Luckily, there’s no curfew at our dorm. I was surprised when I learned that students over sixteen can pretty much do whatever they want. Maybe it’s a French thing, or a big-city thing, to treat teenagers like adults. As long as we show up to class on time—and perform well—we’re the masters of our own destinies outside of school.
Still, an uneasy feeling gnaws at me as my great-great-aunt gets up and opens the imposing wardrobe in the corner to retrieve a few thick albums. I hesitate for a moment, but Vivienne looks so delighted, and I don’t want to disappoint her. I help Madeleine make tea, and we settle down in the adjacent living room, where the four of us can’t even fit on the sofa. Louis stands next to it as Madeleine and I sit on each side of Vivienne. I force myself to forget about the drawing and smile. I’m still glad I came here today.
* * *
We kiss Vivienne goodbye an hour and three albums later, and Madeleine drives us to the station. But as soon as we arrive, before she has even parked the car, I know something’s wrong. It’s dark and very quiet. Too quiet.
Louis and I rush out of the car and run up to the station door. It’s locked.
“It’s not possible,” I say, my heart beating loudly in my chest. “I checked the schedule! There’s a train at 11:05 p.m., I’m sure of it.”
Louis runs his finger along the timetable taped behind the glass. “That’s on weekdays. The last weekend train back to Paris left twenty minutes ago.”
My stomach drops. Louis and I stare at each other in silence. What on earth are we going to do now?
“PLEASE DON’T LOOK at me.”
I walk into the bedroom dressed in a pink fluffy meringue masquerading as a very old floor-length nightgown. It’s big and frilly, with a dozen cutesy little buttons. It would be way too much even for a girl who likes cutesy things, which I do not. Outside of ballet, my style is pretty pared down: black or white tops with skinny jeans or a skirt. I did buy a couple of striped tees before my trip, because it seemed like the obvious thing to wear in France, but candy pink nighties? Non merci. Oh, and the smell of it. My guess is that it’s been sitting on a moth-repellent stick in a dusty drawer for about a millennium. I know, at least I’m not sleeping on the streets tonight, but still.
“That thing is…I don’t know how to say it in English,” Louis says, shaking his head with dismay. “In French we say a tue-l’amour.”
“A love killer?” I ask, pulling it up my legs and doing a few dance steps. I spin around and throw my head back with a laugh.
Louis folds over laughing, too. He’s much better off than me: Vivienne found him a faded lime-green T-shirt to wear with his boxer shorts.
Normally I would feel silly and embarrassed at being dressed like this in front of a dreamy boy （or any boy, really）， but mostly I’m just relieved. Goofing around with Louis feels so right. I don’t know how he does it, but he makes everything—strolling through a museum, catching the train to the countryside, taking a few sips of chilled rosé—feel like the most thrilling experience.
After the shock of the missed train had worn off, Madeleine took us right back to her mother’s house and told us not to worry at all. I was mortified by my mistake, but she and Louis seemed to find it funny more than anything else.
Luckily, trains start early in the morning, so I keep telling myself that it will all work out in the end: I’ll have plenty of spare time to get back to the dorm, grab my things for school, and make it to class ready to bring my best ballet game. I texted Lucy that I was staying with family, and figured she would pass on the message to the others if anyone wondered where I was. Although, I’m guessing Audrey couldn’t care less.
“What are your parents going to say?” I’d asked Louis on the way back. “Please don’t tell your dad it was all my fault.”
I’ve been trying hard to forget about that all day, but of course it’s been hovering in the back of my mind: Monsieur Dabrowski—the great scary teacher who holds my fate in his hands—is Louis’s dad.
“It is all your fault, Mia,” he’d responded deadpan. I felt my face grow hot. “Don’t worry,” he’d added with a smile. “I’ve been going out at night alone since I was fourteen. I’ll send my dad a text, but he might not even notice I’m gone.”
Aunt Vivienne had already been in bed when we got back. In her sleepy state, she led us to her guest bedroom on the second floor.
“You’re in luck. I have two single beds in here for when my great-grandchildren come to stay. But, wait. Would your parents let you sleep in the same room?” She may have been half-asleep, but she was still a ninety-year-old great-grandma with principles.