it seemed that Vlad was my only hope.
The people in the streets cheered in French, the fireworks exploded into ribbons of red, white and blue above the Eiffel Tower (who would have thought that France’s flag used the same colors as ours?), but I couldn’t concentrate. Instead, I watched the Pennies hog my fling.
“What is wrong with me?” I complained to Tommy. The two of us were standing together, squashed on the street between random celebrators wearing French flags. “I want to have a fling! Why aren’t any men interested in flinging with me?”
“Lindster, I promise there are men interested in flinging with you. Maybe they just don’t know that you’re interested. Maybe they want to know they’re not going to get shot down before trying anything.”
“You are so right,” I said, nodding emphatically. “I have to be more like your sister. Brave.”
He cocked his head to the side, and half-smiled. “Maybe it’s not the fling that you’re afraid of.”
“Sorry?” I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. My shoe got caught in a leftover streamer and I tried to scrape it off with my heel. The ground was such a mess. Bottles and gum and plastic glasses.
He looked right at me and took a second to respond. “Why do you think you want to have a fling so badly?”
“What do you mean?” I said and tried to laugh. I looked down at the ground and kicked one of the wine bottles. “Because it would be fun. Romantic. Adventurous.”
“Is that the only reason?” he asked, and his forehead wrinkled. “Why are you only considering foreign guys? Why write off everyone on the trip? Why not try for something real?”
Now I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure I liked where he was going with this.
“I think you’re afraid of getting hurt,” he said from right beside me. His voice was low, but I could still hear him.
I kicked another bottle. “Aren’t you?”
And that’s when—
Oh God. I can’t even write it.
Deep breaths.
And that’s when—Tommy tried to kiss me.
Oh, yeah.
And no, it wasn’t the glass of Champagne playing tricks with my brain.
He stepped closer to me, and then closer and then I noticed that his face was moving toward mine.
At first I didn’t realized what was happening. I thought one of the tourists had accidentally pushed him into me, and I shot out my arms to protect myself in case I fell. But then I realized that his eyes were closed (!) and that his big lips were not only pursed (!), but were coming straight at me.
So I ducked.
Unfortunately, since Tommy’s eyes were closed, he didn’t see that I was no longer there. So he kept moving his face forward. My not being there to receive said face threw him off balance, which cause him to trip over himself, and the next thing I knew he was splayed flat on his back in the middle of the Bastille day parade.
Of course everyone in our group, as well as quite a few strangers, came rushing over.
And me? I was frozen. I was shocked.
My best friend’s brother just tried to kiss me.
To KISS me.
What was that? Honestly, I don’t know what to make of it. I don’t know, TJ, maybe YOU saw it coming. What with all his talk about why I wouldn’t give someone on the trip a chance. But I thought he was being more . . . theoretical. I mean, he, Becca, and I talk about this kind of stuff all the time. You know, fears and psychology and philosophy and life.
Anyway, Becca pushed passed me and helped her brother to his feet. “What happened?” she screamed. “Did someone hit you?” She glared at the crowd, ready to beat-up whoever had hurt him.
If only I could have disappeared into the crowd.
“I fell,” he said, limping toward a sidewalk, and rubbing the back of his head.
And what was I supposed to say? What was I supposed to do? Why would Tommy try to kiss me? He’s never showed any type of interest in me. Why tonight? Did he think I came on to him? Did he think I wanted him to be my fling?
I can’t hook up with Tommy!
Yes, he’s cute and a nice guy. But it cannot happen. For many, many reasons.
1. I am not attracted to him! At least, I don’t think I am.
2. He’s my best friend’s brother. My best friend’s TWIN brother. You can’t hook up with your best friend’s twin brother for many, obvious reasons. One being, your best friend will never speak to you again once you and said twin break up. That’s what people in their teens do—they break up. It’s not likely that two sixteen-year-olds year olds will get married. I’m not saying it’s impossible, but a smart gambler would wager that it’s highly unlikely. So, either I break up with him, or he breaks up with me. If I break up with him, Becca hates me for hurting her brother. If he breaks up with me, then I hate him for breaking up with me, and then I spend the next ten years avoiding him, and then what do I do when Becca wants me to be the maid of honor at her wedding?
Or what if us hooking up doesn’t even lead to a relationship? What if it’s the sloppiest, most disgusting, kiss in the history of kissing? What if he bites my tongue by mistake and gives me a lisp? It would always be awkward between us. I would never be able to hang out at their place watching TV or making English muffin pizzas in the microwave.
3. Tommy is not foreign. My fling is supposed to be someone I will never see again. Not someone from my own city, from my own high school, or especially someone I have known since nursery school.
