1:30, Tour Eiffel

By

Jennifer McAndrews

My name is Rachel Healy and I am not special. I have light brown hair that’s not quite blonde, an okay figure that’s not quite full, and a propensity for breaking out before any remotely formal event. I am not going to save the world, defeat the Big Bad, or lead a revolution. I will be lucky to pass my physics final. Just so you know who you’re dealing with.

This is my first trip to Paris. Almost forty kids from the junior class at MacArthur High School arrived yesterday afternoon to spend spring break in the City of Lights, including me and my best friend, Stacy.

To be precise, Stacy and I were best friends, and we’re trying to be again. We had what people on television would call a “falling out” over the identity of the person who let slip the news Stacy lost her virginity to her boyfriend Mark. For a long while she believed that person was me. I finally convinced her otherwise, but it’s been a struggle getting back to the way things were with us.

Right now, she’s gazing at diamonds in the gem collection of the natural history museum in Paris, one of the educational stops on the trip. While Stacy fantasizes about a planet-sized engagement ring, I wander into a small side room drenched in darkness save for the small gem cases lining the wall.

Here, fluorescent lights bathe a selection of gems, showing off the secrets and potentialities within them, the spectrum of colors a stone will exhibit when subjected to unusual conditions.

“Now this is cool.”

I don’t have to turn toward the voice to identify the guy it came from, but I do anyway. Stacy’s boyfriend Mark has joined me in the small space.

“Don’t you want to look at diamond rings and tiaras with your future prom queen?” I ask, making no attempt at keeping the distaste from my voice. We have our differences, Mark and I. We make an effort to be civil whenever we’re all together, but when it’s just the two of us, there’s no point in pretending.

Mark scowls and gives an exaggerated shudder. “I’m not ready for that kind of permanence.”

“No, huh?” I say it to fill the space between us, to buy time to process this information. Mark and Stacy have been together since sophomore summer. He promised her he loved her, told her they were destined for forever. “Stacy know about this?”

“Come on,” Mark says, “I’m young. There’s a lot of life left ahead of me, you know?”

“What, you think Stacy’s going to lock you in a basement as soon as you graduate?”

“All right, I’ll put it another way,” he says, leaning closer, looking all serious. “There’s some stuff I want to explore.”

I loosen my lips to ask ‘like what?’ Before the words can form, Mark’s hand cups the back of my head, holds me in place so he can crush his mouth against mine. He wraps his free arm around my waist and hauls me against him.

The sweaty boy smell of him fills my nostrils. His hand on my head holds me immobile while his tongue invades my mouth. My responding protest sounds like a whimper.

I struggle and squirm to get my hands up against his chest then shove him hard. My slight strength against his athlete’s body is insufficient to completely dislodge him, but he breaks the ‘kiss’ and steps back all the same.

“I was right about you,” he says. “So desperate for attention you’d throw yourself at your best friend’s boyfriend.”

Shock, humiliation, and disbelief all rush my mind at once, clogging my throat and silencing my defense.

“I’ll tell you what,” he says. “I’ll let this be our little secret. You don’t want to get on Stacy’s bad side.”

He winks, turns, and strolls away, leaving me alone and hugging myself in the darkness.

We eat an early dinner at a restaurant that falls somewhere between casual café and elegant eatery. The wooden tables are bare and the floor is linoleum, but the walls are painted a warm sunflower yellow and hung with old paintings in gilt frames.

Stacy insists on eating with Mark and his buddies from the basketball team who made the trip. I pretend regret when I tell her I promised to sit with some of the kids I know from show choir, but slink off feeling more relief than regret and not a small amount of self-disgust. Avoiding Stacy makes me a coward, maybe. Probably. But I have no idea what to tell her, or how to pretend nothing has changed if I don’t.

The show choir crew has staked out the bench and chairs stretching along the back wall of the restaurant. My appearance at the end of table is met with a half-dozen stunned expressions but everyone quickly recovers.

“Move over.” Bowie, a smooth-toned tenor elbows the kid next to him. They slide left and Bowie pats the seat beside him, eyes on me. “Have a seat.”

I mumble my thanks, fearing the burn in my cheeks tells more than my words.

“We were just talking about everyone ordering something different,” Bowie says, sliding a single sheet prix fixe menu toward me, “and making one big sharing meal.”

“Think you can handle sharing?” Noreen, a second soprano, sits across from me, her dark eyebrows arched in challenge.

“Yeah, pretty sure I can remember stuff we learned in kindergarten,” I counter.

“Ladies, ladies. This is truly arousing, but can we all have something to eat before you entertain us with a girl fight?” Bowie raps his knuckles on the tabletop and the remainder of the group laughs a little. They resume what conversation I interrupted, closing Noreen, Bowie and I off in our own little bubble.

