Pardon My French Page 4

  That settled it. She was going to have to try to figure out the métro. Now.

  Descending into the station felt like descending into hell. It was warm outside, but the air in the tunnel was hot, damp, and sticky, as if millions of unseen people were breathing out at her all the time. Nicole felt her hair go limp and her upper lip bead with sweat.

  “I can’t believe the D.C. metro is actually named for this,” she murmured under her breath as she took in the station, which seemed to be coated with a layer of dust and grunge that hadn’t been touched since the French Revolution. It was nothing like the airy, whitewashed look of the metro stations in Washington D.C. It reminded her more of the subway her family had taken from the train station to their hotel on her one and only trip to New York City. Except that here, all the graffiti was written in French.

  Earlier in the week the Smiths had carefully explained how the métro worked. Aside from the name of their stop, Nicole didn’t remember any of it now. Spotting a map on the wall, she walked over and scanned the jumble of red, black, yellow, and green lines with their foreign-sounding labels, desperately waiting for something on it to look familiar.

  By some miracle, she finally spotted the name of the Smiths’ stop. She found her way to what she hoped was the right section of track just as a train clattered into the station and its doors opened with a whoosh.

  “Excuse me!” she blurted as someone bumped into her, almost sending her into the side of the train. Catching her balance, she hung back, waiting for a break in the flow of people rushing in and out of the car.

  Finally realizing that break might never come, she took a deep breath and plunged forward. Seconds later she found herself standing inside the subway car.

  The doors slid shut, and the train lurched into motion. Nicole grabbed at a pole and glanced around. The métro car was crowded, but there were several seats free. Letting go of the pole, she collapsed into the closest one.

  The métro car swayed as it shuddered to a stop at the next station, and Nicole clutched at the armrest of her seat. She glanced out the grimy window beside her. There were so many people waiting on the platform outside that for a moment she couldn’t see anything else, including the sign identifying the station.

  When she did, she frowned. The name didn’t seem quite right.

  Before she could decide what to do, the doors slid shut again and the train moved on. Oh well, she thought. I’m sure it’s fine. I just have to Zen out, like Zara always says, and stop giving myself an ulcer. I’ll get there when I get there. Maybe...

  For the next few minutes she comforted herself by watching people get on and off the train. Now and then she glanced nervously out the window, a little afraid to pay too much attention to the signs flashing past. She still had the uneasy feeling she might have picked the wrong train. After all, what did she know about public transportation? On the rare occasions when she went into Washington or Baltimore, she counted on either her parents, Zara, or Nate to take care of the details.

  As the train wheezed out of yet another unfamiliar-sounding stop, Nicole finally decided she had to risk speaking to one of the other passengers. Otherwise she might end up out in the French countryside somewhere.

  It took only two tries to find someone who spoke English. When Nicole mentioned where she was trying to go, a little old lady in a lacy black shawl shook her head sadly.

  “Ah, chérie,” she said. “You are going the wrong way. Here is what you must do—get off at the next station, and then...”

  Nicole couldn’t quite follow the torrent of directions the old lady added after that. She was too busy trying to keep her tears from spilling over. If she started crying now, she was afraid she might not be able to stop.

  “Th-thank you,” she managed to croak out just as the subway car shuddered to a stop at the next station.

  Standing up, she allowed the other disembarking passengers to sweep her out the door and up the stairs. Then she stopped, looking around anxiously. There was another métro map here, but the very thought of trying to decipher it brought her to the verge of tears again. Her next thought was to go out and hail a taxi, but for all she knew, she might be miles from home, which would mean the fare could eat up the rest of her money.

  Instead, she found a pay phone near the station doors. Feeling very glad that numbers were the same in every language, she punched in the Smiths’ number.

  To her relief, she heard Mrs. Smith’s cheery voice at the other end of the line. She wasn’t sure she could have spoken if Luc had been the one to answer.

