But in reality, if I were to wake up one day and find that I was suddenly back in Audrey’s social circle, that Hannah and Pilar wouldn’t even take a millisecond to notice me in the halls — I’d be devastated.
I couldn’t even say why. I knew it made me sound shallow and horrible.
Jules seemed to sense my inner turmoil. “Perhaps this is just something you need to figure out for yourself.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
We sat and watched the people walk by. At one point, a woman walked up to us, looked at me, and asked me something in French.
I opened my mouth to apologize, but Jules spoke to her. She said, “Merci,” and walked away.
“She wanted directions,” he said. “See? I said before you look French.”
“If you knew how much I cared about that,” I said, “you would think I was crazy.”
“You don’t want to look French?”
“No.” I was running out of patience with myself and tired of trying to say the right thing. “I’m, like, pathetically desperate to look French.”
Jules let out a gentle laugh. “Colette, you spend a lot of time thinking about things that should not matter to you.”
“I know,” I said. I glanced at Jules. “Does that make me a bad person?”
“No,” he said softly. “That’s how you know you’re a good person. Because it makes you unhappy. You are thinking about it and fighting it. A lot of people don’t think about it at all.”
I wasn’t sure why, but I felt my cheeks get warm. “You think I’m a good person?”
“Is that as important as thinking you look French?”
“Almost.” I couldn’t help smiling. But then I remembered everything else we’d been talking about and my smile faded. “I’m sorry. It’s just been such a weird year.”
“Weird how?”
And then, without meaning to, I told him everything — how my dad freaked out and left us. How we suddenly had no money, and how my mom worked at a perfume counter at Macy’s to pay the bills, and how I was on scholarship but nobody knew it, and how desperate I was to leave Ohio and spend the summer in New York with my dad, and how my little brother thought I was a superficial monster most of the time, and how I couldn’t tell any of this to Hannah or Pilar.
And then I realized how completely dumb it sounded that I couldn’t talk about my problems to the people I was supposed to be the closest to.
“You know what?” I said finally, shaking my head. “The more I talk, the worse it all sounds.” I checked my watch. “It’s actually getting kind of late. Maybe we should head back.”
Jules’s blue eyes were thoughtful. “If you like.”
“I need to be at the hotel’s café for dinner or I’ll have to pay for it myself.” I smiled, embarrassed, but suddenly feeling light and free, unburdened by all my secrets. “I’m completely broke.”
“I know a place we can go for dinner,” Jules said.
“Broke,” I repeated. “It means, no euros in les pockets.”
“It’s very inexpensive,” Jules said. “I get a discount.”
I have to admit — the idea of spending more time with Jules, as opposed to going back to the hotel and doing the keep-Hannah-happy tap dance, sounded pretty good.
“Well, okay,” I said. “But I need to call Madame Mitchell.”
“Here,” Jules said. “Use my phone.” He scrolled back through his recent calls to a number labeled MITCHELL.
I took the phone, but stared at it for a moment. “Um … are we, like … allowed to do this?”
“To do what?”
Uh. “To do things together — alone?”
Jules’s mouth twisted into a very adorable half smile, half concentrated frown. “I don’t know, actually…. I have never asked.”
Oh, what the hey. I dialed.
Madame Mitchell answered with her most nasally accent. “Bonjour?”
“Hi, it’s Colette,” I said. “Can I skip dinner at the hotel and eat with Jules?”
“Oh. Well.” She paused for a few seconds to think. “All right. Try to be back by eight thirty. Come by my room and check in so I don’t have to send out les gendarmes, okay?”
I said good-bye and handed the phone back to Jules. “Now … where’s this magic restaurant that serves people with no money?”
“SALUT!” JULES CALLED, pushing open the door.
Instantly, a rich, spicy aroma wafted out into the hallway.
The restaurant that serves broke foreigners? Jules’s family’s apartment.
“Salut, Jules,” called a voice that was young, sweet, and female.
Jules ushered me inside. I looked around the small living room, which was decorated with nice — but older — furniture, a lot of plants, and dozens of framed photographs of family members.
A girl who looked a little older than Jules stuck her head out from a doorway. She had a mop of short brown hair and round wire-framed glasses. Over her clothes, she wore a floral apron, soft and faded from years of use, and in her hand was a wooden spoon.
“Ah!” she said, and then she started speaking French at me.
“Non, elle ne parle pas bien français,” Jules said.
“Oh,” the girl said. “Hello.”
“She thought you were French!” Jules said in a stage whisper. “Good job! You fooled another one!”
I elbowed him in the side. “Bonsoir,” I said, not sure if I should try to shake hands or what.
“Colette Iselin, this is my sister, Mathilde. Mathilde, this is Colette. She’s visiting from America.”
Mathilde’s eyes lit up and she grinned.
“Sois sage,” Jules said, a warning in his voice, and his sister’s eyes seemed to flicker with mischief.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
“Here, would you like to set your things down?” Jules asked, directing me to the piano bench before she could say anything else.