Noreen straightens her shoulders and shakes her shaggy, multi-colored hair out of her eyes and looks at Bowie, humor in her gaze and the lift of her lips. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A girl fight?”

“That’s what Paris is for, isn’t it? Wish fulfillment?” He knocks the side of his knee against mine. “Isn’t it, Rachel?”

I turn to him. “I guess that depends upon the wish,” I say. Though I mean the statement to be lighthearted, even joking, my voice conveys neither emotion. Instead, I sound like my hamster drowned.

Bowie’s brow rumples, his gaze locks on mine. The warm clear brown of his eyes shines with unspecified sympathy.

I nearly shake my head to toss away the absurdity of the idea he cares, but I’m caught by him, caught by this guy I’ve shared no more than a nodding acquaintance with since freshman year. He’s looking at me like he knows me—not like he’s drawn a conclusion about me based on who I hang with or how I dress, but like he truly knows me.

I tear my gaze away from Bowie, glance down at the dings and scratches in the table, out across the room to where Stacy sits with Mark. The strain of guilt and anxiety blend into a single nauseating wave in my stomach.

“So. Free time tomorrow morning. Where’s everyone planning to go?” Bowie’s tone is boisterous. He’s either truly interested or intentionally changing the subject. The answers around the table cover the Opera House, Notre Dame, and the Arc de Triomphe. No one mentions returning voluntarily to a museum.

“What about you, Rachel?” Noreen asks, the slightest bite in her voice. “Got plans with your friends?”

The sting in her words catches me square in the gut. Even though I mix my voice with theirs twice a week and in the occasional performance, I am not one of them. And I have no desire to be a part of the crowd on the other side of the restaurant laughing at Mark’s antics.

For just a moment I feel like I’m falling…

I let Noreen’s question and its implication about who my friends are hang unanswered in the air. A waiter approaches with a basket of bread and an order pad. From that point on I lose myself in the flood, barely participate in the world around me, waiting for the bad dream to end.

The school instructors and trip organizers are intent on acclimating us to the time zone through the simple means of sleep deprivation. I want nothing more than to return to the hotel, crawl into bed, and pull the covers over my head. Instead, I board the Metro like we’re told and sit beside Stacy while Mark and his buddies stand over us holding handrails.

“Please tell me you haven’t promised to spend any more time with the choir people,” she says. The train lurches into motion, knocking Stacy and I against one another before settling us into a synchronized swaying rhythm.

“You say that like there’s something wrong with those guys. Choir doesn’t cause plague.” My line of sight has me trying not to look directly at the waistband of Mark’s jeans and the checkered boxer shorts peeking out over the top. I focus on his hideously overpriced sneakers instead.

“Of course there’s nothing wrong with them. It’s just we planned to spend this trip together. I don’t like you ditching me.” There’s a little break in her voice. I glance at her but she’s fixating on her manicure, keeping her eyes hooded.

I sigh. “I didn’t ditch you. It was one stupid meal.” Just a meal. Nothing at all as personal as lurking in the darkness, letting her boyfriend kiss me.

“Stick with us tonight, ok? You have to, it’s safety in numbers.” Her blue eyes dance with mischief. “Besides, we’re going to a champagne bar the waiter told us about.”

“Are you serious?” I scan the train car for our group chaperones, the parents of some French-club kid. They’re engrossed in their own conversation, unconcerned that a group of under-aged teens in their charge are planning an evening of alcohol consumption.

A hint of excitement buzzes in my veins. A champagne bar. In Paris. How awesomely cool is that?

Once the train pulls in to Abbesses station, we all troop onto the platform and loiter beside the sparkling tiles, the molded plastic seating. In contrast to what I’m accustomed to seeing back home, the station walls curve and rise to the ceiling, an overhead arch seemingly formed to the shape of the train. It seems only right that in this place there is not a single sign in English - or Spanish - as there is at home.

The group leaders inform us we have until ten-thirty to explore on our own. Whoops and cheers bounce against the tiling and swoop up to the curved overhead, echoing and intensifying. Stacy gives me a quick, one-armed hug and grins. I smile back, sharing the thrill of the unknown and unapproved. “Come on,” she says. “I’ll race you to the top.”

Laughing, she starts up the stairway of one of the deepest Metro stations in the city. I pause to take a breath, and that’s my error. Mark takes hold of my elbow; I flinch despite the barrier my spring jacket provides. He tugs me out of the path of the rest of the group, and I move away from the stampede as much for my own safety as from his pressure.

As soon as I’m clear I wrench my arm out of his grasp. “Let go of me.”

“Hold on.” He reaches for me again, catching my sleeve. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Why would I do anything for you?”

His lips twitch in a slithery smile. “You don’t want me telling Stacy how you threw yourself at me today, do you?”