  “Hello?” Nicole’s voice cracked. A wave of shame swept over her. “Um, it’s Nicole. I think I really messed up....”

  “No, no!” With difficulty, Nicole swallowed back her frustration. Peeling the old-fashioned wooden top out of Brandon’s sticky fingers, she spun it on the living room’s wooden floor-boards. “Like this—see? You have to do it quick or it’ll fall over.”

  “Let me try!” Marissa grabbed the top. “I know how to do it!”

  There was an amused chuckle from the direction of the sofa, where Luc was sprawled out reading a book. “Better to listen to her, children,” he said. “You are American, so you must do it the American way.”

  Nicole shot him an irritated glance. “It’s not the American way,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the two kids, who were now bickering in French. “It’s the right way.”

  He dropped the book on his lap and held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Bien sûr; you are right. Please forgive me. Perhaps I could apologize further by treating you to dinner? Êtes-vous libre ce soir? Are you free this evening?”

  Nicole sighed. It was Saturday morning, and she was already in a bad mood. She’d been dying to call Nate since the second she’d awakened that day, but due to the time difference between Paris and Maryland, she had to wait until lunchtime. The hours between now and then were crawling past as slowly as a drunken snail, and nothing she did seemed to speed it up. She’d already done all of her homework, and now she was just looking for something else to distract her. She’d figured that the Smith children might do the trick, but so far their frequent shrieking was just aggravating her all the more.

  And then there was Luc. All week long he’d been making it pretty clear that he thought she was cute. There were the long, lingering looks he gave her every chance he got. The close encounters in the apartment’s narrow hallways when their arms or shoulders brushed against each other, just a little. Even the way he said her name—Neee-cole—with that slow, slightly crooked smile of his.

  It was a bit unsettling to have a gorgeous guy flirting outrageously with her every time they passed each other in the kitchen or outside her room. It wasn’t that Nicole didn’t have any experience with guys being too forward; on the contrary, before she’d hooked up with Nate she’d had to fight off quite a few pushy guys. But that was different. With American guys there was always an undercurrent of face-saving banter beneath their propositions, which meant all she had to do was come up with a witty response and they would laugh and back down. With Luc, it was hard to tell just how serious he was, and that left her feeling off balance whenever she was around him. Besides, no matter how many times she mentioned Nate’s name—or just came right out and reminded Luc that she had a boyfriend back home—he just kept grinning his impossibly handsome grin and trying again.

  “Don’t listen to anything Nicole says!” Marissa shrieked at her brother with a giggle. “She can’t even figure out where to go on the métro, remember?”

  Nicole gritted her teeth. She’d spent the last eighteen hours trying to forget that little disaster. In response to her frantic phone call, Mrs. Smith had packed all four kids in the car and picked her up at the métro station, which turned out to be halfway across the city. Totally embarrassing.

  “What was that, Mari?” Luc asked with a sharp flash of interest. “Répète, s’il te plaît—what did you say about Nicole and the métro?”

  “Ne
ver mind,” Nicole said quickly. “Hey Marissa, want a cookie?”

  The little girl ignored the bribe. “Mommy had to go pick her up,” she announced. “She was at the wrong station—way far away.”

  Luc grinned. “Ah, do not tease her, little ones,” he chided the children playfully. “One does not need to be clever when one is as beautiful as Mademoiselle Nicole.”

  That was the last straw.

  “Later, kids. I’m going to go for a walk until it’s time to call Nate.” Without sparing a glance for Luc, she swept from the room with the few shreds of dignity she could muster.

  She stomped along for at least six or eight blocks before starting to calm down. Then she slowed her pace and looked around. She had left the residential area behind and reached a busy shopping street packed with strolling Parisians and weekend shoppers. The sound of voices conversing in French drifted toward her from every direction, annoying her anew. Clenching her fists at her sides, Nicole wondered if it had been a mistake to leave the apartment. After all, wasn’t Paris the root of her problem, the very thing she was trying to forget?

