Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know - Samira Ahmed Page 0,54

parents might be pretty low-key about discipline, but getting arrested in Paris is not something they will chalk up to teenage indiscretion.

And I don’t know what would come after. Trial? Prison? Probation? Do they have probation in France? Oh my God. I’m going to miss senior year. This will probably go on my permanent record. Is that even a real thing?

I don’t think I can feel my limbs anymore. I didn’t think this through. Suddenly, breaking the law in hopes of winning an art history essay contest sounds extraordinarily stupid. I absolutely do not want to suffer for my art. Or anyone else’s.

Alexandre presses his ear to the door. He gives his head a little shake. No sounds. I nod. He opens the door, and we step out. Then I realize that we’re on the third floor behind solid stone walls in a room with a thick wooden door, so we might not hear anyone enter from the courtyard on the ground level.

I sneak over to one of the tall windows, crouching down as low as I can. I peek over the sill. The police car is still there. Dammit. I motion for Alexandre to duck. He crouches on his tiptoes, not able to do the desi squat, and works his way over to me.

“The cop is still out there,” I whisper. Every muscle in my body goes taut. My rib cage tightens around my chest; I can’t breathe.

“Better than in here,” he whispers back. We watch the policeman walk the length of the building. He taps his baton against the iron bars on the lower windows. He pauses by the first set of building windows—the ones closest to the entry. The window we’re looking out of is the second set over, so I can catch an angled glimpse of his movements. He bends down and looks intently at the sidewalk.

“What’s he doing?” Alexandre asks.

I watch the cop pick up something off the ground and then tilt his head up. I draw back from the window. I’m hoping it’s too dark for him to see inside, especially from his angle.

“The paint,” I say, sucking in my breath. It’s suspicious. I don’t know what I’ll say or do if he comes in here. It’s France, though, so I probably don’t have to worry about getting shot.

“Huh?”

“When you used your knife to jimmy open the window, paint chips or, maybe, bits of plaster fell to the ground,” I whisper.

“Merde,” Alexandre mutters.

“You shut the window completely, though, right? Tell me it’s not cracked open.”

“No. No. I closed it. Definitely.”

We glance back out. The cop is at the door to the courtyard. It looks like he’s trying to open it, but no luck. He pushes against it with both palms. It’s secure. Right then, the door opens, and a woman steps out. She’s startled by the presence of the policeman. He apologizes, but I can’t make out the rest of the conversation. It looks like he’s asking her some questions. She shakes her head. He smiles and says something to make her laugh. After a brief conversation, he hands her his card. She takes it and says, “Bonne soirée” with a giggle. He watches her walk away and shakes his head. He pauses for a moment and shuts the hefty wooden door to the courtyard with a loud thud.

We watch as he climbs back into his car and speeds away.

I think we were saved by the art of French flirting.

I let out a breath. Alexandre takes my hand and we stand up. I’m dizzy. We look at each other. My face is probably pale from fear, and my fingers are cold as ice, but I burst out laughing. So does he.

“I wonder who called him?” I whisper as I get my nervous laugh under control.

“Probably someone with nothing better to do. Come on, I think we should get out of here in case he returns to do a more thorough job.”

“Hang on.” Before Alexandre or common sense can stop me, I stumble back to the buffet table. We only searched one drawer. I want to check the other one. This is