“I threw myself —”

“It would really suck to have her thinking she can’t trust you, wouldn’t it?”

“You asshole. You really think —”

From midway up the steps, Stacy shouts, “Hey you guys! Come on!” There is still laughter in her voice; she believes Mark’s smile. She will believe him over me.

My throat aches as I face him and force out the question. “What do you want?”

He smiles wider, slimier. “You’re going to tell Stacy - come on, up we go - you’re going to tell Stacy that you want to go to the champagne place just you two. Girlfriend shit.”

“And why am I doing this?” Before he answers, the realization dawns. “This whole thing was a set up. That disgusting come-on at the museum… just so you could get me to agree to this plan.” I feel the wrinkles of disbelief forming on my face. “You really are an idiot.”

If he had only asked, I would have agreed. But he’s too self-absorbed to realize that, to even consider Stacy might want to spend an evening without him.

“I’m not an idiot.” He lowers his voice as we close the distance to where Stacy waits. “I’m smarter than you give me credit for.”

“What’s going on?” Stacy asks. Her eyebrows draw together, her gaze darts from Mark to me and back again.

Mark jogs the last few steps toward her. “Rachel needs a favor.”

My jaw drops, but Stacy hasn’t taken her eyes off her guy. My gut reaction is lost to her. By the time she turns to me, I have control of my expression.

“Really, what do you need, Rach?” she asks.

“We’ll tell you upstairs,” Mark says. “Come on, let’s get going.”

Trailing the crowd of MacArthur kids, we hustle up the remaining steps and into the twilight over Montmartre.

“Oh, my God, this is amazing.” Stacy hits street level moments before I do. She bounces on the balls of her feet and dances a small circle before Mark rushes her from behind and catches her up in a spiraling hug. Her laughter cuts through the clear air, draws smiles from passersby and classmates streaming past. She wraps her legs around Mark’s waist and he walks a few steps with her before one of the chaperones cautions them on behavior. But not even Mark putting her down dims Stacy’s enthusiasm. “Come on, Rachel! Let’s go.”

I swallow down the combination of anger and unease and walk with Stacy and Mark toward where the basketball crew has gathered at the corner beyond the station entrance. On the surface, spending the evening just me and Stacy knocking around Montmartre and hitting a champagne bar sounds ideal. The fact Mark orchestrated it makes me more than a little suspicious.

Someone is running, the sound of feet hitting pavement muffled by the green leafy trees and putter of cars easing past. “Rachel!” It’s not a shout so much as someone singing out my name.

I turn but do not slow, keeping pace with Stacy until we reach the rest while Bowie approaches at a jog.

“Hey Bowie,” one of the jocks calls. “ ‘s up man?”

“ ’s up?” Bowie responds. He and the jock share a fist bump, but nothing more, and his attention falls on me. “Bunch of us are headed over to Place du Tertre to see if any of the artists are still hanging around. Want to come with?” He stands at the edge of the group, not quite a part, not quite separate.

“Umm…I…” I’m caught. I’m committed, as it were, to staying with Stacy, but a tug in my chest and a thread of anticipation in my gut make me want to abandon that plan. Why am I suddenly so attuned to Bowie Theissen and his brown eyes and big, easy smile? “I…”

He grins and holds up his hands, palms out. “Say no more. I can see you’ve hit the point where you’re afraid you can no longer resist me so you’re safer keeping your distance. I understand.” His words bubble beneath his laughter. “We’ll see you around.”

And he jogs off, back to where a cluster of choir kids waits for him beneath an old-fashioned street lamp. They shuffle into motion before he’s quite arrived, but he turns back to me and waves before losing himself in that crowd.

“Who was that?” Stacy stands shoulder to shoulder with me, leaning her head close to keep her voice soft.

I’m not sure how to answer. Saying his name suddenly feels like exposing a seedling to the light before its time. “Nobody,” I say.

“Not ‘nobody.’ You were sitting next to him at dinner.”

“Just one of the guys from show choir,” I say. I can feel my forehead wrinkling, so I must be looking at her like she’s insane. “Don’t you remember seeing him at concerts?”

“Well duh, Rachel, I know he’s in choir with you. Not that I go to concerts or anything.” She slips her arm through mine and turns me toward the basketball crew. “I just wanted to know his name. He’s kinda cute.”

Yes, Bowie is kinda cute. Did he somehow get cuter when I wasn’t looking? “Relax. You have Mark,” I state.

She sighs, smiles. “I do have Mark, don’t I?”

I follow her gaze to where Mark is horsing around at the front edge of the group, pretending to jump onto his buddy’s shoulders. That curl of guilt knocks against the wall of my stomach. “Listen,” I say, “about Mark…”

“Yeah, he said you wanted a favor from him. So spill it.”

