by Cathy Hapka
But no, it had to be Paris. She was already enrolled in Introduction to French, a language-immersion course that promised to get her conversing with the locals in no time. Luckily the program’s other courses were all taught in English—math, history, literature, even something called Paris Through an Artist’s Eye.
Suddenly the cabbie let out a gruff mumble. Nicole opened her eyes and sat up. “What?”
The driver muttered again, then gestured out the side window. Nicole blinked, her stomach flip-flopping as she realized that this was going to be a familiar motif for the next few months—her feeling stupid while she hopelessly attempted to understand what someone was saying.
“Excuse me?” she asked weakly. Suddenly remembering one useful French phrase she’d learned long ago from Miss Piggy, she added, “Er, excus-ay moi?”
Letting out a loud sigh, the cabbie twisted halfway around to look at her. “La Tour Eiffel,” he said. “Regardez là! Over there!”
Nicole finally realized what he was trying to tell her. Visible in the distance over the top of some nearby buildings was the tall, sweeping form of the Eiffel Tower. She had seen it many times, of course, in movies or on posters. Seeing it now, through the smudged car window, gave her a strange feeling of disbelief. Was she really here?
She watched the Tower until it slid out of view behind the cab, then closed her eyes again. Why did her parents think seeing a foreign culture was such a great thing, anyway?
At least she was going to be staying with an American family. That was probably the only silver lining in this whole giant storm cloud. The S.A.S.S. program sponsoring her trip counted on local families to help house the students during their stay, and the Smiths—a good, all-American name if Nicole had ever heard one—were one of the host families. Of course, their last name was all she knew about them other than their address, which made her a little nervous.
With my luck, they’ll probably be some supersnobby artsy-fartsy types from New York City, Nicole thought, trying to ignore the bumps in the road and sudden turns, which weren’t doing anything to improve the state of her stomach. The kind of people Zara calls PPs—Pretentious Poseurs. They’ll dress all in black and insult my haircut and say “Maryland? Isn’t that somewhere on Long Island?” Then again, maybe they’ll turn out to be Ma and Pa Smith from Yeehaw Station, Texas, with tons of oil money they spend on hairspray and diamond-studded tank tops. They’ll call everyone “hon” and pronounce their own name “Smee-ya-uth” and have accents so thick I’ll have to ask the Frenchies to translate for me....
As the car jerked to a stop at the curb, interrupting her anxious fantasies, Nicole opened her eyes and sat up. “Are we here?” she blurted.
The cabbie didn’t bother to answer. He just waved a hand toward a nearby building, then climbed out of the cab to get her luggage.
Nicole rolled down the window all the way and looked outside. They were in the middle of another residential block, this one a little quieter and posher-looking than most of the others they had passed through, with stately shade trees lining the street. The building the driver had indicated was four stories tall, with iron railings along the front steps and in front of each window. A small patch of blooming flowers added a spot of color on either side of the steps. There were no people in sight at the moment.
She sucked in a deep breath but immediately regretted it when, at that very moment, the cabbie leaned down to her window and exhaled, sending a puff of foul gray smoke into the backseat. Nicole coughed as smoke filled her throat, combining with her nervousness to make her suddenly feel sick and shaky all over.
“All right, mademoiselle?” the cabbie asked, his gruff voice for the first time showing a hint of concern. He cast his cigarette down and stepped on it before opening her door.
“Yes, thanks,” Nicole choked out, trying to stop her throat from spasming.
She lurched out of the cab, almost tripping over the curb. The world seemed to tip and sway as she took a step forward. Feeling her stomach rolling unpleasantly, she opened her mouth to take in another deep breath, hoping to regain control of herself.
But it was too late. Before she could finish inhaling, or even raise a hand to her mouth, Nicole felt her body involuntarily jerking forward. A split second later she spewed the contents of her stomach—including those last familiar bits of American food from the plane—all over the quiet Parisian sidewalk.
