24

When Mom comes back to the room, she’s carrying a manila envelope. “Hervé asked me to give this to you,” she says.

It looks about the size of my comic book. I guess he’s giving it back. I take the envelope and toss it on top of my suitcase.

“Aren’t you going to take a look?” she says.

“Later.” I don’t feel like explaining how Gadget Girl landed in Paris.

“He seemed pretty disappointed to find you gone.”

I shrug. What does he need me for when he has a harem?

“What shall we do tonight?” she asks. “Do you want to go on one of those boats on the river? Les Bateaux Mouche?”

Those are the boats that Whitney thought would be oh-so-romantic. Well, it won’t be romantic with my mother, but I want to get out of the hotel for a while, far away from the café. “Okay. Let’s go.”

The ride along the Seine is actually really nice. Although the day has been hot and sticky, a cool breeze lifts from the water and caresses our limbs. The rocking of the boat and the sound of the river lapping against the hull lulls me. Slowly, my disappointment drains away. I start to get a handle on the situation.

There is no reason to get upset about those girls in the café. After all, I have only known Hervé for a couple of days. And even if he likes me in that way, it’s not as if we have a future together. I live across the Atlantic Ocean, in Michigan. I’m too young, according to Mom, to have a serious boyfriend. Isn’t it enough that I’ve made a friend here in Paris? Someone who shares my interests and isn’t hung up on my disability?

After the ride, we find a little shop that serves pastries and have dessert. I choose the tarte tatin, which is sort of like apple pie, and Mom has an éclair.

“Mmm. I wonder if Raoul could make this,” I say, after the first bite.

Later, back in our hotel room, I pick up the envelope from Hervé and peek inside. It’s not Gadget Girl being returned to me after all, but a French translation. Hervé’s translation. He’s photocopied the five pages of the story, whited out the English text, and written French words instead. At first I’m disappointed that we didn’t get to work on this together. Then again, maybe if I’d hung around, he would have come over to the table, and we would have discussed it. And maybe he’d be interested in helping translate more stories—the back issues, and the ones I have yet to write. At any rate, we’ve made some sort of connection, and now my manga is in another language. That’s something worth singing and dancing about.

The next morning, Mom has stuff to do at the gallery. She invites me along, but I tell her I’d rather wait for her in Etienne’s café. When I get there, I’m happy to see that Hervé is at work. He brings me a cup of hot chocolate and a plate of croissants before I’ve even had a chance to order.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle!”

“Bonjour,” I say. “Thanks for translating my manga, Hervé.”

“It was my pleasure,” he says.

His voice makes me dizzy. I need a moment to collect myself. He’s just a friend, I tell myself. Pull yourself together. I pick up my cup and take a sip. The chocolate is rich and warm on my tongue. It may be a kiddie drink, but I admit that I love it more than coffee.

Hervé winks, and goes off to serve another customer.

A few minutes later, he comes back to my table. “Have you been sightseeing?” he asks. “Maybe I can show you around after I finish my shift. I get off in an hour.”

“Well, I-I don’t know. My mom is kind of protective.” Then again, maybe that would work in my favor. She knows and trusts Etienne. She seems to trust Hervé. Maybe if she thinks of him as a guardian, my big brother in Paris, she’ll let me go someplace with him. “Actually, I would love to see Paris with you,” I say. “But keep in mind that I’m not too good with stairs.”

He laughs again, flashing those white teeth. “Great! What would you like to see? The Eiffel Tower?”

“Mom and I went there our third day in Paris…” But it might be romantic at night, with all those lights.

“Hmmm. Have you been to the Louvre?”

“Well, yes.” I wouldn’t mind going there again, if it was with Hervé.

“The Moulin Rouge?”

Okay, I haven’t been there yet. I remember Lautrec’s showgirls and Delight Hubbard. Whitney would love to hear all about the cabaret, and maybe I can find some inspiration for Gadget Girl in Paris in their kicks and costumes. “Yeah, that would be fun,” I say. “Let me check with my mother.”

“D’accord.” And then he’s off to the kitchen.

Just then Mom comes into the café. She spots me and joins me at the table. Hervé pops over to take her order—un café, as usual. When he brings the coffee, I make my big announcement: “Hervé’s going to take me to the Moulin Rouge.”

Mom’s jaw drops. “Pardon?”