Again my tongue is caught at the back of my throat, tangled with words. I look to Mark, find his cold glare on me. I don’t know what his endgame is, but I know my option is to go along with his plan or spend the evening with the whole crew, and by extension, with him.

“I, uh — What would you say if we let the guys go off and do their thing and just you and me go to the champagne bar?”

She releases my arm, pivots so we stand face to face.

“And that’s what you asked Mark? Or did he put you up to this?”

Moments like this make me wonder if hidden way deep inside Stacy carries a seed of distrust in Mark. But then something happens to make me realize I’m crazy.

She purses her lips, eyes bright. “He did this, didn’t he? This was his idea because he thinks you and me should spend more time together wasn’t it? And he wants you to pretend it was your idea.”

Now the words make it all the way to my lips but no further. Stacy darts away from me, runs straight for Mark and throws her arms around him. She squeals and tells him how wonderful he is; I fold my arms and grit my teeth. In a flash she’s grabbed my arm again and is turning me away from the guys, waving to Mark over her shoulder.

“He’s so sweet to think of this, isn’t he?” She sighs, a little squeal revealing contentment. “Okay, according to the waiter we have to head toward the basilica. He said you can see it from nearly every road so it’s easy to find.”

While I push down the irritation, she leads me across a narrow cobbled street, points up the hill to where one of the basilica’s white stone domes glows against the darkening sky.

“Mark was just saying at dinner how I should probably spend more time with you, that this trip is a good time to…you know.”

The silence between us fills with the memory of all the ugly words we exchanged, of the jealousy and hurt that surfaced and has yet to fully heal. I never felt as alone as I did when Stacy and I weren’t speaking, never cried so hard or felt so wrenched apart. Plenty of friendships fade away, you know? But the ones that are torn to pieces, those are the ones that make you grieve.

“I know you’re still not crazy about him,” Stacy says softly, “but he’s a good guy, he really is. Think about it. How many guys do we know who would give up the first free night in Paris with their girlfriend so she could hang with her best friend?”

Every bite of dinner churns in my stomach, rolling in the acid of Stacy’s delusions. We pass a bakery whose ovens are still venting savory aromas into the air, and I swallow down the threat of nausea.

“I wish you two could really learn to be friends.”

The memory of Mark’s tongue shoving into my mouth washes over me and pushes me to the limit of my endurance.

“Ooooh.” Stacy swings me to the right, stopping in front of a shop window where a headless mannequin is draped in a scrap of sheer fabric in which Stacy would look great and I would look like a hooker. “How much is that in American?” she asks.

I read the little price placard, do quick and rough calculations. “About a hundred and twenty bucks.”

She pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth. This is her thoughtful pose. “I might need to get Mark to bring me back here tomorrow. We have free time until when?”

“I don’t know. Stacy, listen for a sec.” I don’t know what Mark is up to, but I can’t stand my friend thinking he’s so wonderful any more.

“I’m listening,” she assures me. She turns away from the window, turning me with her.

Newly conscious of the drop in temperature accompanying the gathering night, I fold my jacket closed across my chest rather than bother with the zipper “Remember this morning when we were at the museum and you were looking at the diamonds and stuff?”

“Like I could forget the diamonds?”

Dumb question, I guess. “Yeah, well you remember when I left you to go look at the fluorescing exhibit?” I shuffle sideways a little to make room for a trio of women coming at us from the other direction.

Stacy’s laughter makes them smile as they pass. “Yes, you wanted me to go with you,” she says to me, untwining her arm and giving me a good-natured, low-effort shove. “As if I was going to leave the diamonds, hello.”

The hill grows steeper. At the top of the cobbled street the white stone of Sacre Coeur basilica glows brighter than the emerging stars. The shock of white against the dark sky is otherworldly; to me, spooky, and not at all comforting.

“So what?” Stacy says, burying her hands in the pockets of her jacket. “You’re going to tell me you saw something cool and didn’t come get me?”

What I saw… fluorescent lighting shadowing Mark’s face like a cartoon villain. I wouldn’t call it cool.

“Rach?” she prompts.

I can’t figure a way to make the words gentle, so I blurt, “Mark kissed me. At the museum. He kissed me.” I’m surprised by the scratch in my throat, the burn of unexpected tears.

We stop on the sidewalk, in front of a little shop, dark for the night, with a hanging basket reaching out from beside the front door, greenery trailing halfway to the ground. Stacy’s eyes are wide, her jaw slack. There is a blankness in her gaze, a lack of comprehension, I think.

“He caught me by the fluorescing exhibit and kissed me.”

“I heard you,” she croaks out.

I rush on. “He told me not to tell you, but then—”

Her voice is firm and shaky at the same time. “You lying bitch.”