For a horrifying moment Nicole just stood there, frozen with embarrassment. The cabdriver had jumped back during the actual barfing, but now he stepped forward and patted her tentatively on the back.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, not unkindly. “It is okay? You are sick?”
“Sorry,” Nicole gasped, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
To her complete and utter humiliation, the formerly quiet street suddenly seemed to be turning into Grand Central Station. Or whatever the French equivalent would be. Out of the corner of her eye, Nicole was aware of several people peering down at her from windows on both sides of the street. Others seemed to be wandering toward her from up and down the block.
The cabdriver patted her on the back again. “I fetch rest of the baggage, yes?” he said helpfully, disappearing back around to the cab’s trunk.
As Nicole stood there, breathing hard and wishing she could sink into the sidewalk and disappear, a man and woman emerged from the building and hurried down the steps toward her. Both appeared to be in their fifties or early sixties; the man was slight and not terribly tall, with a full head of graying brown hair and kind eyes. He was wearing a dapper suit with a handkerchief sticking out of the breast pocket. The woman’s gray-streaked auburn hair was swept up into an elegant bun, and she was just as stylishly dressed as her companion. Her face, while showing the lines and creases of age, was as beautiful as a marble statue, with high cheekbones, a small but aristocratic nose, and intelligent light blue eyes.
Nicole hardly had time to wonder whether these people could be her host family when they were upon her. “My dear girl,” the woman said. “Are you all right? My husband and I were just heading out for a walk when we saw what happened.” Her English was flawless but unmistakably French-accented, giving Nicole the answer to her question. Not the Smiths. Just some French people.
“I’m okay.” Nicole smiled weakly, feeling self-conscious. The puddle was still right there by her feet, and she was sure her breath couldn’t be smelling too good at the moment. “No problem.”
The man swept his handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to her. “Here you are, ma chère,” he said. “You might need this.”
“Oh! That’s okay.” Nicole did her best to wave away his offer. But he pressed the handkerchief into her hand insistently. Feeling foolish, she took it and dabbed at the corners of her mouth.
“That’s better.” The woman smiled. “Now, let me guess. You must be Nicole.”
“The Smiths have been talking about you for weeks,” the husband added. “Oh! But how rude of us—we have not introduced ourselves. I’m Renaud Durand, and this is my wife, Marie.”
“Nice to meet you,” Nicole said automatically. But her attention was no longer on the older couple. Another person was approaching from down the block—a young guy wearing jeans and a curious expression.
Renaud turned away and began speaking rapidly in French to the driver, who had finished unloading Nicole’s luggage and was hovering nearby. Marie picked up one of the smaller suitcases and turned toward the steps.
“Stay right here with Renaud a moment and rest,” she said. “I shall tell the Smiths you have arrived.”
“Oh, you don’t have to....” Nicole let her voice trail off, since Marie was already hurrying up the steps without a backward glance.
Meanwhile the blue jean-wearing guy was still heading her way, staring at her with interest. Nicole gulped and tried not to stare back. When he got closer, she could see that he was probably only two or three years older than she was. He was lean an
d tall, with dark hair that was cut short and spiky. His green eyes sparkled, and his lips were curled into a slight smile. He was probably one of the cutest guys she’d ever seen in person.
“Bonjour,” he said to her, followed by a couple more sentences in French.
Trying not to glance down at the puddle, Nicole forced a tight smile. “Hi,” she said shortly. “Sorry, I don’t speak French.” She scanned her mind, trying to recall the phrase her father had taught her. “Je ne parloy, um...”
She was irritated to see that the guy’s smile had broadened into an amused grin. “It is all right, do not worry, ça va,” he said. “I speak English.”
“Goody for you,” Nicole muttered under her breath. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to take care of my bags.”
“May I help?” The guy stepped forward immediately, already reaching for the nearest suitcase.
Nicole blocked him by grabbing it herself. “No thanks,” she said shortly. “I’ve got it covered.”
“Ah, but it is no trouble,” he said. “I think we are going to the same place.”
