Owning It

by Leah Marie Brown

  “It sounds like a great book, but I think I’m going to skip that tour and strike out on my own.”

  “Going solo?”

  “That’s the way I roll, my friend.”

  Rigby puts the book on a shelf. “Guided tours are great, but some of the best moments happen when you skip the itinerary and let serendipity take the lead. Besides, you don’t need a French woman to tell you how to be with Gabriel. Just be yourself.”

  “Thanks, Rigby.”

  On our way out, Rachelle hands me a receipt with her e-mail address written on the back. She is living old-school—without an iPhone. We make arrangements to meet next week and say good-bye.

  We are almost back at the gallery when my iPhone begins vibrating in my pocket.

  “Chagall!” I pull my iPhone out of my pocket. “I forgot to turn my phone to airplane mode. I just got a text.”

  “Maybe it’s important.”

  I look at the screen, and my heart skips a beat, my lips curve skyward.

  “It’s from the other half of Gallaney, isn’t it?”

  I nod.

  “Well, what’s he say?”

  I read the text aloud.

  TEXT FROM GABRIEL GALLIARD:

  Want to let me to practice some of my smooth French man moves on you tomorrow night?

  “What do I say? Do I ignore it and keep him waiting? Do I say something flirty?”

  “Play it cool, totally cool and casual.” Rigby takes my phone and taps out a message. “Send that.”

  I look at the screen.

  TEXT TO GABRIEL GALLIARD:

  Sorry. I am busy tomorrow night.

  “But I’m not busy.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You can’t be too available. You want to make him chase you. It builds the anticipation.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, scrunching up my nose. “This seems gamey. I’m not into games.”

  “Love is a game, mon amie, and the French are the most skilled players on the planet. They are masters at seduction.”

  I hit SEND and hold my breath. What if he doesn’t text back? What if he shrugs his shoulders and moves on to the next girl? A few seconds pass, and my phone vibrates again. I exhale.

  TEXT FROM GABRIEL GALLIARD:

  I leave on an assignment at the end of the week. I want to see you before then. How about the day after tomorrow? 7:00 at La Belle Hortense?

  I don’t ask for Rigby’s advice this time. My fingers frantically tap the screen.

  TEXT TO GABRIEL GALLIARD:

  That sounds great. I will try to be on time. ; )

  TEXT FROM GABRIEL GALLIARD:

  Don’t worry. I will always wait for you.

  Chapter 18

  Laney’s Life Playlist

  “You’ve Got Me Wrapped Around Your Little Finger” by Beth Rowley

  “Teenage Dream” by Katy Perry

  TEXT FROM THEO WILDE:

  I am working on something for you. Should be ready soon. Text me your address.

  TEXT FROM VIVIA PERPETUA DE CAUMONT:

  Fanny told me you met an über-hot French guy. Freaking Awesome! She also said you are reading some book to learn how to act around him. Throw the book away, girlfriend. If he’s asked you out on more than one date, you already know how to act. Do you, Girl!

  The next morning, I am working in the gallery with Julia when Monsieur Alexandre calls me on the carpet.

  “Mademoiselle Brooks,” he says, standing to the right of a large canvas hanging near the front of the gallery. “Parlez-moi de ce tableau, s’il vous plaît.”

  A gallery catalog listing all of the pieces of art for sale with details about the artists was part of our welcome packet. We were supposed to memorize the entire contents by our second shift, but I have managed to memorize only half of them. Fortunately, Monsieur Alexandre chose one of the paintings I studied.

  “La Diversité, oil on canvas by Jean-Jacques Dupin, is a bold statement about our need to retain that which makes us truly unique, while assimilating into a society that desires our conformity.” I pause and look at Monsieur Alexandre, but he merely rolls his wrist for me to continue. “Dupin used a palette knife instead of a brush, resulting in complex, textural images with a three-dimensional effect. The layers of paint reflect the light, giving the illusion of great depth. It’s, like, totally inspired.”

  He nods his head and moves to the next painting.

  “Mademoiselle Abbott, s’il vous plait.”