“No, Stacy, I’m not lying. I wouldn’t lie about this.”

“Yes, you would.” She nods swiftly. The motion reveals the glitter of tears in her eyes. “Just like before. You lied to me before and I let it go. Not again.”

“Stacy, listen to me. I don’t know what he’s up to. He did it on purpose. He did it so I—”

Her shove this time is not gentle. It is filled with the strength of anger and pain and I stumble backward. My heel teeters over the edge of the low curb, and I backpedal into the road, trying to capture my balance.

“Stay away from me,” she hisses. She swipes at her eyes and turns away.

“Stacy, stop. Listen to me.”

She turns to walk backward. “Stay away from me!” And then she’s trudging up the hill, head bent, hands deep in the pockets of her jacket.

I stand in the street, slowly growing aware of the ache in my ankle and my knee and my heart. Tears of frustration burn down my cheeks. I should have known Stacy wouldn’t believe me. Mark knew it, of that I was certain. Mark knew if I told her what happened she would call me a liar.

So why did he do it?

I should go after Stacy, but I know this drill already. She won’t talk to me, won’t listen to me. And really, get right down to it? We’re rooming together — along with a couple of French club girls — so it’s not like I won’t have an opportunity to speak to her. Right now, she needs to … whatever. Calm down, maybe. Curse me while I’m not there to hear it. Or plan the curses to hurl at me when I am there to hear it.

The only way she’s going to believe me is if Mark admits the truth to her. So I need to find the son of a bitch.

I return to the sidewalk and head back down the hill. The ache in my knee and ankle from my stumble off the curb slows me, but downhill is better than up. I don’t know where Mark and the guys went, but I have a pretty good idea. I just have to figure out how to get there.

At a tobacconist I review a tourist map of the area, locating the Abbesses station, deciphering where I stand. I figure if I continue down the hill, cross past the station and walk in a few blocks on the other side, I should be able to spot the windmill marking the Moulin Rouge. It’s only a guess, but it’s the best guess I’ve got as to where a bunch of guys would head off to on their own. Not that they’re the type to take in a can-can show, but there must be a bar nearby where they’ll be able to get a drink and whistle at girls and otherwise be annoying.

As I walk I forget a little of the drama that’s left me on my own. All around me the buildings are lit to stunning perfection; colored floodlights on pale stone walls, amber street lamps that could pass for gas light, and little white fairy lights wound through trellises and trees. I don’t know whether these lights are for the residents or the tourists, but I fall in love with them either way.

This is Montmartre, home of the Moulin Rouge and Picasso, sinners and artists, basilica and bars. I traveled thousands of miles to experience this city with my friends, and I only have a few short hours here on this hill. I might as well enjoy the scenery for this brief time, forget about Mark’s kiss and Stacy’s anger and Bowie’s eyes. I can snack on a crepe and laugh at the stars and leave the worry of smoothing over friendships for another day. I can….

…until I turn the corner onto a road I know at once I shouldn’t be on. I shouldn’t be here alone, at night. I shouldn’t be here at all. I should be back in the bustling heart of Montmartre, I should be exploring Sacre Couer, I should be wondering about Bowie in the Place de Tertre. Instead I stand rooted to the spot, staring slack-jawed at Mark and one of his basketball buddies as they throw their arms around the shoulders of a pair of half-dressed hookers and disappear indoors.

Room service leaves continental breakfast in the room I’m sharing with Stacy and the French club girls. Thankfully, the little substitute for a meal includes coffee — heaven bless Paris — and I pour a half cup and grab a plain croissant and sit cross-legged on the end of the bed, waiting for Stacy to emerge from the bathroom.

The French club girls are stretched out on the other bed, heads bowed together over a map of the city, whispering their plans for the morning. They’re nice enough, really, and I feel bad they had to put up with the tension and silence Stacy and I dragged into the room last night, but a girl can only apologize just so much.

I nibble on the edge of the croissant and regret - out of the clear blue nowhere - not bringing my mp3 player along. I would feel better if I could just hear some familiar music, some sound that could shatter the silence with memories of home.

The latch on the bathroom door rattles. The moist croissant goes dry in my mouth. On the next bed, the club girls each suck in a breath.

I wash down the croissant with a swig of coffee, cough at the bitterness as Stacy emerges from the bathroom. “Stacy, you got a second?” I ask.

“Not for you.” She breezes past, her pajamas and makeup bag tucked in her arm. She’s already dressed for the day, makeup in place, hair twisted and pinned with decorative chopsticks.

“I need to talk to you,” I say.

As she passes by, she slams her makeup bag down on the dresser. “I don’t want to hear any more of your bullshit.” She throws her pajamas into the closet and rips her jacket off its hanger. “Ever.”

The club girls whisper in French and scramble off their bed.