Mathilde disappeared back into the kitchen.
“It smells amazing,” I said.
“She is a genius at cooking,” Jules said. “She’s training to be a chef. What are you making tonight, sister?”
“Pot au feu,” she called. “And there is enough to share with la jolie américaine.”
Jules made a clucking sound, and — was I imagining it, or did he actually blush?
“What is pot au feu?” I asked. “Not that I’m picky. I’ll eat anything.”
“It’s a beef stew,” Jules said. “Very traditional. Would you like some water?”
“Sure,” I said, and he went into the kitchen. I heard him talking in hushed, urgent French to his sister, who laughed a little as she answered him back. When he reappeared with a glass of water, he looked even more flustered.
“So your whole family lives here?” I looked around. I hoped my voice didn’t convey the surprise I felt. The apartment was tiny.
“Yes, and this is where my father grew up,” Jules said. “His parents moved out to the suburbs when my mother and father were married.”
“Are you going to live here the whole time you’re in college?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
I thought of all the kids I knew, who were champing at the bit to leave their parents behind and go away to school.
“Want a tour?” Jules asked me.
“Aren’t you tired of giving tours?” I said.
“This will be a short one.” He led me down a short hall. “My parents’ room … Mathilde’s room … my room … the toilet.”
He went so fast I didn’t really have time to get a good look at anything, so after nodding at the bathroom, I turned back and gave the door to his bedroom a light push. There was a twin bed pushed up against one wall, a dresser next to the bed, and a desk by the door. The walls were covered in posters of bands — Radiohead, the Pixies, the Beatles, Metallica …
“You like a lot of different music,” I said.
“What?” He grinned. “You think French peopl
e only like jazz and accordions?”
“Pilar can play the accordion,” I said. “It’s pretty amazing. She can basically play anything.”
“Really? Pilar?” he said. “I would not have guessed she had any hidden talent.”
“She’s just insecure,” I said. “Her mom has always made her feel short and fat.”
“That is a shame,” he said.
“Yes, it is,” I said, turning to look over his bookshelves. Most of the titles were in French. A lot of them were classics, and the whole bottom shelf was textbooks. There was no TV in the room, just a set of small iPod speakers.
“Very nice,” I said.
“Is it like American boys’ bedrooms?”
I turned to see that his grin had turned impish. “I wouldn’t really know,” I said airily. “I don’t make a habit of visiting boys’ bedrooms.”
“Don’t you have a brother?” he asked.
“Oh. Yes. It’s sort of like his room. Only he has a giant computer and a bunch of chessboards.” It was actually smaller than Charlie’s room, I noticed. And Jules seemed to have spent his whole life living there without being traumatized by the lack of square footage.
We went back out and Jules showed me the kitchen. Mathilde stood over her pot on the stove like a mother duck over her ducklings. Jules and I sat at the dinner table and watched her cook.
“Colette … you like Paris?” Mathilde asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I love it.”
“What is your favorite part, so far?”
“Versailles.” It was true, in spite of the strange things that had happened to me there. People still like roses even though they have thorns, right? So I could still like the palace even though it was potentially full of ghosts. “But today was nice, too.”
“Where did you go today?”
Without meaning to, I looked at Jules. He gave me a shy smile and tried to sound casual as he said, “We walked around.”
Mathilde didn’t miss a chance to shoot him a sparkling look. “Alone? Just the two of you?”
“Hey,” Jules said. “Occupe-toi de tes oignons.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“He told me to mind my onions.” Mathilde tried to hide her smile as she went back to stirring. “All right, I will stop asking questions.”
I thought it was totally funny and sweet, the way she teased him. I never joked with Charlie that way — as if we were friends, on the same level. Furthermore, she was actually interested in what Jules did. And he was clearly proud of her cooking.
What were my brother and I doing wrong?
A few minutes later, their parents came home, and then we all sat around and talked until it was time to eat. Monsieur Martin’s English was terrible, but he loved testing it out on me. And I tried to answer in French. By the time he and I limped through an entire conversation, Mathilde and Jules were crying with laughter.
The food was served on mismatched plates, all different brands and patterns that somehow looked like they were created to be mixed together. Along with the stew, there were green beans and steaming red beets.
I was aware that everyone was waiting for my reaction, so I was determined to fake it if necessary.
It wasn’t necessary.
“Mon dieu,” I said, after taking my first bite.
“She says, ‘Oh my God!’” Monsieur Martin crowed, delighted.
“It’s good?” Mathilde asked.
“It’s unbelievable,” I said, finishing the bite. The meat, salty and tender, broke apart in my mouth, and the broth was sweet and fragrant. I could have eaten a bucketful. Mathilde rewarded me with a smile, and then everyone stopped staring at me and turned to their own dinners. Monsieur Martin had brought home a crusty baguette wrapped in wax paper, and we each got a hunk of bread to dip into the broth.
Madame Martin took a bite of hers and then closed her eyes with a happy sigh. “She has only twenty years, but she cooks like my grandmother.”