  Julia rattles off the description of the painting as if she were reading from the catalog. Title of the piece. Artist’s name. Size of canvas. Medium used. Unlike me, she doesn’t go off script.

  “Très bien,” Monsieur Alexandre says.

  Très bien? Are you kidding me? Julia scores a very good for her lackluster recitation, and all I get is a brusque head nod? Monsieur Alexandre hates me.

  “I must go down to zhe vault. I will be gone for at least ’alf an ’our,” Monsieur Alexandre says. “I am leaving you in charge, Mademoiselle Abbott. If you need anything, please ring me in zhe vault.”

  He doesn’t wait for us to respond, striding across the gallery and disappearing through the back door. I look at Julia. She’s leaning forward, her long, talonlike nails pressed against the Louis XV desk that serves as a counter, her lips parted in a half-smile, half-snarl. I’m not trying to go to a dark place, but she reminds me of one of the gargoyles that sits perched upon the pediment of Notre Dame. Any second now, she will spring off her perch, swoop down, and suck the soul from my body like a ring-wraith.

  Imagining Julia as a ring-wraith, sucking my soul through her thin, colorless lips, makes me feel super guilty. The sensei I used to meet with for one-on-one spiritual elevating sessions said uncharitable thoughts are like tossing concrete blocks on a rubber raft. We need to remove the blocks with loving, uplifting thoughts. I look at Julia’s arched, artfully plucked eyebrows, as dark as raven’s wings. They really are quite pretty.

  I swallow hard. “Um, I dig your eyebrows, Julia. How do you get them to lift in the middle like that? Do you use a stencil or something, because they are super arched?”

  She narrows her eyes, fixing me with an even more frightening gargoyle stare. I am about to tell her that I’m being sincere, that my brows are so thick and fast-growing I need to use an electric trimmer, like the kind old men use to weed-whack their nose hairs, when the phone rings.

  I reach for it, but Julia’s reach is faster. She snatches the handset off the receiver and grins at me with fiendish delight.

  “Galerie Cadré, bonjour.”

  Julia’s perfectly arched brows knit together.

  “Un moment, monsieur.” She covers the handset with her hand and lowers her voice. “It’s for you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  She thrusts the phone at me.

  “Hello?”

  “Bonjour, ma fleur.” Gabriel’s low, throaty voice hums in my ear. “Don’t say anything. I know you are working, but I can’t wait until tomorrow night. I have to see you today. I am at the end of the arcade, near Victor Hugo’s home. Come to me, please.”

  “I’m sorry, monsieur, but—”

  “It will only take a minute, I promise.”

  The line goes dead.

  I hand the phone back to Julia. She takes it from me and places it on the receiver with exaggerated care.

  “So,” she says, smiling tightly, “who was that?”

  I don’t think I mentioned this before, but I am a horrible liar. Lies fall from some people’s tongues like rain from the sky. Not me. I dry up. My thoughts. My mouth. Dry as the Sahara.

  “Who?”

  “Yes. Who?”

  “Who who?”

  “Who just called you?”

  My dentist? My ex-boyfriend? The cab driver that brought me from the airport?

  “My uncle.”

  “Your uncle?”

  I nod my head with such eager conviction my glasses slide to the end of my nose.<
br />
  “Your uncle speaks fluent French?”

  I push my glasses up my nose. “Um, yes.”

  “You call your uncle monsieur?”

  I nod again. “My family is super formal. I call my dad monsieur, too.”

  Julia rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

  I pretend to organize the brochures on the desk while trying to think of a believable reason for suddenly needing to leave the gallery.

  “Um, Julia,” I say, keeping my gaze averted, “I need a smoke break. Do you think I could pop outside for, like, two minutes?”

  “You smoke?”

  I nod.

  “Cigarettes?”

  I nod again.

  “Okay, but don’t be gone more than two minutes or I will have to tell Monsieur Alexandre.”

  “I won’t,” I say, hurrying around the desk. “I promise.”

  My hand is on the door, ready to push it open, when Julia stops me cold in my treacherous tracks.

  “Laney?”

  I turn around. “Yes?”

  “Where are your cigarettes?”

  And this, mesdames et messieurs, is why I do not lie.