  Still, she kept walking, hoping the exercise would help clear her head. The last thing she wanted was to be grumpy when it was finally time to call Nate. The two of them would need to pack a week’s worth of their relationship into one conversation. It wasn’t going to be easy, especially since Nate wasn’t all that fond of talking on the phone.

  As she walked, Nicole couldn’t help noticing that the temperature was almost perfect. It was sunny and warm, but there was none of the oppressive humidity that still lingered back in Maryland at that time of year. Little by little she began to notice other things. The air on this block smelled faintly of baking bread and auto exhaust, a surprisingly pleasant combination. All the buildings seemed to have flowers blooming on the stoops or at the windows. Faint strains of classical music drifted out of the doorway of a restaurant she was passing, along with a tantalizing whiff of melting cheese.

  Slowly Nicole felt herself relax. Her steps slowed to a comfortable stroll and her hands unclenched.

  Okay, maybe it was a good idea to go for a walk. This was kind of almost nice.

  She took in the people strolling past, the chatter of voices, the busy storefronts. It was surprising how many French words she already recognized after just a week in her language course. Maybe, just maybe, she could survive this semester after all. Not that she would ever admit that to her parents, of course.

  Feeling bold, she decided to step into a bookstore. There were some English-language fashion magazines in the window; she could pick up a few to keep her occupied when she wasn’t in class or writing to Nate.

  She entered the shop, setting a little bell over the door jingling with silvery tones. The shop was small and seemed dusty, dark, and still after the bright bustle of the street outside. There was no one at the counter, but she soon spotted a battered magazine rack halfway along one wall. She browsed through its contents for a few minutes, impressed by the wide selection. The rack held magazines written in every language she knew of and a few she didn’t. She picked out a couple of English-language fashion magazines and headed back toward the front of the shop.

  By that time the shopkeeper had appeared behind the sales counter. He was a short, stocky man with a heavy five-o’clock shadow and a rather sour expression. He stared at her fixedly as she approached, neither speaking nor cracking a smile.

  Nicole set the magazine on the counter along with a handful of Euros. “Er, pardon, monsieur?” She struggled to recall some of the simple phrases she’d learned so far, though it was hard to keep it from getting mixed up in her mind with her high-school Spanish. “Um ... Je voudrais esto libro—er, I mean, um...” For the life of her, she couldn’t seem to remember the French word for “magazine,” or even “book.” “Sorry,” she added, feeling her face start to go red. “Er, do you speak English? Parlez-vous—”

  The shopkeeper, who hadn’t said a word thus far, suddenly let loose with a barrage of French, speaking so quickly that Nicole couldn’t make out a single word. He glowered at her as he spoke, seeming to be insulted by her very existence.

  “I—I don’t really...Please,” Nicole stammered. “I don’t understand—je ne comprendo...”

  She felt flustered, suddenly on the verge of tears. It didn’t help that she could hear Zara’s sarcastic voice in her head, clear as day—Gee, what a surprise, a rude person in France. Wondering if she’d miscalculated the euros—it certainly wouldn’t be the first time that had happened—Nicole tried to add a few coins to the pile and wound up dropping them all over the floor. That only seemed to add to the shopkeeper’s ire, and his eyes flashed as he growled at her again in French.

  Just as Nicole was ready to turn and race out of the shop, leaving both magazine and euros behind, she heard a female voice speak up calmly in French, followed by English: “Is there a problem here, Nicole?”

  The shopkeeper shifted his glare from Nicole to the newcomer, and when Nicole glanced over her shoulder, she saw that the Smiths’ downstairs neighbor, Marie Durand, had just entered the shop.

