Charlotte in Paris Read online

  For breakfast Madame laid out an omelette au fromage, slices of baguette topped with strawberry jam, and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. I eagerly dug into the delicious cheese omelette and sipped the sweet juice.

  After breakfast I got dressed, and while I was rummaging around in my bag, I realized that I hadn’t packed my favorite brown shoes. I hit my head lightly with the heel of my hand. Nice job, Char, I thought. Since I had a week’s worth of clothes to cram into one suitcase, I had repacked it several times to make it all fit. Even though I had my trusty checklist, I must have left my shoes on the floor back home at the last minute—no wonder everything had finally fit. I hoped I hadn’t forgotten anything else. I didn’t want to come across as completely unstylish. After all, I was in one of the world’s most fashionable cities.

  My sneakers would be fine for walking around Paris, but if the Morels took us out to a fancy dinner, well…I would stick out like a sore thumb. At least I didn’t have to worry about that right away. For now, I put on a pair of corduroy pants and a light, warm sweater. The brown shoes would have looked better with the outfit, but I had no choice. I grabbed my ski jacket and went to the living room.

  “You plan on exercising this morning before we go to the school?” Madame asked with a twinkle in her eye as she nodded toward my running shoes.

  “I accidentally left my nice shoes back at home. I know the sneakers and ski jacket scream ‘American,’ but they’re all I have.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your ensemble, Charlotte. If everyone looked the same, it would be terribly boring, n’est-ce pas—don’t you think?”

  I nodded.

  Madame smiled and stepped back. “But I’m sure we can find some other shoes for you to wear if you would like. Hmmm,” she said, looking at my feet. “Sophie wears a thirty-seven, and your feet look a little larger.”

  European sizes are different from American sizes, but just from seeing Sophie’s shoe collection, I could tell that her feet were smaller.

  “One moment.” Madame held up a finger. She retreated to her bedroom and shut the door. When Madame returned, she had a satisfied smile on her face. She had changed into tailored black pants, a cream-colored sweater, and black high-heels with pointy toes.

  “After all, I was in one of the world’s most fashionable cities.”

  ~ pg. 68

  “Come,” she said as she put on her gray wool coat and black scarf. “Bring your bag—we will do a few errands and then I will leave you at school. It is arranged.”

  Madame Morel loved to “arrange” things—it was her passion. I was anxious to know exactly what Sophie’s mom had arranged for me, but I was too timid to ask.

  I hurried to keep up with Madame Morel as she briskly clicked along the sidewalk to the métro station. After we had been walking for a few minutes, I got the weird feeling that I was being watched. When I looked over my shoulder, I saw a few people walking behind us. At first I thought my imagination was getting the better of me, but then a man in a black raincoat caught my attention. Almost immediately, he wheeled around and walked into a store. When I turned around again, I had to double my pace to catch up with Madame Morel. Her black heels made a sharp ringing sound on the metal steps as we descended into the station.

  The métro wasn’t overcrowded at midmorning like it was during rush hour. We found two seats together toward the back of the train. I tried not to stare at the people around me, but I couldn’t help it. Sophie was right—it was easy to pick out the tourists by their cameras, maps, and casual clothing.

  We emerged from the métro station in front of La Samaritaine—one of the largest department stores in Paris—where Madame worked as a buyer in the baby clothing department.

  “First…the shoes,” she said with a knowing smile.

  “Huh?” I asked as Madame took off in quick, determined strides toward the shoe department. I ran a few steps to catch up with her.

  “You are on vacation, Charlotte. It is a time for special treats, like new shoes,” Madame explained as she pulled two pairs of shoes off one of the racks.

  I stopped counting the number of shoes I tried on over the next hour. Madame rejected this shoe as too sophisticated or that shoe because it would be démodé—out of fashion—by next year. She ruled out some shoes because they were not durable enough and others because they would show dirt or scuff marks. Finally she settled on three pairs for me to try on.