  “My cigarettes?” I ask, stalling for time.

  “Tobacco rolled inside paper that you light with a match, put to your mouth, and inhale.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I force a laugh. “I am trying to quit smoking, so whenever I have the urge, I take a break and just pretend to smoke a cigarette. Invisible Lights. They’re cheaper than real cigarettes and way, way better for your lungs.”

  Julia scoffs and rolls her eyes. I don’t wait for her to fling another pointed question my way. I push the door open and leave the gallery as fast as my Mary Janes will take me.

  Gabriel is waiting at the end of the arcade, his shoulder resting against a pillar, one arm behind his back. He’s wearing distressed jeans, his leather coat zipped up against the unseasonably cold day, a scarf wrapped around his neck. He sees me coming and smiles.

  My cheeks get flushy-crushy hot, and I hear Katy Perry’s song “Teenage Dream” in my head. I wonder if Gabriel will always make me feel like a starry-eyed teen? Will I always feel that roller-coaster, stomach-dropping-to-my-feet sensation when we meet? I hope so.

  I stand on my tiptoes and give air kisses to each of his stubbly cheeks. His bangs are finger-combed to one side and hang almost to his chin, giving him a slightly rakish appearance. The silky black hairs tickle my nose. He’s wearing the same spicy cologne he wore yesterday. The moonlight and midnight kisses cologne.

  “Bonjour, Gabriel. I can only stay for two minutes or Julia is going to stick my neck on the block and call Monsieur Alexandre to release the blade.”

  He pulls his arm out from behind his back and presents me with a bouquet of daisies wrapped with a wide blue polka-dotted ribbon.

  “I love daisies!” I take the bouquet and hold them close to my chest. “How did you know?”

  He grins, and I remember he was in the gallery when his brother scolded me for rolling my daisy suitcase over his ancient floors.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  My cheeks flush with new heat.

  He leans close, his stubbly cheek grazing mine, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear.

  “Thank you for meeting me, ma fleur.”

  He kisses my earlobe. The heat from my cheeks shoots like lighting down my body, leaving a blazing path down, down, all the way down to my most private part.

  I close my eyes and swallow hard. I have held my V card clenched in my fist for twenty-five years, but two days with Gabriel Galliard and I am ready to shred it to pieces and toss them in the air.

  I step back, putting distance between me and Monsieur Tall, Dark, and Dangerous to my Chastity.

  “I am sorry you came all of this way and I can only stay for two minutes.”

  “I am not sorry, ma fleur. I would travel a lot farther just to look at you. You’re beautiful, candid, smart, and funny. You make my heart smile.”

  Chapter 19

  Laney’s Life Playlist

  “Somebody That I Used to Know” by Gotye

  “Want U Back” by Cher Lloyd

  . . . Let’s take sixty seconds to relax your body, quiet your mind, and reduce your anxiety. Lean back in your chair, close your eyes, and take several deep breaths, in and out. In . . . and out. In . . . and out. Keep breathing in for three seconds. Hold it for one . . . two. Exhale for one . . . two . . . three . . . four. Good, now imagine there’s a large vat of warm honey over your head. Imagine the vat tipping over, spilling on your head, down your shoulders, slowly, slowly down your body until you are covered, from head to toe, in comforting warmth. This warmth is healing, calming, protective . . .

  * * *

  When I was growing up, I would spend the day before the start of a new school year curled up in the fetal position in my bed, hugging Hoppy, and imagining every possible worst-case scenario. I imagined myself reporting to my new homeroom only to discover I had forgotten to put on my clothes. I imagined myself tripping in the hallway in front of Tiffany Parrino, arguably the most popular and spiteful girl in school, or suffering a sudden bout of diarrhea, or vomiting in the cafeteria. A disturbing number of my horrifying imaginings involved the sudden, uncontrolled expulsion of bodily fluids.

  I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. And there wasn’t anything anyone could do—Mom, Pops, Gramps, Theo—to interrupt my painful thoughts.

