Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know - Samira Ahmed Page 0,41
out of bed. Brush your teeth. Read. Do something. Anything. Don’t text. I put the phone back on the nightstand and get up to draw back the curtains. I can do this.
I pull on the old metal bolt that holds the windows closed and push them out toward the street. I can smell the baguettes baking at the boulangerie on the corner. The air feels good. Not too hot. Not too humid. Fresh.
I walk over to the red upholstered lounge-y chair in my room that mainly serves as a closet. I pull on my jeans and grab a faded gray Nevertheless, She Persisted T-shirt and shimmy it over my tank. I slide into a pair of electric-blue jutti flats with silver flowers embroidered across the top. I don’t hear my parents, so I figure I’ll go get breakfast.
I look back at my phone and pause.
And pause.
Then I take three determined strides toward the door.
I stop. I turn.
I rush over to my phone and text Zaid:
I hit send before I can stop myself. I slink to the bed, my bad decision immediately pressing on me. So much for my unparalleled display of willpower.
My phone dings almost immediately. It’s 1:30 a.m. in Chicago.
Zaid: There you are.
Me: You expected someone else at my number?
Zaid: Awww, I’ve missed your snark.
Me: Plenty where that came from.
Zaid: That’s what I love about you.
I stare at the screen. Love. He never uses that word. We never use that word. Maybe all the pictures of him with other girls on Instagram were a ruse to get my attention.
It worked.
Dammit.
Zaid: Still there? Did some French guy whisk you away?
He has noticed.
Me: . . .
Hold on, Khayyam. Wait, one second longer.
Me: Maybe.
Zaid: Is that a baguette in your text, or are you just happy to see me?
Me: Funny. I thought we were talking about the French guy.
Zaid: So there is one.
This is a lot easier than I thought. I need to learn to give myself more credit.
Me: My dad’s knocking at my door—gotta go.
Zaid: Maybe FaceTime later?
Me:
I turn my phone off and put it on my nightstand before I text anything that might wreck this tiny moment of triumph.
Paris is landlocked, and yet here I am, standing on a faux beach on the banks of the Seine. Somewhere in there is a witty joke, but my brain is a jumble. And my stomach somersaults. Nerves. Also, I’m wearing a swimsuit. A ratty old maillot because I didn’t buy a new one for this trip. True, a gauzy, long-sleeved pink kurti with white embroidery at the neck is covering my skin from my neck to below my knee, but I’m still feeling totally self-conscious. Alexandre and I have already made out, so I shouldn’t be suddenly struck by the desi modesty complex, but I am. I wonder if there are cultural identity genes that express themselves only at the most awkward moment possible. Like Murphy’s Law, but for DNA.
Alexandre’s snagged one of the highly sought-after blue umbrellas, and I slip out of my flip-flops onto the coarse, warm sand and walk over to him.
“Bienvenue à Paris-Plages,” he says and stands to faire la bise. I wasn’t sure if it was going to be a two-cheek kiss or an on-the-lips kiss since we’ve already kiss-kissed. Two cheeks it is. I’m fine with it. Because there are, like, a million people on this tiny strip of fake beach next to the Seine, and even if no one in Paris casts a second glance at two people kissing, I feel too exposed.
We take a seat on the large blanket he’s spread out on the sand under the cover of his front-row umbrella. “How’d you manage this coveted spot?”
“I slept here overnight.”
“Ha! And they say chivalry is dead.”
“Chevalerie is French, you know. A way of life and love.”