Gayle Forman - Just One Day

I’ve heard about the French. I’ve seen plenty of French films. A lot of them are sexy; some of them are kinky. I want to be Lulu, but not that much.

“Lulu!” Willem’s voice is firm. “Céline refuses to hold your bags unless I change my clothes,” he explains. “She says I look like a dirty old man coming out of a sex shop.” He points to his crotch.

It takes me a minute to understand what she means, and when I do, I flush.

Céline says something to Willem in French, and he laughs. And fine, maybe it’s not what I thought it was. But it’s still pretty clear that I’ve intruded upon something.

Willem turns back to me. “I said I will change my jeans, but all my other shirts are just as dirty, so she is finding me one.”

Céline continues yapping away at Willem in French, and it’s like I don’t even exist.

Finally, she finds what she’s looking for, a heather-gray T-shirt with a giant red SOS emblazoned on it. Willem takes it and yanks off his own T-shirt. Céline says something else and reaches out to undo his belt buckle. He holds his hands up in surrender and then undoes the buttons himself. The jeans fall to the floor and Willem just stands there, all miles and miles of him, in nothing but a pair of fitted boxer shorts.

“Excusez-moi,” he says as he brushes past me so close his bare torso slides up against my arm. It’s dark in here, but I’m fairly certain Céline can tell I’m blushing and has marked this as a point against me. A few seconds later, Willem returns with his backpack. He digs in it for a rumpled-but-stain-free pair of jeans. I try not to stare as he slips them on and threads his worn brown leather belt through the loops. Then he puts on the T-shirt. Céline glances at me looking at him, and I look away as though she’s caught me at something. Which she has. Watching him get dressed feels more illicit than seeing him strip.

“D’accord?” he asks Céline. She appraises him, her hands on her hips.

“Mieux,” she says back, sounding like a cat. Mew.

“Lulu?” Willem asks.

“Nice.”

Finally, Céline acknowledges me. She says something, gesticulating wildly, then stops.

When I fail to answer, one of Céline’s eyebrows shoots up into a perfect arch, while the other one stays in neutral. I’ve seen women from Florence to Prague do this same thing. It must be some skill they teach in European schools.

“She is asking you if you have ever heard of Sous ou Sur,” Willem says, pointing to the SOS on the shirt. “They are a famous punk-rap band with strong lyrics about justice.”

I shake my head, feeling like a double loser for not having heard of the cool French anarchist whatever justice band. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak French.”

Céline looks disdainful. Another stupid American who can’t be bothered to learn any other languages.

“I speak a little Mandarin,” I offer hopefully, but this fails to impress.

Céline deigns to switch to English: “But your name. Lulu, it is French, non?”

There’s a small pause. Like at a concert in between songs. A perfect time to say, ever so casually, “Actually, my name is Allyson.”

But then Willem answers for me. “It’s short for Louise.” And he winks at me.

Céline points at my suitcase with a manicured purple fingernail. “That is the bag?”

“Yes. This is it.”

“It is so big.”

“It’s not that big.” I think about some of the bags other girls brought on the tour, the hair dryers and adapters and three changes of clothes per day. I look at her in her black mesh tunic that stops at her thighs, a tiny black skirt that Melanie would pay too much for, and suspect this knowledge would fail to impress her.

“It can live in the storage room, not in my office.”

“That’s fine. Just so long as I can get it tomorrow.”

“The cleaner will be here at ten o’clock. And here, we have so many extra, you can have one too,” she says, handing me the same T-shirt she gave Willem, only mine is at least a size larger than his.

I’m about to open my suitcase and stuff it in, but then I visualize the contents: the sensible A-line skirts and T-shirts that Mom picked out for me. My travel journal, the entries I hoped would be breathless accounts of adventure but wound up reading like a series of telegrams: Today we went to the Prague Castle. Stop. Then we saw The Magic Flute at the State Opera House. Stop. Had chicken cutlets for dinner. Stop. The postcards from Famous European Cities, blank because after I’d mailed the obligatory few to my parents and grandmother, I’d had no one left to send them to. And then there’s the Ziploc bag with one lone piece of paper inside. Before the trip, my mom made me a master inventory of all the things to bring and then she made copies, one for every stop, so each time I packed, I could check off each item, to ensure I didn’t leave anything behind. There is one sheet left for my supposed last stop in London.

I stuff the T-shirt into my shoulder bag. “I’ll just hang on to this. To sleep in tonight.”

Céline’s eyebrow shoots up again. She probably never sleeps in a T-shirt. She probably sleeps in the silky nude, even on the coldest of winter nights. I get a flash of her sleeping naked next to Willem.

“Thanks. For the shirt. For storing my bag,” I say.

“Merci,” Céline says back, and I wonder why it is that she’s thanking me, but then I realize she wants me to say thank you in French, so I do, only it comes out sounding like mercy.

We go upstairs. Céline is nattering away to Willem. I’m beginning to understand how his French got so fluent. As if this didn’t make it clear enough that she was a dog and Willem her hydrant, when we get upstairs, she links arms with him and walks him slowly to the front of the bar. I feel like waving my arms and saying “Hello! Remember me?”

When they do that cheek-cheek-kiss-kiss thing, I feel so much of the excitement from earlier dwindle. Next to Céline, with her mile-high stilettos, her black hair, the underneath dyed blond, her perfectly symmetrical face, which is both marred and enhanced by so many piercings, I feel short as a midget and plain as a mop. And once again, I wonder, Why did he bring me here? Then I think of Shane Michaels.