  “Any of these will do. But you must choose the shoe that makes you feel confident and comfortable. Comfort is important, yes? But if your shoes make you feel confident, they will carry you through the world for the next year.” I knew Katani would approve of Madame Morel’s advice. She was always saying that true style was all about finding clothes that made you feel good about yourself.

  I looked for the price tag.

  “No, no! Do not worry about the price. They are all great quality. They are all worth every penny. These will be un petit cadeau…how do you say?…a gift from me, to celebrate your return to Paris. And do not protest, I only pay half with my discount.”

  I knew it was no use arguing with Madame Morel. She was a very generous—and very stubborn—lady. “Thank you so much, Madame Morel,” I said. “This is so nice of you. I’ll always think of you when I wear them.”

  I turned to the tough task of choosing a new pair of shoes. I loved the looks of all three. One pair I put aside because they were not as comfortable as the others. Switching off between the other two pairs, I practiced walking up and down the narrow strip of carpet several times, repeating in my head, “Confidence! Confidence! Confidence!” One pair had a higher, chunkier heel, and I wobbled a little bit during my model walk. So I decided to go with the soft, chestnut brown pair with a low block heel. The shoes were elegantly stitched with a simple flower design.

  “Excellent choice,” Madame remarked. “You will wear them now, no?”

  “Of course!” I exclaimed, giddy with excitement. I shoved my sneakers in the bottom of my bag.

  “Next…a coat,” Madame declared, and then grabbed my arm and marched me off toward the coat department.

  “A coat?” I asked bewilderedly. “But I already have a jacket. Really, I don’t need a coat, thank you, Madame.”

  “Every young woman needs a proper dress coat. It will serve you for years, and with a good coat and the right shoes, you will look splendide no matter what else you are wearing,” Madame said as she summoned the saleswoman.

  “But Madame, dress coats are very expensive! I can’t accept another gift from you, it’s—it’s too much.”

  “Ma chérie, you must. There will be no argument. There is a sale on coats, and with my discount, it will not be so expensive.”

  I nodded slowly, not knowing what else to do. I was overwhelmed by Madame’s generosity.

  The saleswoman busily followed Madame’s directions. Just as with the shoes, Madame Morel went about weeding out unacceptable coats. She sorted through the racks, making quick decisions “Mauvaise couleur. Trop lourd. Quelle horreur!” She was getting very excited and I had a hard time following her French.

  “Qualité, qualité, qualité,” Madame reminded me as I tried the coats on. “And when you can’t afford the quality you desire, you must exude the quality yourself. Project it from deep inside you. No matter what you are wearing, the air of confidence is always the first thing you put on.” I felt like Cinderella, with my very own fairy godmother creating my new wardrobe.

  After trying on countless coats, I finally narrowed it down to two. I asked Madame which she liked better. She said she liked them both and that I must be the one to make the final decision.

  “I don’t know.” I hesitated. “I always find it hard to keep up with fashion DOs and DON’Ts. My friend Katani is really into fashion…she helps me pick out clothes sometimes.” I thought wistfully for a moment that it would be so nice if my mother was here picking out shoes with me and Madame Morel. But I let that moment pass. My dad told me, �
�It’s important to live in the present, but cherish your memories.”

  “We will try this then. What colors bring out your complexion and the color of your eyes? This is better than depending on the whim of fashion. For you…always remember earth tones—the rich, dark reds, purples, and browns of the earth, the deep green of the forest, and the midnight blue of the night sky are best. Silver, not gold, accents your complexion.”

  I couldn’t wait to write down Madame’s fashion tips in my notebook. Katani would be very impressed.

  “I think I’ll take this purple coat because…well, because it matches the hat that my friend Katani made for me.” I pulled out the purple beret from my bag. “And it’s my favorite color,” I added.

  “Your friend made a beautiful choice for you. She has a good eye, no?”

  “She wants to be a fashion designer. In fact, she asked me to take a few pictures of the latest Parisian fashions in the windows to give her an idea of what’s new.”

