This puts a smile back on Louis’s face, and I stop wondering why I even told him all that. It’s not like he asked.
“A true ballet emergency,” he replies. “You’re going to the Repetto on Rue de la Paix, right?” He follows me down the steps and pauses in front of a Vespa that I’ve only just noticed.
I nod. Nodding is so great. It’s the same in every language.
Louis starts undoing a lock that holds two helmets in place. “It looks like my evening just freed up.” He offers me one of them with a smile.
My arms suddenly feel like noodles. No way he’s suggesting what I think he’s suggesting.
Louis puts on his helmet, straddles the scooter, and kicks it into gear. “Are you coming? We don’t have much time.”
I bite my lip. Well played, Paris. Well played.
* * *
We zip through the Marais, past the rows and rows of chic boutiques, then turn onto a large boulevard （so many other scooters!） and ride along the picture-perfect Canal Saint-Martin for a while. Even though it’s all breathtaking, I can only really think about my hands around this boy’s waist. Am I squeezing too hard? I am, I’m totally squeezing too hard. Maybe I’ll just say that I was scared, that I’ve never been on the back of a scooter before. Right, and then he’ll think of me as the silly American girl who’s afraid of everything. I force my hands to relax, which only gives me a better sense of his firm abs under his thin shirt. My heartbeat quickens.
Louis is an expert, zigzagging between cars and buses, avoiding cyclists, and even glancing in his rearview mirror long enough to give me a smile and a wink. What am I doing, going off with a guy I don’t know? I think Paris has messed with my head. Scratch that. I know Paris has messed with my head.
I catch a glimpse of Opéra Garnier—the Opéra Garnier!—just before we turn onto Rue de la Paix, and I crane my neck to get a better look at the ornate building through the visor. Louis zooms up to the curb in front of the Repetto store, and I’m already removing my helmet as he parks. There isn’t even time for a hair check, or to admire the intricately beaded ballet costume in the window. I rush off before I realize that I forgot one major thing.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I call back. “Merci, I mean.”
Louis gives me a dimpled smile in response.
But that’s when my luck runs out.
“Désolée, nous sommes fermés,” the shopkeeper announces as soon as I walk in. Sorry, we’re closed. Her black bob frames a face full of sharp edges. When I don’t respond, she waves the keys in her hands to show me that she was just about to lock the door. I muster all the French I know to explain my problem and convey the state of emergency, but the woman keeps shrugging and telling me that they’ll be open tomorrow.
“But it’ll be too late! J’ai besoin d’un, non…deux, non…trois…umm…leotards blancs, maintenant!” I say just as the chime of the door rings. It’s Louis. I’d assumed he’d left already, and the last thing I want is for him to hear me beg in lousy French, my cheeks flush, my words stumbling over each other as the shopkeeper looks on sternly. He did me a huge favor by driving me here, but I can’t ask for his help again—I don’t even know him.
“Louis!” the shopkeeper says, with a smile.
“Christine, comment ?a va?” Christine, how are you?
He comes closer to give her la bise. One kiss on each cheek.
I look from one to the other, flustered. Louis is not a student at the school; I would have noticed him. He mentioned a friend, but that doesn’t explain why he’s on a first-name basis with the staff of this famous ballet store. They chat for a few moments, but they speak so quickly, I don’t catch what they say.
“Everything okay?” Louis asks me. “You look…confused.”
Confusion doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel right now.
The woman looks from me to Louis and pouts. “Fine, I’ll get them for you,” she says in French, to him.
To me, she just points at the plush velvet seats in the middle of the shop. As soon as she’s gone into the back, I exhale. “You just saved my life.”
“I hear that a lot,” Louis responds seriously.
I let out a nervous laugh.
“I’m kidding,” he says. “I don’t solve ballet crises for just anyone.”
I let myself fall back on the soft pink seat and shake my head. “You have no idea how much trouble I was in. Our instructor is super strict. I mean, they all are, but he’s next level. He says things like ‘I will not tolerate anything less than absolute perfection from my students,’？” I say, mimicking Monsieur Dabrowski’s harsh tone.