by Cathy Hapka
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
The magic of Paris…
“Look,” he said softly, pointing over and up.
Nicole followed his gaze. There, rising in the air, so close it seemed almost larger than life, was the angular metal skeleton of the Eiffel Tower. White lights picked out its every curve and strut, making it stand out against the dark sky.
“Oh!” she gasped in surprise. “It’s—it’s beautiful!”
She had seen the Eiffel Tower many times, of course—it was difficult to go anywhere in the center of Paris without coming upon yet another view of it. But from this angle it looked like a whole new structure, looming and strangely mysterious, almost alive.
Becoming aware that Luc was watching her rather than the Tower, she turned and met his gaze.
He smiled. “I thought you would appreciate it,” he said. “You, I think, have the ability to see what is special, what is important.”
His face moved closer. Nicole stared into his eyes, mesmerized by the guileless, undemanding appreciation she saw there. So different from the way Nate looked at her most of the time.
She did nothing to stop Luc as he bent down and kissed her. His lips felt soft and warm against her own, and she let her eyes fall shut as she pressed against him.
SPEAK
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Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2005
Copyright © Cathy Hapka, 2005
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Hapka, Cathy.
Pardon my French / by Cathy Hapka.
p. cm.—(S.A.S.S.: Students Across the Seven Seas)
Summary: Seventeen-year-old Nicole’s dreams and plans center around her boyfriend,
but a semester in Paris encourages her to think about herself and her future in a new way.
eISBN : 978-1-101-11902-0
[1. Self-confidence—Fiction. 2. Foreign study—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction.
4. France—Fiction.] I. Title. II. Series.
PZ7.H1996Par 2005 [Fic]—dc22 2005043444
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any
responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content
http://us.penguingroup.com
Nicole’s Paris
Application for the Students Across the Seven Seas Study Abroad Program
Name: Nicole Larson
Age: 17
High School: Peabody High School
Hometown: Peabody Corner, MD
Preferred Study Abroad Destination: Paris, France
1. Why are you interested in traveling abroad next year?
Answer: I would like to explore a different culture and learn how other people live. I would also enjoy learning in a new environment and studying a variety of subjects.
(Truth: I’m not interested at all. My parents have this obsessive need for me to expand my horizons, whatever that means.)
2. How will studying abroad further develop your talents and interests?
Answer: I believe my experiences in France will make me a more well-rounded person, which will help in my college application process and throughout my life.
(Truth: Are you kidding? I’ll be lucky if I survive all the horizon expanding with my sanity intact! I mean, it’s not as if I’m looking for any help in the beret-wearing or croissant-eating departments....)
3. Describe your extracurricular activities.
Answer: National Honor Society, Pep Squad, Yearbook.
(Truth: Nate, Nate, and more Nate. Oh, with a side order of shopping, gossiping with my three best friends, and pizza.)
4. Is there anything else you feel we should know about you?
Answer: I am a self-motivated student who will blossom in the S.A.S.S. program. I enjoy cooking, movies, and tennis.
(Truth: I would give my left arm NOT to be picked for the program.)
Dear Mom and Dad,
You told me to send you a postcard to let you know when I got to Paris. So that’s what I’m doing.
I don’t know what the building in the picture on the front is supposed to be, since AS YOU KNOW I don’t speak or read French. At all.
But luckily, you were right—I survived the flight.
Barely.
Anyway, weather’s adequate, wish you were here... instead of me.
—Nicole
“Are you sure we’re going the right way?”
In the dirty rearview mirror, Nicole Larson saw the ruddy-faced taxi driver glance back at her. “Oui, mademoiselle,” he said, his cigarette dangling from his lower lip. His eyes were bloodshot; Nicole wondered if it was true what Zara had told her, that all Frenchmen drank a bottle of wine every morning for breakfast.
Maybe I should’ve mentioned that to Mom and Dad, she thought idly. Warned them about the dangers of shipping an impressionable youth like me off to Paris, where it’s like a nationwide frat party all the time. Explained that their only daughter could come home a hopeless drunk, all washed up at just seventeen years old.
She sighed and leaned back against the seat, knowing that it wouldn’t have made any difference. Her parents were determined that she was going to have a “learning experience” this fall even if it killed her. And of course they probably considered it a major bonus that Nate wasn’t there.
Closing her eyes, Nicole did her best to conjure up a vision of her boyfriend’s face. Nate Carlton: tall, broad-shouldered, greenish gray eyes, one somewhat crooked tooth that made his smile look slightly rakish, dirty-blond hair with just enough curl to make him look a little like an Abercrombie model. Even after almost two years together, Nicole still occasionally caught herself wondering, Why me? How did I land a boyfriend like Nate?