  The shopkeeper retorted to Marie’s question in French, gesturing curtly toward Nicole. Marie responded to him calmly, her voice crisp and businesslike. Stepping past Nicole, she quickly scooped up about half of the euros Nicole had set down, then pushed the remainder across the counter at the man. Picking up the magazines, she added a few stern words in French. It didn’t require being bilingual to understand her point; the shopkeeper glowered, but fell silent and even muttered something in Nicole’s general direction that might have been an apology, though Nicole didn’t dare respond for fear of setting him off again.

  “Come along, Nicole,” Marie said serenely. “I think we’re finished here.”

  Numbly, Nicole turned and followed Marie out of the shop. All her feelings of confusion, homesickness, and helplessness welled up, so fast she couldn’t stomp them down. Glancing over her shoulder at the bookstore, she burst out without thinking, “I hate Paris!”

  She realized almost immediately that it hadn’t been the most tactful thing to say at the moment. But when she shot Marie a sidelong glance, the older woman didn’t seem the least bit insulted or even surprised.

  “Come, chérie,” she suggested as if Nicole hadn’t said a word. “Let’s go have a drop of tea.”

  Fifteen minutes later Nicole was settled in Marie’s comfortable, antique-filled parlor holding a fragrant cup of herbal tea on one knee. She had done her best to demur when Marie invited her in, but Marie had been politely insistent, claiming that she needed company since Renaud was away on a weekend trip to visit family. Besides, there was still over an hour before Nicole could try to reach Nate, and she figured almost anything would be better than going back and facing Luc and the kids.

  “Now then, Nicole.” Marie settled herself with her own cup of tea on a damask-upholstered sofa across from her guest. “Feeling a little better?”

  “Sure.” Now that the crisis had passed, Nicole was already feeling sheepish about the whole thing. “I guess I just panicked when that guy started yelling.”

  Marie shook her head and made a soft tut-tut sound. “That man, he is always a—hmm, how would one say it in English? A grump?” She shrugged gracefully. “He fancies himself a bit of a revolutionary, but really he is merely a bully.”

  Nicole couldn’t help smiling at Marie’s description. “Really?” she said. “You actually know him, then?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve lived in this neighborhood for many years. I know almost everyone, I’m afraid.” Marie laughed and stirred her tea. “That’s the trouble with staying in one place for so long.”

  Nicole shrugged, thinking of Peabody Corner. “I don’t know,” she said. “I think it’s kind of nice.”

  “Well, perhaps you are right.” Marie smiled. “I think you might be thinking of your own home, no? I would love to hear more about it if you wish to share it.”

  Nicole didn’t need to be
asked twice. Aside from a few polite questions from the Smiths, nobody seemed to have any interest at all in hearing about Nicole’s hometown or anything else about her real life. “Sure!” she said eagerly. “My town is called Peabody Corner, and I’ve lived there for almost four years. I have three best friends—girlfriends, I mean. Then there’s my boyfriend Nate....”

  By the time she headed back upstairs an hour later, Nicole was feeling much better. After talking about herself for a while, she’d started to feel guilty about hogging the limelight and politely asked Marie to tell her more about herself. Marie responded with several surprisingly entertaining stories about her own childhood in several small villages in France and Switzerland. Nicole had shared some of her own feelings about moving around so much in her younger days, and eventually left the first-floor apartment feeling not only that she knew the older woman a little better, but that she truly liked her.

  Reaching the second floor, Nicole took a deep breath and tried to prepare herself to face Luc and the Smith kids again. Thanks to Marie’s soothing presence, she was pretty sure she could keep her cool this time. It was nice to know that there was one other sane, normal person around—even if she was French.

  Smiling at the thought, she opened the door and stepped inside.

  “Bonjour,” Luc greeted her when she entered the living room. He was sitting on the sofa with a thick textbook while Brandon and Marissa played on the floor nearby. “Back so soon? We missed you, didn’t we, little ones?”

  “No,” Brandon announced, barely glancing up from his blocks.

  Marissa glanced at Luc before answering. “Yes!” she cried loudly. “We missed her beauty and...um...What was it again?”