Frankie in Paris Read Free Page B

Eiffel Tower on their covers.   After spending a few seconds studying a
photograph of Paris
at night,   I sighed at the beauty of all
the twinkling, yellow lights.   Curling up
on one of the fluffy, slightly over-used chairs in the reference section, I
tucked my heavy boots beneath me and studied pictures of famous Parisian
landmarks that anyone would recognize:   Notre Dame, l’Arc de Triomphe, The Louvre:   there were so many of them! I could
practically hear accordions play as I pored over books about French food,
culture, fashion—you name it.   I had read
about most of that stuff when I was studying the language in school, but that
was before I knew that I would be seeing it all first hand.   I scanned with a new intensity, which
probably would have helped my grade if I had applied myself in a like manner
when I was a student in the subject.  
    Hours sprinted by, and I didn’t even notice.
What wasn’t even a consideration about a week ago had become an obsession which
I craved more than almost anything.   I
was ready for a baguette. I longed to stroll along the banks of the Seine. I wanted to confidently announce, “ Que sera sera ” and have people around me
understand what I was trying to say... Shoot, wait a minute:   is that French?   I think it might be Spanish.   I'll try to get back to you on that.
    ***
    My parents weren’t overwhelmingly supportive of
our trip, but they weren’t really opposed, either.   They were always trying to get me to “see the
world” and “go on an adventure.”   I guess
this trip fell into both categories.     
    Everyone in our family was used to Lulu’s
bursts of impulsiveness, so the whole plan-a-European-vacation-in-no-time-flat
thing didn’t faze them a bit.
    ***
    Long evenings were spent with my boyfriend,
talking about the need to be careful, him reminding me that I always had to
have my passport with me.   He found this
little pouch thing at one of the travel stores at the mall when he was waiting
to pick me up from work.  
    Made of cream muslin cloth, it was created to
fit a passport and maybe a little bit of cash and be tied around your waist,
underneath your clothing.   It made me
feel like I was wearing spy gear when I gave it a test run.   This would surely save me from being arrested
and thrown in a Parisian prison.  
    Being ever thoughtful, he bought one for Lulu,
too.
    We sat in the front seat of his root beer brown
1969 Volkswagen Beetle, the smell of his leather jacket and lemony cologne
filling the small space.   Looking into my
eyes and holding my hand, he went over all of his concerns:
    1. No going with strangers.  
    2. No going off and drinking alone—an idea that
appealed to me, to be honest!   I mean, I
was going to be in a country where toddlers are allowed wine with dinner. The
legal drinking age in Paris
was sixteen, so I was about four years behind the average Parisian.   I still had a year to go in my country (not
that I hadn’t broken the law a few times in this arena), so how could I not
take advantage of this discrepancy?
    His biggest rule was that I was to try not to
use my cranium for anything that anyone else couldn’t do.   He was afraid of sex traffickers, sure, but
he was also well acquainted with any and all documentaries about Area 51, and
he didn’t want me to end up strapped to a table like an alien.
    I knew I wouldn’t go against his requests.   I loved this boy, and I wouldn’t disappoint
him.  
    Promising to be safe, I swore that I would make
sure that Lulu didn’t do anything off the wall.   As if I have ever had any control over what she has chosen to do!
    ***
    My best friend, Alicia, told me that she wanted
me to bring home something “like, really French” for her.   Ever since we moved to
Hambran Lane , the summer before fifth
grade, she had lived one house down from us.   Recently she had moved out of her parents’ house and now lived in a
nearby apartment complex.  
    My BFF had