“You have amazing legs, so I would definitely show them off. And look at the fit around your butt.”
It’s true—the smooth fabric flows perfectly around my curves.
“But…，” I say.
She raises her index finger, silently telling me to hold that thought. Then she steps inside the changing room, retrieves the white shirt, and helps me slip into it. She does up just two of the buttons, ties the ends in a knot at my waist, and then pulls on the dress a little to adjust the whole look.
“There,” she says, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “How do you feel?”
I stare in the mirror. “Is it wrong if I say that I feel kind of hot?”
She laughs and retrieves a shoebox that I’m only just noticing. “And now, my favorite trick: sexy outfit, casual shoes. It’s the best way to look like you just threw an outfit on, even if you’re wearing a ball gown.”
She opens the box to reveal a pair of navy espadrilles. I’ve seen girls wearing these all over town with everything from fancy dresses to smart pants.
I slip them on—she guessed my size correctly—and feel immediately at ease, like I’m standing on sand.
“One last thing,” she says, reaching behind me. She pulls on my hair tie, and my waves cascade around my shoulders.
As I study my reflection, my stomach fills with butterflies. I know I’m supposed to dress for myself. This is about me, not about what a boy might think. But Louis always seems so confident that I sometimes wonder why he’s hanging out with me. Today I want to feel like he looks: dashing, irresistible, and like Paris is my oyster. I cannot wait for him to see me like this.
“WOW,” LOUIS SAYS when I meet him at the corner of Boulevard Haussmann and rue Drouot, a few minutes away from Opéra Garnier. His eyes sparkle as he keeps taking me in. “Did you do something to your hair?”
“Not really,” I say, giving myself a mental high five.
“Oh. Well, you look great,” Louis says. “Really great.” He lingers on me for another moment, his lips pursing. That look alone was worth breaking the bank.
“Thank you,” I say with a casual shrug. My old outfit is tucked inside a tote bag swinging from my shoulder, but there’s no way I’m admitting to the sartorial crisis I just went through.
“So what are we doing here?” I ask.
Not that I want to switch the topic from how good I look, but I am curious. I did some Googling when Louis gave me our meeting point, but it didn’t give me too many clues.
Louis starts walking down the smaller street, and I follow.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about your family legend,” he says.
“Really?” I ask, intrigued.
We stop in front of a modern glass building covered in red flags stamped with DROUOT AUCTION HOUSE. A few older people, holding catalogues with the same color and lettering, walk past us and go inside.
“Come,” Louis says, following them.
“Are you going to tell me why we’re here?” I ask.
“We,” he whispers, grabbing my hand and leading me through the hall, which is packed with well-to-do gray-haired people, “are at an auction house, the most famous one in Paris.”
“That first part I figured out,” I say with a laugh. “But why?” We must be the youngest people here by about thirty years.
Louis stops in the middle of the crowd, and his whole face brightens as he says, “Today’s auction is about Impressionist paintings that haven’t been seen for decades, or even longer. Art experts didn’t even know some of these pieces existed.”
My heart starts to race. “Are you trying to tell me there’s a lost Degas here?”
“Oui,” Louis says, clearly enjoying the look on my face. “Wanna see it?”
I beam. I haven’t had a minute to think about the drawing in Vivienne’s dining room, my ancestor, or the Degas legend. But Louis remembered, and even did his research. If he’s trying to impress me, it’s working.
We arrive at the front of the exhibition room, and through the open door, I see bright red walls covered from top to bottom in paintings, small and large, framed and unframed. Several people pace the room, looking from the catalogue to the paintings on the walls, pointing and talking with serious faces on. The security guard checks my bag, mutters a few rules about not touching anything, and then asks something about an invitation.
Louis frowns. “On n’a pas d’invitation,” he says. We don’t have an invitation.