Hervé bows again. “Oui. If it’s okay with you, Madame.”

Her forehead is wrinkled. It’s taking some time to process this, I can tell. “Well, you know, my daughter…”

“It’s okay,” Hervé says quickly. “We won’t be climbing any stairs.”

Mom bites her lip. “Maybe we could all go together?” she says.

Hervé raises his eyebrows. I frown.

“Mom,” I say under my breath. “You let Whitney and me do things together without parents. Think of all those times you dropped us off at the mall, or the movie theater.”

“Well, okay,” she says with a sigh. “But you’re taking my cell phone. And you’ll come back to the hotel as soon as the show’s over.”

Back in our room, she starts fretting again. “Are you sure about this, Aiko?”

Maybe she thinks I’m too young to go out with a guy. This kind of thing has never come up before, so we’ve never had to discuss it.

“It’s not a date,” I say, thinking this will set her at ease. “He’s just offering to show me around as a friend. Like a brother.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. You underestimate yourself, Aiko. You’re a beautiful, interesting girl.”

Of course she’d say that. She’s my mother. And while it’s nice to hear these things once in a while, my alleged charms are not helping my case. It’s time to beg. “Please, Mom. I really want to go. It’ll be a once-in-a-lifetime experience. And remember Delight Hubbard? That girl from our town? Maybe I’ll get to see her on stage!”

Finally, she takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and says. “Okay.”

I dig through my suitcase, trying to find something to wear. According to my guidebook, the Moulin Rouge has a dress code. They won’t allow tourists in jeans.

The swirly gypsy skirt I packed is totally wrong, as is the cotton sundress. The only thing that might work is my new indigo dress. I lay it out on the bed.

My left arm starts jerking. Maybe Mom is right. Maybe I’m not ready to go out with a hot guy, in a foreign city, on my own. Even if it’s not a date. What if something goes wrong? What if I knock over his water glass? What if I fall down?

I figure a bath will calm me. I fill up the tub and climb in for a soak. The water feels good on my legs. I lay with my neck against the porcelain until I begin to feel peaceful again, or at least more excited than nervous. When I’m toweled off, all damp and fragrant, I go back into the bedroom.

“You can borrow this necklace,” Mom says. She’s laid out her rhinestone choker against my dress.

“Thanks.”

“Do you want to wear a little mascara? Some lip gloss?”

Although some girls at my school wear makeup, she’s always harping about “natural beauty.” She doesn’t usually let me out of the house with anything on my face except sunscreen. I guess I’m finally old enough for glamour.

“Would you help me?” I ask her.

She smiles. “Sure. And how do you want to do your hair?”

I pull the dress over my head and sit down in front of the mirror. I keep my arms at my side while Mom paints my face. She strokes my eyelashes with the mascara wand, dabs away stray black blots with a cotton swab, and powders my cheeks with pink. This is what girls do, I think as she brushes out my hair and styles it into a chignon. They sit in front of mirrors on the night of school dances and make themselves look beautiful.

“Close your eyes,” Mom says.

After I shut them, she gently strokes color on my eyelids, and then she steps back. “Okay. Take a look.”

I do. The girl in the mirror is a stranger. She looks at least a couple of years older than me, and ten times more sophisticated. “Wow. I hardly recognize myself.”

She kisses me on top of the head, reminding me that I’m still her little girl. “You look great.”

“Well, Mom, if the sculpting thing doesn’t work out, I guess you could pursue a career as a makeup artist.”

She laughs, then reaches for her purse and takes out a handful of euros. “The Moulin Rouge is expensive, and I don’t think Hervé is making a big salary down at the café. You should at least offer to pay your own way.”

“Okay.” I tuck the bills into my wallet, and put that into my macramé bag.

“Wait a minute,” Mom says. “You need something a little more elegant for an evening on the town.” She rummages through her half-unpacked suitcase and comes up with a black satin bag decorated with tiny beads. It’s attached to a long, thin silk cord that I can loop over my shoulder. “Take this,” she says.

The shoes are another problem. This dress would look killer with high heels, but I can’t wear anything but flats. My braces would be the best bet—they’d keep my legs firm and steady—but of course they’d look hideous with these clothes. Most of the time, like at school, I’d rather take a risk and opt for normal footwear. No way am I wearing orthopedic support for my night on the town. I slip my feet into a pair of black Mary Janes and I’m ready to roll.