big deal while secretly pleading with my palms not to get clammy.
“Where are you dragging me to?” I ask.
“We’re here,” he says and stops in front of an unassuming set of brown wooden doors. He finally lets go of my hand and points to a plaque above the door: le musée national eugène delacroix.
I know of this museum—it was Delacroix’s home and studio once. I wanted to visit when I was working on my essay, but my parents weren’t about to let me make a special trip to Paris by myself at their expense, even for research. I tried to talk to the archivist on the phone, but it was like smashing my head against the brick wall of French bureaucracy: a lot of no, it’s not possible and sorry, the archive is not yet fully digitized, and why can’t you do your research here during our ridiculously limited hours? Please let there be some treasure trove.
At the entry kiosk, Alexandre flashes an ID, and the woman at the desk gives him a tight-lipped smile and nods us through.
“What’s that, your all-access Paris badge?” I ask.
“I wish,” he says. “It’s my school ID. I’ve been doing some archival research here.”
“What school do you go to?” It occurs to me now that I haven’t bothered to ask where he goes to school or even how old he is. I’m not sure if it’s my weak attempt at keeping my distance, if I’m desperately focused on how to salvage my potential post–high school academic life, or if my brain has been too wrapped up in the Zaid situation to gather intel about the guy who’s actually available and whom I’m feeling a little bit fluttery about. Probably all those things.
“I’m starting my second year at university in September. école du Louvre. I want to specialize in nineteenth-century French art.”
He’s older. That is a bit unexpected. I was thinking maybe last year at lycée, the French equivalent of high school. But he’s probably at least nineteen. Does he know I’m only seventeen—almost eighteen? He must know. I told him I was starting senior year. I guess he doesn’t mind hanging with someone younger, because it’s not like I’m forcing him to do banal high school things like . . . prom. French kids don’t even have prom. But I let myself imagine them dancing along the banks of the Seine as the magic light of summer descends on a Paris night, the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the background. I may be Franco-American, but the American part of me still indulges in the occasional romantic, filmic Franco-fantasies.
It is summer in Paris, after all.
The museum’s library is empty except for a pale-faced woman sitting at a desk, ash-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun. She’s wearing a turtleneck. In August. From the looks of her nearly translucent skin, I don’t think she’s seen daylight for some time. She raises her eyes from her book to take us in. She’s probably the one who couldn’t be bothered to help me and chided me for making too many demands on her time. The Archival Knight, sworn to protect dusty piles of paper and old books from the unworthy, sacrificing her social life and access to vitamin D.
Alexandre marches up to her and flashes a smile. They exchange a few hushed words. She nods—grins, even—pushes her creaky chair away from her desk, and breezes past the wall of packed shelves that reach to the top of the high ceilings, disappearing into a back room. If she’s the same archivist who blew me off, and I’m sure she is, she seems far more agreeable to Alexandre’s requests than mine. Gee, wonder why.
While we’re waiting for her to return, I snap a photo of the library for Instagram—it’s not a perfectly color-coordinated shelfie, but I could explore this place for hours. There are probably endless secrets hidden between the pages of these forgotten books. And I love that you need one of those old-timey rolling ladders to reach the highest shelves. Even with my back to him, I can feel the weight of Alexandre’s stare as he watches me. I turn to catch his eye and smile as the woman reemerges and silently hands him an archival box before returning to