After the encounter, I could not, would not, look at Tommy. And he could not, would not, look at me.
I could barely summon the appropriate concentration to flirt with Vlad. Or Pierre. In fact, I totally lost Vlad in the crowd and didn’t even get a chance to say good night to him after the parade. Who knows if I’ll ever see him again? Sure, he’s staying in the hostel, but I don’t want to be a fling stalker.
Tommy has ruined everything. What had he been thinking? Was he drunk? Suffering from heatstroke? Perhaps my guava is even more powerful than I’ve ever realized?
And the worst part is that I can’t complain to Becca. Hey, your brother hit on me, our friendship is awkward from this morning forward, and happy Bast
ille Day to you.
Everyone is fast asleep. Well, not everyone. Penny with a Y is missing. Her sleeping bag is still zipped tight. Where is she?
Is she hooking up with my Vlad?
She so is.
Who does she think she is hooking up with some random guy? Slut.
Now I’m in an even worse mood. Maybe I’ll go to sleep and wake up back in Long Island.
Still Sunday, still in France, 7:00 A.M
No luck. I’m still here.
Joanna just woke me up with “Les Poissons, Les Poissons, hee hee hee hon hon hon.” Oh yes, she broke out The Little Mermaid.
TJ, would you mind very much if I used you to hit Joanna over the head?
10:00 P.M.
We’re on the train headed toward the Alps. I wish I was under the train.
It’s not the train per se that’s bad. I don’t mind the train. I actually like the train, usually. You can sit and do nothing but lazily watch the scenery roll by the window. In this case, scenery of the green French countryside. Except I am too cranky to be lazy, and it’s too dark out to see the fields of sunflowers or whatever.
After the early wake-up, we went to Notre Dame. I think I would have appreciated the gargoyles and towers more if I’d been in a better mood. Unfortunately, I couldn’t even hide behind a camera, since I still can’t find mine. Of course Tommy was snapping away, looking all professional about it.
Tommy who I still haven’t spoken to or looked at.
Anyway, it took us at least an hour to get up Notre Dame, but from the top you could see 360 degrees around Paris. But then we had to climb down, and I almost passed out on the stairs, because they were the swirly kind and I felt a moment of panic that I would slip, fall and have to be put in a body cast. Becca kept saying don’t look down, but how can you not? I got nauseous, and had to sit down for a few minutes, which the people behind me in line did not appreciate.
I’m not sure exactly how I got down – all I remember is that Becca was holding my hand.
Then we went back to the hostel and packed up and checked out.
Of course I kept an eye out for Vlad, but did I see him? No. Potential fling number two slipped right through my fingers. Good thing potential fling number one is stuck with us. Good-bye, Vlad, good-bye. Love always, Линдсй.
“We’ll always have Paris,” Becca said as we strapped on our gigantic backpacks. The trick is to sit down on the floor, put your arms in and then hoist yourself into a standing position.
At the train station, Joanna purchased us all overnight tickets to the French Alps. Each car on the train has two bunk beds and fits four. Since Joanna said we could pick our own rooms, it should have been Harold, Becca, me, and Tommy. But, when it came time to get into our cars, Tommy was conspicuously absent. It was so obvious. To me anyway. Fortunately, Tommy hadn’t said anything to Becca and Harold about what happened, so they didn’t understand where he was.
“What if he’s not on the train?” Becca asked, concerned.
“I’m sure he’s here somewhere,” I muttered.
“I don’t think so. I’m going to look for him,” she said.
So then it was Harold and me in the car.
“Hey.”
“Howdy.”
Oh, the conversation was wild.
I could hear Becca stomping about, checking the other cars with a, “Excusez-moi, excusez-moi.” Until I heard, “Oh. There you are. Why didn’t you sit with us? I thought we’d left you in Paris. ”
“Oh, hey. I’m going to stay here.” Tommy’s voice was low and rumbly.
“Why?”
I couldn’t hear the answer, but then Becca returned to our cabin and closed the door. She climbed into the bottom bed next to Harold. “That was weird.”
La, la la.
She draped her legs across Harold’s thighs. “I’m going to have a long talk with him. He better not be making moves on one of the Pennies. They are so lame.”
And then to make the night even more excruciating, that’s when our door slid open. “Excellent,” Joanna said. “You have an extra bed. I’m going to join you.”
I wasn’t the only one unhappy about this development. Harold had to move to the top bunk above Becca since sharing a car was one thing, but sharing a bed was another.
Then a half a second later, Pierre popped his sexy head into the car, looked around and said, “Oh zis room is full. Tant pis.”
Javelin through the heart. He separated from Abby for the first time all week and my car is full.