  I have been experiencing a wicked cased of déjà vu all day. The knotted stomach. The overpowering need to hug Hoppy. The obsessive gloom-doom scenario scenes flickering in my head. I barely made it through my shift in the gallery and had to practice anchoring to get through the afternoon’s workshop, led by Camille Fabriano, an intuitive painter who lectures at art institutes around the world on breaking inhibitions.

  Anchoring is a meditation technique that trains your body to quickly relax through a specific touch, say a touch on your wrist or between your eyes. After following the advice of pediatricians and child therapists, Mom stepped outside her traditional box and sent me to meditation specialist, who taught me anchoring the day before I started middle school.

  My date with Gabriel is messing with my chakras. I am totally out of whack. I’ve run through the 60-Second Meditation for Relaxation, Chakra Healing Meditation, and the Deep Healing and Balancing Meditation. They helped, but every once in a while I find myself imaging worst-case scenario scenes.

  What if we are sitting in La Belle Hortense, gazing into each other’s eyes, and I vomit, explosively, all over the table and Gabriel? What if I develop a sudden allergy to wine and my face turns as puffy and purple as a grape? What if we are standing beneath a linden tree in place des Vosges and I think Gabriel is leaning in to give me a kiss, but he’s not, and I lean forward and kiss his tooth?

  It could happen.

  It did happen.

  Not with Gabriel.

  It happened with Johnny Josephs, my first boyfriend. It was the summer of freshman year. We were hanging outside a music store on Pearl Street, talking about Justin Timberlake’s new CD, Future-Sex /LoveSounds. Justin was Johnny’s “god,” and I was arguing that he was kind of an asshat for releasing “Cry Me a River,” which everyone knew was a completely unveiled jab at poor Britney Spears. I was leaning with my back against the building. Johnny was also leaning against the building, but he had his shoulder against the brick wall and was facing me. He was staring at my mouth so intensely, I just knew he was about to kiss me. When he leaned closer, I closed my eyes and went for it. It wasn’t the leg-lifting, fireworks-exploding kiss I had dreamt it would be because I miscalculated the trajectory and slammed my lip into his front tooth.

  Later, I found out he had been staring at my mouth because my lips were lined in green from the handful of lime Skittles I had eaten before meeting him. To this day, I can’t hear “SexyBack” without feeling a little sick.

  I walk over to the mirror hanging on the wall in my cubby room and stare at myself.


  “Think positive thoughts. Say something good to yourself.”

  I might be a proud, card-carrying virgin, but I’ve made out with a lot of guys since Johnny. Relatively speaking, that is. I know not to consume candies or beverages with a lot of dye in them and not to try to preempt the guy on the first kiss. So, I should be okay if Gabriel makes his move.

  “I am okay. Everything will be okay.”

  I take a deep breath and repeat the mantra in my head. Then I brush a little more mascara on my lashes and dab Burt’s Bees Evening Glow lip gloss on my lips.

  There is a knock at my door.

  “Entrez.”

  The door creaks open, and Rigby sticks her head in.

  “I’ve brought you the perfume I promised.” She pushes the door all of the way open and steps inside, whistling. “You look incredible!”

  “Thanks.”

  “Here you are, mademoiselle.”

  She pulls her arm out from behind her back and presents the perfume with a flourish, bowing as if she were a lady-in-waiting serving a queen.

  My signature scent for daytime is Pink Sugar by Aquolina, because it smells like cotton candy, but Rigby said it was too sweet for a date with a spicy-hot French man.

  I take the heavy, rectangular perfume bottle adorned with colorful, hand-painted flowers and read the words printed in fancy black script.

  “Balenciaga Rosabotanica.” I remove the lid and bring the bottle to my nose, inhaling. “It smells expensive, like hothouse roses growing in a greenhouse owned by a wealthy Italian countess.”

  Rigby laughs. “It was a gift from Matthias. The scent drives him wild. Hopefully, it will drive Monsieur Tall, Dark, and Hot wild too.”

  I spray some on my wrists and rub them together.

  “Not like that,” Rigby says, taking the bottle from me. “You’ll bruise the scent. French women spritz their perfume into the air and walk through the scented cloud.”

  She spritzes the air, and we both walk through the scented cloud, laughing.