I take one more look at the map, stumble down the main stairs, and rush to the exit. I jerk the front door open, but don’t see the leather satchel on the steps until my foot slips over it. I catch myself just in time—any ballerina worth her tutu has perfect balance—but the contents of the bag go flying.
“Aargh!” I cry out.
“Enfin!” a boy shouts. Finally.
The shout belongs to a guy about my age who’s standing at the bottom of the steps, staring at his stuff, which has now gone everywhere.
I do not have time for this.
“Oh, c’est pas toi,” the boy mutters to himself when he looks up and sees me. It’s not you.
He’s not very tall, probably average height—but that’s the only average thing about him. He has a lanky frame, his creased linen shirt billowing around him; thick, dark brown hair falling over one eye; and a mesmerizing dimple, even as he frowns.
I stare at him blankly, so he switches to English. “You’re not…Never mind.”
To be clear, my total state of confusion is not about his French. Okay, it’s a little bit about the French, but it’s mainly because he might be the most beautiful, no, cute, no, charming, no, sexy, no, gorgeous guy I have ever laid eyes on.
Ever.
Yes, that’s a bold statement, but he is. Enough to freeze me in space. Enough to render me speechless. Enough to make me forget what I’m supposed to be doing.
“British?” the boy asks, coming up the school steps. He glances at the objects scattered on the ground—his keys, a phone charger, sunglasses—and I realize that I should stop staring and help him pick them up. I kneel down beside him, and our hands almost touch as we both reach for his keys.
“American,” I answer. My throat catches, and it comes out in a raspy, barely audible, totally not attractive way. To top it off, I’m pretty sure that I’ve turned bright red, and I can’t blame that solely on my talk with Monsieur Dabrowski and my race down the stairs.
“Américaine,” I correct myself. “Mon fran?ais…pas très bon.” I cringe. I must sound like a child. Surely the first rule of learning the language is that you should be able to say in proper French that you don’t speak French properly.
“It’s good enough,” he responds in perfect English, his accent slick and not too pronounced. “Most girls here still can’t speak a word of French by the time they leave.”
The boy jams his belongings in the satchel and hangs it over his shoulder. As he stands up, he glances behind me to the front door, squinting to see through the glass.
“Je prends des le?ons sur…umm, I have an app,” I say, attempting a cute smile as I stand up, too. A few other things I should be taking lessons in: how to sound charmante on any occasion, and how to get to the other side of Paris while staying right here, smiling at this mysterious boy. Oh, and how to figure out if I’ll see him again without sounding like a creep. So, basically, learning charm, teleportation, and mind reading. French may be easier after all.
“I’m Louis, by the way,” the boy says with a little wave.
He pronounces it Loo-ee, the French way. Obviously. It’s so unbearably cute that I wish he would say it one more time.
“I’m…，” I begin, getting lost in his smile for a second. Everything about my mad dash to Repetto comes crashing back. “I’m late, I’m so super mega late!”
Still, I can’t move. Fun fact about this street: it was absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent designed to make people fall in love, with its lush plants and flowerpots hanging from windowsills, the old-fashioned lampposts, the notes of a violin coming from a nearby apartment, and the stacks of bicycles with wire baskets. It’s almost too romantic.
“Then I should let you go…I’m waiting for…a friend,” Louis explains.
He’s waiting for a girl. Of course. Le sigh.
“I think everyone’s gone,” I say. I didn’t come across anyone on my way out.
“I should probably call…” He trails off, looking a little sad.
“Okay, then…” I edge down the stairs.
He ignores his phone though and keeps staring at me. I can’t walk away from him; that would be extremely rude. But I also can’t break my promise to Monsieur Dabrowski. “I have to get this leotard or I won’t be allowed back tomorrow. My instructor, he’s…Well, let’s just say that my life is pretty much over if I don’t make it to the shop in time.”