Finally the train took off . . . and here’s my question: how am I supposed to sleep on a moving bed?
Monday, July 16th, 6:45 A.M.
I just ran into Tommy outside the bathroom.
After tossing and turning, and repeatedly banging the back of my head against the train wall, I finally fell asleep. Or was knocked unconscious. Whatever. But then I woke up, finding that I had somehow rolled off my bed onto the floor. Good thing I had a bottom bunk. I decided to try and locate the bathroom.
When I came out, I found Tommy waiting by the door.
“Hey,” I squeaked, looking at the ground.
“Oh, hi.”
Pause. Silence. Neither of us moved.
“Listen, Lindsay?”
“Yes?”
“I’m—I’m sorry about what happened.”
“No biggie,” I said quickly.
“It’s just—”
I had to stop him from continuing. It suddenly occurred to me that he could actually like me. And once he put that out there, well, there was no going back. “It was the bubbly, right?” I added in a rush.
“Oh . . . yeah. The champagne.”
“Goes straight to the head. Don’t worry,” I reassured him. “I won’t say anything to Becca.”
He looked out the window. “Sure.”
“We friends?”
“Of course. Friends.” He turned back to me and smiled.
Then we both stood there. And then he took a step toward me…
Oh, no not again, is what I thought. So I jumped back. “Tommy, we talked about this.”
He looked confused for a second, and then he laughed. “I was just going to the bathroom.”
Right.
So now I’m the girl who thinks my best friend’s brother is constantly trying to jump her. Awesome.
Harold and Becca are awake and giggling—Harold must have climbed into Becca’s bed during the night, because they’re all curled up together like two puppies.
Joanna is still sleeping. Which is why I take great pleasure in opening the blinds.
Hah!
The view of the sun rising over the mountains is quite spectacular. I would take a photo if I could find my camera. Maybe today will be a good day. We’re going white-water rafting. I have never been white-water rafting. That is not something my mother would ever agree to let me do. In fact, she explicitly told me after seeing it on the itinerary that I had to sit it out.
Tough.
I am going to do it. I am not a child. I can be careful.
It is pretty cool that I’m white water rafting in the French Alps. What did you do today? Oh I went white water rafting in the French Alps. You?
Beats going to the mall.
Still Monday, 5:00 P.M.
So, I’m in the hospital.
Nice, huh?
Don’t worry, it’s nothing major.
Really.
Let me start at the beginning.
When we arrived, we checked into our chalet, which was much nicer than the hostel in Paris. We’re four per room, each room holding just two bunk beds. Somehow Becca and I got stuck with the Pennies. The good news is that each room has its own small bathroom. I mean, really small. The shower is—I’m not kidding—on top of the toilet. I made Becca take a picture.
Anyway, we put our stuff away, ate croissants and cheese (the amount of cheese in this country is out of control. I’ve only been here a few days and I’ve already ingested more than my body
weight. If I’m not careful I’m going to develop a lactose intolerance), put on our bathing suits, and got picked up by the white-water rafting shuttle busses.
Before we were placed onto said rapids, we divided ourselves into small groups. Ours was Harold, the Pennies, Becca, Tommy, Pierre (!!!), the rafting guide, and me. I don’t know how I got so lucky, but Pierre and Abby were clearly having some sort of lovers’ quarrel because Abby kept glaring our way. Anyway, we were all fitted with red helmets and yellow life jackets and handed paddles. I tightened my equipment, scooted over to the edge, made my knuckles turn white from gripping my paddle – and practically had a heart attack when a glistening Pierre took the spot beside me.
The little hairs on his calves were fully touching my (hairless) legs. “Ready?” he asked.
Terrified.
I took a deep breath of the fresh mountain hair and tried to calm myself. Then I tried to imprint the stunning scenery in my brain. How could anything bad happen here? The mountains were lush and green and in the distance capped with white. Besides, if rafting was actually dangerous, they wouldn’t let unsuspecting tourists do it, would they? Especially Americans. Hello. We sue.
Finally we began rafting. Basically you paddle down the river until you hit the rapids, then you hold on for dear life. The first set of rapids weren’t bad. They were a class two. We paddled, we stopped paddling, we held on, the water splashed in our faces…but we all made it.
The second one was a class four. Since one of the other boats was only a minute ahead of us, we could see them in the distance. They went over the rapids and—BAM! Rori-Ann and Britney went over the side. Max and Kristin took pictures.
And then it was our turn. We paddled and paddled and hold on, hold on to the yellow rope, and then we were zooming—
The next thing I knew I was flying headfirst out of the boat and into the rocky water.
A Nice Fling is Hard to Find Page 3