It wasn’t that she’d ever had trouble attracting male attention, not even in her early middle-school years when her family was still moving a lot. Nicole knew she was lucky in that way, with her tall, slim figure, her wheat-blond hair, dimples, and almond-shaped hazel eyes. And she was grateful for it. She figured her looks were probably the only thing that had saved her from a life of desperate loneliness during the years she’d spent walking into one brand-new classroom after another, forcing herself to swallow back her fear and smile at yet another roomful of strangers as they stared and decided whether to accept her, ignore her, or make her life a living hell.
In that sense, she and Nate were perfectly matched—a “cute couple,” as most people said. But Nate was about more than just good looks. He had the whole package. Funny, outgoing, the life of the party—anywhere Nate went, a good time usually followed. He had a way of mak
ing everyone around him loosen up and have fun. When he looked into Nicole’s eyes, she forgot all of her anxieties and fears and just let herself be swept up in his energy.
That would have been enough for her. But there was even more—the Carlton money, for one thing. Nate’s family might not be Rockefellers, but by the standards of Peabody Corner, Maryland, they were close enough. He was smart, too, and ambitious, and athletic. Even though he liked to tell everyone he was considering a pro football career after college, Nate already had “successful lawyer” written all over him; his father and uncle probably had an office picked out for him in their luxurious building on Main Street. In other words, Nate was exactly the kind of guy Zara and Annie would label DTHB: Don’t Throw Him Back.
Lucky. Lucky-lucky-lucky. How many times had Zara and the others said it? Nicole was lucky to have a guy like Nate. But now she was stuck spending the next three months far away from him in Croissantland. It didn’t seem fair. She was supposed to spend the first semester of her senior year in a very different sort of way. She’d imagined it so many times, in such vivid detail. She could see herself walking through the halls with her friends whispering snarky, clever comments about the unfortunate fashion choices of the incoming freshmen. Cheering Nate on at the homecoming game, then leaning into him as they danced later that night. Staying up late with Annie “helping” her write an essay that might actually, miraculously, get her into college.
College. That was the main reason Nicole was here and she knew it. She stared down at her hands, trying not to let her mind go spinning down that familiar path. She was feeling depressed enough already.
The warm air blowing in through the half-open cab windows carried the sour, stale stench of cigarette smoke into the backseat. Nicole held her breath, trying not to let her distaste show on her face. If French people were half as touchy and rude as everyone back home said they were, she didn’t want to take any chances of insulting the driver by making faces at his cancer breath. Besides, at this point she just wanted to get through this ride without having a complete nervous breakdown.
“Merde!” the driver muttered loudly, swerving violently around a small, scruffy-looking brown-and-white dog. Nicole tensed, clutching the armrest.
“Uh, don’t worry,” she spoke up tentatively. “I’m really not in a hurry.”
The driver glanced at her again in the rearview. Nicole wondered if he spoke English at all. Maybe the only phrase he understood was “Do you speak English?” Or maybe his nod at this earlier question had been a fluke—maybe he’d just been shaking himself awake. Back at the airport, he had stared at the address she’d showed him, then merely jerked his head to indicate for her to follow him to his car. She still wasn’t entirely convinced he knew where he was going, though it wasn’t as if she could really tell the difference.
She looked out the window. So this is Paris, she thought.
She had been doing her best to ignore the scenery outside for as long as possible. Sooner or later, though, she would have to climb out of this cab and face the fact that she was here, in a foreign country where she didn’t speak the language, all alone.
“Thanks, Mom and Dad,” she muttered.
“Eh?” The cabdriver glanced back at her again.
“Nothing,” Nicole said quickly, wincing as he nearly sideswiped a parked car.
Even though Zara was who-even-knew-how-many miles away, Nicole could almost hear her snicker. Talking to yourself again, Larson? Zara would say with that little twisted half smile of hers. They have medication for that, you know.
Annie and Patrice would giggle along, and even though Nicole would laugh, too—maybe even make some additional little joke at her own expense—she would end up feeling ashamed, as if she’d broken some kind of unwritten rule of proper behavior. One of Zara’s favorite sayings was “Never let them see you sweat.” She used it so much that she’d long since shorthanded it to NLTSYS, pronounced “Neltsiss.”