Nicole blinked, trying to figure out what he was talking about. He took advantage of her confusion by grabbing a different bag and taking off with it up the steps of the building Marie had entered.
Trying to figure out if this could possibly be some weird French type of mugging, Nicole took a step after him. Just then, as the taxi peeled off from the curb, Renaud turned toward her. “That is all taken care of,” he said with a smile. “Feeling better? Come, let’s get your things inside.”
Despite Nicole’s protests, he insisted on taking the two heaviest suitcases himself, leaving her with just her garment bag, a smaller duffel, and the padded case containing her laptop. She slung the bags over her shoulders and followed Renaud toward the steps. They were halfway up the stairs when the door swung open and a plump, pretty, rosy-cheeked woman of about forty hurried out.
“Nicole!” she exclaimed. “Welcome! I’m Lynn Smith. Are you all right? Marie tells me you’re not feeling well.”
At the sound of the woman’s stout middle-American accent, Nicole felt like crying with relief. “Hi,” she said, cracking her first real smile since her plane had left American soil. “Yeah, I guess I got a little carsick on the way over. Sorry about your sidewalk.”
Mrs. Smith brushed away her concern. “Don’t worry about that, sweetie. Now come on inside and sit down. I’ll fix you some tea while we get to know each other, and we’ll have you feeling better in no time.”
“Thanks.” Nicole allowed herself to be bustled up the steps and through the tall, carved-wood front door of the building.
“There are five apartments in this building,” Mrs. Smith explained as she led the way toward a narrow set of stairs at the back of the hall. “Renaud and Marie live there”—she waved a hand toward a door as they passed—“and we’ve got the whole second floor. Well, they call it the first floor here, I think.” She laughed heartily. “I still don’t have that one figured out, I’m afraid.”
Behind her, Nicole heard Renaud chuckle. She smiled weakly, not really getting the joke.
Soon Mrs. Smith was pushing open a door on the second floor. “Guess who’s here?” she sang out.
Her question was met with a sudden howling, shrieking explosion of noise. Nicole barely had time to register her first impression of the Smiths’ apartment—comfortable, colorful, and cluttered—before a couple of children, the sources of the noise, hurled themselves toward her.
“Whoa,” she said, involuntarily taking a quick step back.
“Kids!” Mrs. Smith said sharply. “Settle.”
“That’s right,” a deep, cheerful male voice put in. A man—Mr. Smith, Nicole assumed—stepped into view from another room, his broad-shouldered bulk and shock of red hair seeming too big and bright for the relatively small room. “At least let her get inside before you attack.”
The two young children—a redheaded boy who looked about five or six years old, and a pigtailed blond girl a year or two younger—obediently fell silent.
“This is my husband, Ed,” Mrs. Smith said. “He was invited to teach at the Sorbonne for a couple of years, which is why we’re all here. And this is Brandon and Marissa,” she added, gesturing at the children.
“It’s great to have you with us, Nicole.” Mr. Smith stepped forward to take her hand in a grip that was as strong and hearty as his booming voice. “Please treat our home as your own. We want you to feel welcome.”
Then send me back home, Nicole thought, because that’s the only place I’m ever going to feel really welcome. But she kept that thought to herself, smiling and mumbling something polite as she shook his hand.
Over at the door Renaud said a quick, polite good-bye and headed downstairs to his own apartment. At about the same time, a thin wail drifted in from an unseen room.
“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Smith glanced at her husband. “Sounds like the twins are awake.”
“Don’t worry, Luc’s in there with them,” Mr. Smith said.
“Ah, good.” Mrs. Smith ushered Nicole farther into the room and sat her down on an overstuffed sofa. Judging by its faded floral fabric and lumpy arms, it clearly had seen better days, but it was surprisingly comfortable. “Luc is our nanny,” she explained. “He’s just wonderful with the children—I couldn’t survive without him.”
“You have a male nanny?” Nicole said in surprise. Her mind flashed to a vision of her cabdriver scowling at a couple of babies and flicking ashes onto them. She had to swallow back a sudden giggle.
