Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know - Samira Ahmed Page 0,34

don’t even have English menus in all the restaurants. Why, last night . . .” I trail off and roll my eyes.

“Quand même. They weren’t that bad.”

I shrug.

We start walking back down the path, the air between us rippling with another lost moment. As we pass under a faux jungle-esque bridge, covered with vines, bits of fake tree trunks showing through, I slow down and take a look around at this utterly Instagram-worthy spot—a beautiful garden in the company of a beautiful boy. I grab my phone, reaching my cheek up close to Alexandre’s for a selfie—and put on a huge American smile, showing all my teeth. I take a dozen quick snaps, then draw back to flip through the photos. The first is perfect: I’m beaming; he’s gazing at me with his signature grin.

I’m posting this on Instagram the second we part. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before. If Zaid wants to rub his summer escapades in my face, so be it. Two can play that game. And one of us is in Paris with a hot French guy—

“Khayyam?”

I look up. We’re already at street level. I turn back and realize I was so focused on upping my Instagram game to get Zaid’s attention that I didn’t notice the walk up another winding storybook staircase with the gorgeous boy who is actually with me right now.

“Sorry. Zoned out.”

“Everything okay?”

“Sure.” Distracted, I give Alexandre two quick pecks on his cheeks. “Tomorrow at your place. Like 10 a.m.?”

He scrunches the corners of his eyes for the briefest second and nods. “Ciao,” he says and walks away.

“The picnic was amazing!” I call after him, but my mind is elsewhere. I scurry across Pont Alexandre and take a few obligatory shots of the Eiffel Tower. Then I turn toward the Louvre and snap a picture of the Ferris wheel in the Tuileries as it peeks over the green treetops. The light is perfect right now. Paris is stunning, and I have a feeling the city approves of my little plan. Paris may be the capital of love, but it’s also the city of scorned lovers.

Scorn isn’t the right word. That’s not what I feel for Zaid anyway, more like confusion and heartache, the echoes of love. But I’m not above being petty, and I think this little Paris collage will snare him. It might be a little mean girl of me to get Alexandre involved, but it’s not like I’m faking wanting to be around him. I like him. I want to kiss him. And I need to find the raven-haired lady and whatever secret treasure she holds the key to. Why not try to get everything I want in the process?

I hurry and tag the photo #parisisforlovers before guilt or my better judgment makes me change my mind. I don’t care if anyone else likes it. For this post, I have an audience of one.

Leila

The poet is nothing like I expect. He is baby-faced with deep-set brown eyes, small hands, and hair that curls at his nape. The dark circles under his eyes age him, though I doubt he could be much older than one-and-twenty, only a few years older than me. Perhaps he is in the service of his king, but I doubt the service could be of any state consequence, as the poet seems to be only in service to himself.

When Pasha at last grew tired of his British audience, he dismissed everyone from the room save the poet. He then beckoned me forth, offering me as a guide and a gift, like a basket of deep red pomegranates ready to be eaten.

When Pasha exited the room, he could not look me in the eye. Good. If he feels a pang of guilt or regret, it is most likely the first time he has experienced such feelings. May he know true suffering in this life and the hereafter.

I pass the afternoon with the poet, offering him tea and sugared sherbets, fruits, and sweets. I tell him tales of the serai and Pasha’s prowess in battle, but he is most interested in jinn stories, so I weave the tales for an Englishman’s ears. He listens and watches me intently.