“Stace, I know you’re pissed and I understand it, I do. But you have to believe — no.” I shake my head. “I don’t care if you believe me about the museum, but there’s something you need to know, something more important.”

I spent the bulk of my free time in Montmartre last night sipping Orangina at a dusty café near the Abbesses station. Watching the clock, waiting for my classmates to return, I turned over all the options in my mind. No matter how else I arrived at the conclusion, the conclusion remained the same: Stacy needs to know her boyfriend was with a hooker. And that the hooker was the plan all along and I wasn’t lying about the kiss.

Stacy shrugs into her jacket and turns on me, leaning over me, her face inches from mine. Her skin is flushed and her eyes are narrowed. “I know everything I need to. You’re jealous of me and Mark, you always have been. And you’ll make up any bullshit lie to try and break us up so you have someone else to be lonely and pathetic with.”

“Stacy, that’s—”

“I have. Nothing. To say to you. Ever.” Her nostrils flare, her lips pinch, and she storms out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

I flinch at the noise, splashing coffee over my hand. “Shit.”

French club girls scuttle past me and flee the room wordlessly. I’m left alone with a croissant and a cup of bitter coffee. A hollowness fills my chest. How did I get myself into this? Why? Why does telling someone the truth, telling a friend the truth, end up being a punishable offense? And how long will it take before I learn to keep my mouth shut?

I take my time dressing, polishing off the croissant as I do so, leaving the bitter coffee in its pot. By the time I leave the room it’s after nine. The MacArthur High group is required to assemble at the Eiffel Tower at 1:30. I have hours to kill and no idea how. But it’s Paris. There must be something.

Grabbing my camera and my jacket, I head out. The little shop in Montmartre had a map of attractions. I figure I can find something similar close enough to the hotel.

When the elevator reaches the lobby I realize the concierge might have a map. If only I can find the concierge desk.

I approach a cluster of chairs, eyes on the line of bronze marble check-in desks stretching against the far wall.

“Hey, Rachel!”

Bowie. He stands among that same cluster of chairs, and I realize the rest are occupied by kids from school - choir kids and drama kids and kids I only know from passing in the halls. I freeze, not certain what to do.

And then Bowie smiles. A flutter tickles my belly, and I smile in return. Without further doubt or question, I turn toward him, cross the lobby in his direction. One by one the rest of the kids are slowly rising from the chairs, pulling on their coats and checking phones.

“We’re going to do the ten o’clock tour at the Opera House. Want to come with?”

There’s a hopeful glint in his dark eyes, and a sudden melting in my spine. “Sounds good.”

“What about your friend Stacy? You two don’t have some other plan?”

Again I experience the sensation that he sees more than the face I present to the world. I look at the carpet rather than hold his gaze. “She’s, uh, off with her … Mark.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see him nod. “All right. Let’s go then. This way.” He sweeps his arm in the direction of the antique revolving doors, and walks beside me as we cross the lobby.

“So after you blew off my invitation to Place de Tertre, what’d you and Stacy end up doing last night?” he asks.

I search for something to tell him, something so dull he won’t ask more questions. The words are nearly formed when I hear Stacy accusing me of lying when I was telling the truth. I realize I’d rather tell Bowie the truth than a lie. “We ended up fighting,” I say, and step by myself into the revolving door.

On the street Bowie gazes at me with concern and a kindness that makes my throat ache with the warning of impending tears. We are surrounded, though, with the rest of the crew. Bowie steers the chatter effortlessly toward their discoveries in Montmartre - a cross-dressing painter, a drunk crepe maker, and a street corner busker whose skill they prevailed upon to back them up in singing some classic Beatles tunes. Their stories and reminiscences continue until we board a morning-crowded Metro, and the tales are swallowed by Paris residents starting their day.

It’s not until we’re standing at the foot of the Grand Staircase within the opulent Paris Opera House, gazing up at the sweeping steps, the ornate candelabrum, the carved archways that Bowie pursues my remark about Stacy.

“So, bad fight, huh?” he asks.

“You could say that.” I wander away from him to study the sculpture atop the newel post. Noreen and one of the drama kids shuffle up the stairs while the rest of the tour group meanders around the spacious lobby, oohing and aahing and snapping pictures.

“Sorry, it’s not my business,” Bowie says, coming up next to me.

“No, it’s not.”

“It’s just…” He sighs, folds his arms. “You’re not you, you know?”

“I’m not me?”

“The girl that sat with us at dinner last night was, like, distracted. The girl I’m looking at today is on a whole different plane.”

I shake my head, amble toward the center of the lobby. High overhead, a circular domed skylight lets through the meager morning sunshine. “You know me so well you can determine my moods?”