“Oh, yes, he’s fantastic. He comes four days a week—which lets me have some quiet time to do my writing, and it works out well with his college schedule, too....Oh! Here he is now.” She gazed toward the door with a smile. “Luc, come meet Nicole.”
Nicole froze. There, staring back at her from the doorway, a baby in each arm, was the cute green-eyed guy from outside.
Before she could figure out how to react, his face broke into an amused grin.
“Oui,” he told the Smiths. “We have already met.”
“Thanks for the ride,” Nicole told Mr. Smith.
“No problem,” Mr. Smith replied jovially, shifting his car into neutral. “Figured I could be a little late so I could drop you off—after all, it’s probably a bit much for you to tackle the métro on your first day.”
He laughed heartily at his own comment. Nicole had already figured out that the métro was the Parisian subway system, and she really wasn’t looking forward to learning anything more about it. She wondered if she could convince Mr. Smith to drive her every day. Saying good-bye, she climbed out of the car and watched it disappear into the passing traffic.
She was standing in front of a large stone building. Flags from at least a dozen nations, including the United States, flew from the roof, and a pair of stone lions flanked the steps leading up to a pair of iron-studded wooden doors. The place looked more like some kind of fortress or museum than a school.
Is this really me standing here? she wondered, focusing on the familiar red, white, and blue pattern of the American flag flapping in the breeze overhead. Am I about to walk into this building and start school in this foreign place?
Her mind shied away from the question. More than anything, she wished she could avoid the whole thing; wake up to the sound of her pink heart-shaped alarm clock beeping out the call to her first day of school back home at Peabody High.
She stared at the rough stone facade of the building, willing her fantasy to come true. But the stones held up to her gaze, solid and gray and unresponsive. Her stomach was jumping around, reminding her of the countless times she’d stood before other unfamiliar school buildings, psyching herself up to go in and face yet another roomful of strangers. She sighed and took a step toward the door, through which people had been pouring the whole time she stood there.
One of them caught her eye. Just a few yards away from where Nicole was standing, a tall, slim, stylishly dressed blond girl was rummagi
ng through her purse. The girl’s straight, shoulder-length hair was several shades lighter than Nicole’s, her eyes clear sky blue, her skin lightly tanned and flawless. Overall, the blond girl looked as much like a fashion model as anyone Nicole had ever seen.
When the girl turned and met her gaze, Nicole belatedly realized she was staring.
“Hallo.” The girl stepped toward Nicole with a tentative but friendly smile. “I am Annike. Are you a new student here as well?”
“Huh? Oh! Yes,” Nicole blurted out, caught off guard. “I mean, yeah, I’m Nicole. I’m S.A.S.S.—I mean, I’m here with the S.A.S.S. program. I’m supposed to start classes here today.”
“Oh, good!” Annike’s smile brightened, making her look more beautiful than ever. She had a strong accent, though it didn’t sound French. “I am S.A.S.S., too. I am so nervous that I am a little frightened to go inside by myself.”
“Me, too.” Nicole was relieved to hear someone else admit something like that. Especially someone as poised as this girl. “I still can’t believe I’m here, you know? I mean, I don’t even speak French or anything. Oh, I’m American, by the way, in case you couldn’t tell.”
“You don’t say?” Annike winked. “I’m from Sweden. Stockholm. I’ve only ever been to Paris a handful of times before on holiday—it’s all so new to be living here. But I do have a little French, at least. Maybe I can help you learn, if you like?”
“Thanks.” Nicole wasn’t sure she would be taking Annike up on that offer anytime soon. She might have to suffer through language class, but that didn’t mean she actually had to learn the language. That would be like admitting she didn’t mind being here. “Um, I guess we’d better get inside or we’ll be late.”
As they headed up the stairs, the two girls chatted about their schedules. Nicole discovered that Annike was in her culinary-arts class. Nicole had signed up for the elective mostly to spite her parents, who would have preferred she choose one of the more mind-expanding offerings such as Worlds of Philosophy or International Theories of Basket Weaving.