  “I know just the street. But first, I will show you how to wear a hat. Un chapeau can pull together an outfit like no other accessory. It can soften and frame the face and give a young woman an extra boost of confidence. Your hair is a beautiful honey color, and a great length to accent your face. With the confidence this hat will bring, people will think to themselves très chic when you walk by.”

  Every time she said “confidence,” I felt a little bit taller.

  Madame went on. “A square face should wear a hat with a medium brim. An oval face can wear a large, straight, or floppy brim. Your face is between oval and round. For you, this beret is parfait…perfect!!” she said, gently pulling my shoulders back and then lifting my chin so my eyes met hers. “Lovely.” Madame expertly dipped the hat slightly to the right side and pronounced me “magnifique.”

  I looked in the mirror and had to admit I did look fabulous…and très française. I couldn’t help smiling. Maybe it wasn’t the air in Paris or the latest fashions that made Parisian women look chic. Maybe it was simply a skill passed down from mother to daughter.

  I rolled my puffy ski coat into a tight little ball and shoved it into my messenger bag along with my wallet, notebook, and my surprise gift for my old classmates. It was a good thing I had left the Picasso book at the Morels’ apartment—my bag was chock full as it was.

  Madame and I went to the elevator, but instead of pushing “ground floor” she pressed the top floor button. I wondered if she had made a mistake. But when the elevator door opened, my heart jumped at the sight before me. We stepped through two large glass doors and onto the terrace of the department store. Below us, the city of Paris and all of its treasures stretched out in every direction. It was the perfect panoramic view of the city I had called home for two years—a city that still had an important place in my heart.

  “One of the many advantages of working at La Samaritaine,” Madame said, gesturing toward the view. “It is the best view in the city, n’est-ce pas?”

  I had to catch my breath as my eyes drank in the vision before me…the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, Napoleon’s tomb, the Notre-Dame and the Sacré Coeur churches, and there—running through it all—the silver waters of the River Seine. I wanted to pinch myself to make sure it was real.

  From La Samaritaine we took the métro to Avenue Victor Hugo and rue du Faubourg St-Honoré, where we walked past row after row of boutiques full of the latest creations of Yves Saint Laurent, Chanel, Lanvin, Balmain, Givenchy, Christian Dior, and other top French designers.

  Madame led me to the windows she considered most appealing and I took pictures, careful not to use the flash to avoid the reflection off the windows. I hoped the pictures wouldn’t come out too dark on this foggy day. I used up all but three of the pictures on Katani’s camera, just in case I saw some other fashions later in the week.

  Madame Morel stopped in one of the smaller boutiques and bought a silky scarf. “One more gift for you,” she said as she handed it to me. My scarf had a brown, lavender, and white pattern. I bought a similar one for Katani with lots of yellow—her favorite color—in it. She would love it.

  When we finished our shopping, Madame hurried me over to Collège St-Louis, where I would spend the afternoon visiting my former classmates.

  6

  La Rentrée

  BACK TO SCHOOL

  For a moment I felt like I was in a time warp…as if I were still a student at Collège St-Louis and would be punished for arriving late to class. The school day in Paris was longer than in the United States, lasting from eight in the morning until five in the afternoon, including a long break for lunch. French students had Wednesdays off, but they went to school for a half-day on Saturday. Despite the longer hours, I loved the schedule in France. We worked very hard in school, but there was built-in time to relax. Maybe I could propose the French school schedule to Mrs. Fields, the principal at Abigail Adams Junior High.

  Madame explained that she was allowing Sophie to take Tuesday off and because there were teacher meetings on Thursday and Friday, Sophie would not have to return to school until Saturday morning—the day I was leaving. I couldn’t believe it—we would have four full days to find Orangina and to explore our old haunts.

  Madame stopped to check in at the office first, and then walked me to the third floor English class, leaving me at the door.

  Sophie’s eyes brightened when she spotted my new coat and shoes. She gave me a thumbs up and a big smile from across the room.