“No, I don’t know you that well.” He smiles a little, shuffles closer, eyes on the classic marble floor. “I just, you know, pay attention is all.”

His statement draws my attention away from the ceiling. I try to read the emotion on his face, get some clue from his eyes, but he’s studying the floor as though memorizing the pattern. I want to ask him what he means, but I’d rather not be embarrassed if I’m reading too much into things.

But I can’t stop looking at him, and wondering. So when he glances up, he catches my stare. The thoughtful, almost sad slant of his lips transforms to his usual broad grin. He stands straight and his gaze sweeps the lobby. “What do you think the acoustics are like in here?”

“Umm….I think they’re excellent for changing the subject?”

The curve of his ears flush pink, and he returns his focus to the floor. “I could help. I mean, I could listen or…whatever.”

I can’t keep back the giggle. “You?”

“Yeah, me. Why not?”

“You’re offering to listen to me whine about a fight I had with Stacy that didn’t involve wet t-shirts or mud?”

He appears puzzled for a moment then his brow clears. “Oh, the girl fight thing. I get it.” He nods, edges closer to me. “I’m a good listener. Really. I have sisters. Twins. I spend a lot of time mediating while my mom’s at work.”

“Somehow I think this particular issue hasn’t come up.”

Our tour guide bustles to the center of the lobby, orders us to gather together so we can move into the theater itself. She gives us the history of the place, naming rulers and architects, and runs through an impressive list of luminaries who performed here.

My mind, however, has returned its full attention to the question of Stacy and Mark and what I should do. I can apologize - but for what? I told the truth. The apology might buy me time to tell her about Mark and the hooker, but I’d only be right back where I started from as soon as I give her the news. She won’t believe that either. I could say nothing, but then isn’t that lying, too?

I slump into one of the red velvet chairs filling the opera house auditorium. Leaning back I can admire the elaborate painting on the ceiling, the chandelier the tour guide says weighs seven tons, but the wheels of my mind are stuck on ugly things.

As I gaze at the velvet theater boxes ringing the balcony, Bowie drops into the seat beside me. Somehow I feel like I should be annoyed at his persistence, but I find myself comforted by it. And that means a lot right now.

“All problems,” he says in a voice like a mellow whisper, “boil down to very simple questions. Get it down to its simplest form, and the answer is easier to find.”

I roll my head against the back of the chair, meet his eyes. “Thanks, Yoda.”

He gives me The Smile. “Happy to help.”

We stay where we are, face-to-face, silent, while the tour guide yammers about “The Phantom of the Opera” and Noreen softly sings “Think of Me” - as if no one’s ever done that before.

Bowie is the first to move, shifting forward in his seat and crossing his arms on the chair in front of him. “Bottom line. The only time fighting with a friend is worth it, is when not having the fight makes it impossible to live with yourself.”

I turn the words over, looking for some sensibility in them. “Umm…”

“So is it worth it? Whatever you two are fighting about, is it important enough to risk the friendship?”

The friendship is already at risk, already fragile, maybe beyond repair. And that’s going to make for a long week in Paris, and a longer school year. But I can’t think of a single solution, no way to undo what’s been done, only make it worse.

I’m not a liar. Stacy thinks I am; Mark will tell her I am. Even if she doubts herself, she’ll believe him.

I let me eyes slip closed. Low in a chair in a two hundred year old theater, surrounded by ghosts and classmates, I am once again lost. But this time, at least, I begin to have a sense of where I need to go.

The group from MacArthur High assembles at a cluster of stone benches beneath the Eiffel Tower. At one-thirty, chaperones count heads, teachers look annoyed, and my classmates laugh and wander and make the chaperones’ job harder and the teachers more annoyed.

I stick close to Bowie and Noreen. Noreen, at last, has decided I’m not an enemy, so the tension constricting my chest is all of my own making.

As far away from me as she could possibly be and still remain with the MacArthur group, Stacy stands wrapped in Mark’s arms, her back to his front. He talks over her head to his buddies while she shoots daggers in my direction.

“What exactly did you say to her?” Bowie asks quietly.

“The truth.”

He sucks air in between his teeth. “Ouch.”

The chaperones and teachers herd us toward the elevator that will take us to the second level of the tower. We shuffle into a semblance of a line, waiting for the double-decker cars riding the outside leg of the tower to take us up. Stacy and Mark are further along in the line, frustrating my plan to corner her on the elevator. Instead, at Bowie’s insistence, I gaze out the full-length window, peering past the cross-hatched iron of the tower out onto the city of Paris.

“Pretty cool,” Bowie says from behind me. His breath is warm on my neck, and I’m surprised how much I enjoy the sensation.

“How many decades do you figure it’s looked just like this?” I ask, certain I’d seen old movies from the fifties that showed precisely this view.