Nicole’s friendship with Zara, Annie, and Patrice was, like her relationship with Nate, a cherished symbol of how her life had finally eased into stability and predictability. It had begun in the middle of eighth grade, when her family had finally settled down—for good this time, her parents had promised—in Peabody Corner. First she’d found Patrice Fiorelli, bonding with her over their shared love of sappy romance novels. Then, that summer at the community pool, the unthinkable had happened—Zara Adams had actually shown an interest in her. And where Zara went, Annie Goodfellow followed; the two of them had been best friends practically since birth. They’d both been outrageously popular since birth, too, as far as Nicole could tell. When they folded her into their circle of friendship, along with Patrice, it was as if she’d suddenly graduated from character actor to leading lady. By the time they started high school that fall, the four of them were inseparable.
Nicole loved the feeling of being part of a group. Loved it so much that she didn’t really mind that Zara made most of their plans, decided which after-school activities and hobbies were worthwhile, even picked out what clothes everyone should buy when they went to the mall. Most of the time Nicole completely agreed with her choices, anyway. Even when she didn’t, it just seemed easier to go along with whatever Zara wanted.
And then came Nate. Landing him was one of the few things Nicole had ever done that she could tell truly impressed Zara. That felt good.
But even better was the feeling that in the past few years, finally, Nicole’s life had gotten under control. No more moving. No more loneliness. She was safe—heading in just the right direction. She’d always imagined herself living in one of those romances she liked so much—a handsome, successful husband, a couple of adorable, loving children, a nice house in a nice neighborhood, a neatly tended yard with a cute Labrador retriever frolicking in the tulips....
Nicole always felt a little sheepish at the thought of telling people—especially her parents—about these soft-focus dreams, as if she ought to have bigger goals, like saving the rain forest or landing a spot on the Supreme Court. She frustratingly suspected her parents were just liberal and adventurous enough not to get it. Why else would they have spent her entire childhood cheerfully and carelessly uprooting their entire lives every year or so, just so they could design and install yet another public garden or private estate grounds?
But maybe it had been a bad move to keep it from them. Maybe if she’d tried to explain her dreams to them, they would have realized how much they were messing up her life by shipping her off to Paris just when she’d finally thought everything was settled. She had offered to rent French movies, listen to some French music, even try to survive dinner at a French restaurant, as long as they let her stay home where she belonged. But no; they wanted her to experience the real thing. Why couldn’t they realize that she didn’t care about travel and adventure, or about expanding her horizons? Her horizons were just fine the way they were.
Nicole stared out the window. It was a sunny September day, and there were plenty of people on the sidewalks and plenty of cars and trucks on the streets. While the people didn’t appear that different from the ones back home, most of the vehicles looked strange and unfamiliar—tiny, boxy automobiles that looked more like kiddie cars than anything an adult would drive. The vans and delivery trucks looked more ordinary except that most of them had French names or phrases painted on their sides. At least the stop signs seemed to be the same in Paris as they were back home—they were even written in English.
They turned down a block of what Nicole guessed might be houses or apartment buildings, most of them three or four stories tall. The facades were as different from the spacious, brick-face-and-stucco homes in her subdivision back home in Maryland as the minicars were from Nate’s enormous American-made SUV. These buildings were mostly constructed of various shades of gray stone and seemed to loom inches from the curb. Most of them looked as if they’d been squatting there, gray and solid and dusty, since dinosaurs roamed the earth.
Several pe
ople were strolling down the street, appearing to be in no hurry. Two young women wearing chic dresses were chatting with each other. A young boy was leaning out of a window watering flowers in a window box. A stout woman with a brightly colored scarf tied over her hair was sweeping the sidewalk.
Nicole stared out at the strangers, feeling a little like a naturalist observing wild animals in their native habitat from the safety of a Jeep. There was just one difference. Unlike a naturalist, she was going to have to live among the subjects of her observation. The thought made her stomach twist with anxiety, and she swallowed hard as she felt the baked chicken and mashed potatoes she’d eaten on the plane—the last safe, familiar food she was likely to see for months—rise up into her throat. Tightening her grip on the armrest, she stared straight ahead until she felt her churning stomach subside a little.
The cabbie spun the steering wheel to the left and peeled off down another street. The residential area quickly gave way to what seemed to be a shopping area. There were many more people on the street, and most of the buildings had signs out front along with picture windows displaying their wares. Nicole noticed that many of them featured pictures indicating what was sold inside—a pair of shoes on a shoe-store sign, a cow on the sign for a butcher, a book in front of a bookstore.
Good, Nicole thought. Guess that’s how they keep the clueless Americans from bothering them with too many questions.
Nicole leaned back and closed her eyes. Why oh why did she have to be stuck in France, of all places? If her parents insisted on shipping her off somewhere, why couldn’t they have found a semester-abroad program in, like, Canada—or better yet, New Jersey? At least then she could speak the language and maybe have seen Nate on weekends.