Jules smiled at his sister, who smiled back at him, beaming with pride. It was such a warm, personal moment that I almost felt embarrassed having seen it.
The whole meal took about an hour and a half, with everyone talking and laughing and taking their time, lingering over a platter of cheese and then cups of coffee. Even back in the days when my family ate dinner together (at Mom’s insistence), we’d never been like this. It was always Dad hurrying to finish so he could go check his work email, and Charlie trying to catch glimpses of the TV in the next room, and me with my earbuds in, making a point of ignoring everything. We’d say grace, scarf down our food, and be out of there in twenty minutes.
None of the Martins seemed to want to be anywhere else, or doing anything else, besides just sitting around with one another and hanging out.
“So what else do you have planned for the week?” Mathilde asked, pouring cream into her second cup of coffee.
“Whatever Jules has planned,” I said, and then I blushed. “I mean, because he’s the tour guide.”
Jules was smiling at his plate. “Museums, historical sites, the usual.”
“Oh, there is one cool thing,” I said, remembering. “My friend Hannah got some of us invited to a party at Versailles next Saturday.”
Jules turned to me. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah — we have to go rent costumes and everything.” Although where I’d get the money to rent one, I had no idea.
Mathilde brightened. “I know where you can find a dress. My school did an exhibition last year, and the costumes are in storage.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said. “I’m not sure…. Can I let you know?”
“Of course,” Mathilde said. “How fun. A costume ball … do you need a date?”
Jules shot out of his chair. “I’m getting more coffee. Does anyone want anything?”
Mathilde grinned. “All right, we can talk about something else.”
By the time the meal was done, I was strangely, achingly homesick for my mother and brother.
“We’d better get going,” Jules said to me, after we’d carried our dishes into the kitchen and handed them to Monsieur Martin, who stood at the sink wearing Mathilde’s floral apron over his work clothes.
I thanked them all for their hospitality, noting the glint in Mathilde’s eye as she told me to come back anytime.
When the apartment door clicked closed behind us, it felt like we were leaving some special, enchanted place.
“Your family’s great,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “Though Mathilde can be a …” He said some French word I didn’t understand, but it made me laugh.
“It’s just cool that you guys are friends,” I said. “My brother and I are never like that. If we’re talking, we’re fighting.”
Jules pursed his lips and opened the main door for me. We stepped out into the twilight. “You must talk about the wrong subjects.”
“I guess so,” I said. “But … it’s more than that. It’s like we’re so different that one of us has to be wrong.”
“About what?”
“About everything. We don’t like each other’s friends, or music, or ideas about what’s a worthwhile way to spend time.” And it suddenly seemed so silly. Why couldn’t we both be right?
“I’m sorry for you,” Jules said. “My sister is my best friend. We fight sometimes, but … I don’t know what I would do without her.”
We walked for a while without speaking, just soaking in the sights and sounds of the night. The cafés were setting up their heaters, and dinner patrons were beginning to crowd the small tables. Golden light poured out of shop windows, and a mix of French voices floated on the cool air, rising and lowering in lively conversation.
I didn’t really let myself think about Jules, about the fact that he’d voluntarily spent his whole day with me and taken me home to dinner, and that his sister had teased him about me.
I did take his words from earlier — you’re a good person — and let them tumble ar
ound in my head like rocks being pushed along the floor of a river, until they were smooth and shining.
But the rest of it — and what it might mean — I pushed to the far reaches of my mind. Instead, I focused on the glow of the streetlamps, accenting each cobblestone with its own little half-moon of light.
In what seemed like a tenth of the time I expected it to take, we were back at the hotel. I took a deep breath and turned to face Jules.
“I’ll see you in the morning, then?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said.
And then there was a pause. One of those really, really long pauses where both people feel like there’s something to say, only neither of them is willing to be the one to say it.
What was it I wanted to say to Jules? What would I say if I weren’t afraid?
Thanks for listening to my secrets? Or Thanks for making me feel …
How, exactly, did he make me feel?
Like a whole person. A person who didn’t need to change anything about herself to be okay. Essentially … the opposite of how I felt 99 percent of the time.
But would I ever say that? Not in a million years.
“Thanks for dinner.” I burst the bubble of silence before it turned into something dangerous. “See you tomorrow.”
I pivoted and started to head into the hotel, feeling proud of myself for getting us onto safe ground.
But Jules stopped me. “Colette,” he said.
I hesitated before I swung back to look at him.
He was smiling. “I had a very good time with you today.”
“Okay.” I smiled back. And then I went inside.
“Okay?” Is that really what I just said?
I took the stairs to the third floor and knocked on Madame Mitchell’s door. She pulled it open and checked her watch. Three minutes early. “How was dinner?”
“Great,” I said. “Authentic French cuisine.”
“I must say,” she said, raising her eyebrows a little, “I don’t know that I’ve ever had a girl in my group get along so well with the tour guide. Of course, for the past six years we had Monsieur Delacorte, and you’d have to be not only blind but also pretty much out of your mind to find him attractive.”