Bowie exhales. I shiver. “Centuries, more like it. You know, except for the motor boats and cars.”

I’m forced to wait until the entirety of the MacArthur group has collected on the second observation deck before I can hunt down Stacy. My palms are moist and my knees are weak but they manage to hold me up while I circle the deck in search of her.

I find her looking out across the Seine, nestled under Mark’s arm as expected.

I pull in a deep breath, proud that I don’t shudder as I do so, and tap Stacy’s shoulder.

The smile she wears when she turns falls away instantly when she sees me. “I’m not speaking to you, remember?”

“Yes, I remember,” I say, forcing my voice calm, telling myself not to back away from the venom in Stacy’s eyes. “But I’m not here to talk to you. I’m here to talk to your boyfriend who doesn’t want me to call him an idiot or tell you how I threw myself at him which of course I would do because I think he’s so amazing and irresistible, right?”

Mark drops his arm from Stacy’s shoulders and turns his back on Paris. “Look, I already told Stacy what happened, how you begged me not to tell her what you did, ok? Now just leave us alone.”

More than anything I want to do as I’m told and slink away, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. “Okay, good, that’s good, I’m glad you told her your side of the story. Because you tell her everything, of course. Which means you told her about the hooker, too, right? I just want to be sure about that because, you know, I’d hate for you to give my former best friend any kind of disease you may have picked up.”

His face contorts - eyes narrowed, teeth bared. “You bitch.”

“So I’ve been told.” I cut my gaze to Stacy. The hatred in her eyes sends an ache through me. “If being honest makes me a bitch, I’ll live with it. But I won’t live with a friend who thinks so little of me she’d believe I would lie to her.” My throat is raw with impending, pain-filled tears. “I’ve told you what happened at the museum, and now you know what I saw last night and I tried to tell you this morning. Whoever you choose to believe is your decision.”

Without waiting for a response, I back away, pushing through the little audience we attracted. My eyes sting with tears and my vision blurs. Through the fog I make out Bowie reaching a hand to me. I lace my fingers with his, his grip warm and solid, and let him lead me to the opposite side of the deck.

I know I need to track down a chaperone and beg a room change. I know Stacy will never believe me over Mark. I know it’s going to be some time before I can think of the friendship we lost without wanting to cry. But right now, I’m in a crowd of classmates. I’ve just handed them a story to whisper about and embellish from one side of the ocean to the other. I don’t want to add my personal display of heartache to their tale. The most important thing for me to do is take a breath, take control, and look at Paris.

We find a vacant section along the railing and I release Bowie’s hand, lean my elbows against the curved metal and gaze out over the old city. Squat stone buildings with rounded roofs line up in neat rows on either side of a swath of green grass park bisecting the roads. A traffic oval sits at one end, while the other end seems to point to the surprising sight of a skyscraper, point to the future.

“You okay?” Bowie asks when the silence has gone on too long.

I nod, not trusting myself yet with words.

“Good, because there’s something I want to talk to you about.” He sidles closer to me, his chest inches from my shoulder. “I’m thinking when this trip is over and we’re back home, I’m going to ask you out. And I was wondering if, you know, you might say yes.”

An unexpected giggle bubbles up within me and escapes as a snort. Before he has time to take offense, I rush to reassure him. “I might say yes. That is, yes, I would say…yes.”

This time his smile is not broad, not showy, not sad. It’s a smile of sly pleasure, and I am powerless to stop my own smile.

“So, given that fact,” he says, “and I realize this is out of order, but…isn’t this a great spot for a first kiss?”

The giggle escapes as a proper giggle. A tiny piece of me marvels at how easily Bowie has turned my mood, and how grateful I am for that.

“ ‘cause, I think it’s a pretty good spot.” He leans in - just a little, just enough - and brushes my lips with his, soft and tentative. He slips his arm around my waist, hold me loosely as the kiss grows confident.

The hollow feeling I experienced earlier slips away, replaced with a sense of possibility. Before I can get used to this new sensation, Bowie pulls back, just far enough to allow us to see eye to eye.

“Good spot,” I say.

He nods, smiles. “What’d I tell you? Paris is for wish fulfillment.”

He leans in to kiss me again. And on the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower, during my first ever trip to Paris, I have a sudden memory of fluorescent lights shining through stones, illuminating the secrets within, proving that under the right conditions, something unexpectedly wonderful can be revealed.

***

Jennifer McAndrews is a 2010 Golden Heart Finalist® in the Young Adult category and author of the time travel adventure Braving The Titanic. Her most recent latest release, Deadly Farce, is a humorous mystery featuring Hollywood hunks, pizza, and murder. A lifelong resident of New York, Jennifer is a mom to three dogs, four cats, a mouse, and two actual humans. Find her on twitter: @jenmcandrews

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