  After spending half a day with Madame, I felt like a completely different person. I definitely felt more “confident,” that word she kept repeating, and even less klutzy. Fashion had always seemed like a puzzle that I was too busy to figure out, but Madame had made it seem easy and fun. Both Katani and Madame gave the same advice…true fashion isn’t about wearing the trendiest clothes, but about figuring out who you are and what makes you happy inside…and letting that shine through.

  The English teacher, Madame de Robein, welcomed me to her class and gestured to an empty seat.

  “Hello, Charlotte,” Philippe said as I sat down at the empty desk next to him. The French students used to love practicing their English on me.

  I smiled. “Bonjour, Philippe. Ça va? How are you?” Although we hadn’t kept in touch during the past months, Philippe and I had been pretty good friends when I lived in Paris. It was good to see him again. He was definitely cute, though in my opinion, not as cute as Nick Montoya back home. Nevertheless, I knew Maeve would approve.

  “We will have a conversation in English,” Madame de Robein announced. “Although Charlotte speaks French very well, I want you to ask questions in English and Charlotte to answer in English. This is a wonderful opportunity for you to practice your English-speaking skills. Charlotte, would you mind coming to the front of the room so the class can see you?”

  I looked at Sophie. She shrugged. I had no idea I was going to be part of today’s lesson…I was glad the class would only last about an hour. It made me nervous to be the center of attention. But I was flattered that Madame de Robein thought my French was good.

  “Do you live in New York City?” a tall girl in the front row asked.

  “No, I live near Boston, in Massachusetts.”

  “Have you ever been to New York?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you met Beyoncé?”

  “No.”

  And so it went…about forty-five minutes of somewhat silly, but not too embarrassing questions. The only time I didn’t know what to answer was when a girl asked a rude question about our president. I just glared.

  “Charlotte has brought a treat for the class, Madame,” Sophie spoke up. “May we serve it now?”

  I was so wrapped up in answering all those questions, I’d almost forgotten about my special treat. I brought my messenger bag up to Madame’s desk, unzipped it, and pulled out the ski jacket on top. Once free from the tight space of my bag, it puffed out, expanding as if it were alive. The right sleeve flopped across the d
esk, pushing a small tin toward the edge of the desk. I reached for the tin, but it plunged over the edge, hit the floor with a loud twang, bounced once, and rolled noisily down the center aisle. Sophie jumped to her feet and scrambled after it as the class giggled. Thankfully, the tin of pushpins didn’t pop open…that would have been chaos.

  I put the ski jacket on Madame’s swivel chair and pulled a jar of peanut butter and a box of crackers from my messenger bag.

  “Is anyone allergic to cacahouètes…peanuts?” I asked. I knew that peanut allergies could be really serious. No one raised their hand, so I spread a glob of peanut butter on each cracker and Sophie passed them out on paper napkins.

  I explained how popular peanut butter was in the United States…. It was almost unheard of in France.

  A girl named Céleste made a face and held her nose. She murmured something in French to her best friend, Chantal. Céleste and Chantal were never nice to me when I was in their class. I called them the Chuchoteurs—the Whisperers. They were the French version of the Queens of Mean, Anna and Joline, the star mean girls at Abigail Adams. I have decided that the language of mean kids is universal—they whisper private jokes, point, and laugh really loudly at everything. They try to make everyone else feel left out, and most of the time, they succeed.

  Madame pointedly cleared her throat. “Céleste, this is English class. If you have anything to say, you must say it in English.”

  Two bright pink patches appeared on Céleste’s cheeks, and she bit her lip.

  “Don’t mind her,” Philippe whispered to me, his eyes holding mine for a brief second. “Céleste never has anything nice to say about anyone or anything.”

  I smiled gratefully at Philippe.

  “Uglgh! Ischtuck to the top of my moughf!” a boy named Pierre struggled to speak through the peanut butter gooeyness.

  “Don’t be disgusting, Pierre, close your mouth when you chew,” Chantal said haughtily.

  Madame de Robein shot both students a warning look.