All through tenth grade, I’d had a huge crush on Shane, a senior. We’d hang out, and he’d flirt with me and invite me lots of places and pay for me even, and he’d confide all kinds of personal things, including, yes, about the girls he was dating. But those relationships never lasted more than a few weeks, and I’d told myself that all the while, he and I were growing closer and that he’d eventually fall for me. When months went by and nothing happened between us, Melanie said it was never going to happen. “You have Sidekick Syndrome,” she said. At the time, I thought she was jealous, but of course, she was right. It hits me that, Evan notwithstanding, it might be a lifetime affliction.

I can feel myself shriveling, feel the welcome Paris bestowed on me earlier fading away, if it even really happened. How stupid to think a dog sniffing my crotch and a quick look from some random guy meant anything. Paris adores girls like Céline. Genuine Lulus, not counterfeits.

But then, just as we’re at the door, the Giant comes out from behind the bar and takes my hand and, with a jaunty “à bientôt,” kisses both my cheeks.

A warm feeling tickles my chest. This is the first time on the trip a local has been unabashedly nice to me—because he wanted to, not because I was paying him to. And it doesn’t escape my notice that Willem is no longer looking at Céline but is watching me, a curious expression lighting up his face. I’m not sure if it’s these things or something else, but it makes that kiss, which I get was just platonic—a friendly, cheek-handshake thing—feel momentous. A kiss from all of Paris.

Lulu, we have something very important to discuss.”

Willem looks at me solemnly, and I feel my stomach bottom out in anxiety over another unpleasant surprise.

“What now?” I ask, trying not to sound nervous.

He crosses his arms in front of his chest and then he strokes his chin. Is he going to send me back? No! I’ve already had that freak-out once today.

“What?” I ask again, my voice rising in spite of my best efforts.

“We lost an hour coming to France, so it’s after two o’clock. Lunchtime. And this is Paris. And we just have the day. So we must consider this very seriously.”

“Oh.” I exhale relief. Is he trying to mess with me now? “I don’t care. Anything except chocolate and bread, please. Those might be your staples, but they don’t seem particularly French,” I snap, not entirely sure why I’m so peeved except that even though we’ve now walked several blocks away from Céline’s club, it’s like she’s following us somehow.

Willem feigns offense. “Bread and chocolate are not my staple foods.” He grins. “Not the only ones. And they are very French. Chocolate croissants? We can have those for breakfast tomorrow.”

Breakfast. Tomorrow. After tonight. Céline beings to feel a little farther away now.

“Unless, that is, you prefer crisps for breakfast,” he continues. “Or pancakes. That’s American. Maybe crisps with your pancakes?”

“I don’t eat chips for breakfast. I do occasionally eat pancakes for dinner. I’m a rebel that way.”

“Crêpes,” he says, snapping his fingers. “We will have crêpes. Very French. And you can be rebellious.”

We walk along, menu-browsing the cafés until we find one on a quiet triangle corner that serves crêpes. The menu is hand-scrawled, in French, but I don’t ask Willem to translate. After that whole thing with Céline, my lack of fluency is starting to feel like a handicap. So I stumble through the menu, settling on citron, which I’m pretty sure means lemon, or orange, or citrus of some kind. I decide on a citron crêpe and a citron pressé drink, hoping it’s some kind of lemonade.

“What are you getting?” I ask.

He scratches his chin. There is a tiny patch of golden stubble there. “I was thinking of getting a chocolate crêpe, but that is so close to chocolate and bread that I’m afraid you’ll lose respect for me.” He flashes me that lazy half smile.

“I wouldn’t sweat it. I already lost respect for you when I found you undressing for Céline in her office,” I joke.

And there’s that look: surprise, amusement. “That wasn’t her office,” he says slowly, drawing out his words. “And I would say she was more undressing me.”

“Oh, never mind, then. By all means, order the chocolate.”

He gives me a long look. “No. To repent, I will order mine with Nutella.”

“That’s hardly repenting. Nutella is practically chocolate.”

“It’s made from nuts.”

“And chocolate! It’s disgusting.”

“You just say that because you’re American.”

“That has nothing to do with it! You seem to have a bottomless appetite for chocolate and bread, but I don’t assume it’s because you’re Dutch.”

“Why would it be?”

“Dutch Cocoa? You guys have the lock on it.”

Willem laughs. “I think you have us confused with the Belgians. And I get my sweet tooth from my mother, who’s not even Dutch. She says she craved chocolate all through her pregnancy with me and that’s why I like it so much.”

“Figures. Blame the woman.”

“Who’s blaming?”

The waitress comes over with our drinks.

“So, Céline,” I begin, knowing I should let this go but am somehow unable to. “She’s, like, the bookkeeper? At the club.”

“Yes.”

I know it’s catty, but I’m gratified that it’s such a dull job. Until Willem elaborates. “Not the bookkeeper. She books all the bands, so she knows all these musicians.” And if that’s not bad enough, he adds, “She does some of the artwork for the posters too.”

“Oh.” I deflate. “She must be very talented. Do you know her from the acting thing?”

“No.”

“Well, how did you meet?”

He plays with the wrapper from my straw.

“I get it,” I say, wondering why I’m bothering to ask what is so painfully clear. “You guys were an item.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Oh.” Surprise. And relief.

And then Willem says, ever so casually, “We just fell in love once.”

I take a gulp of my citron pressé—and choke on it. It turns out it’s not lemonade so much as lemon juice and water. Willem hands me a cube of sugar and a napkin.