U n place s’il vous plaît.”
One place, please. I double-checked my pronunciation before stepping up to the box office and sliding over my euros.The woman sel ing tickets
doesn’t blink, just rips my ticket in half and hands me the stub. I accept it graciously and stammer my thanks. Inside the theater, an usher examines my
stub. She tears it slightly, and I know from watching my friends that I’m supposed to give her a smal tip for this useless tradition. I touch the Canadian patch for luck, but I don’t need it. The handoff is easy.
I did it. I did it!
My relief is so profound that I hardly notice my feet carve their way into my favorite row. The theater is almost empty. Three girls around my age are in the back, and an elderly couple sits in front of me, sharing a box of candy. Some people are finicky about going to the theater alone, but I’m not. Because when the lights go down, the only relationship left in the room is the one between the movie and me.
I sink into the springy chair and lose myself in the previews. French commercials are interspersed between them, and I have fun trying to guess what
they’re for before the product is shown. Two men chase each other across the Great Wal of China to advertise clothing. A scantily clad woman rubs
herself against a quacking duck to sel furniture. A techno beat and a dancing silhouette want me to what? Go clubbing? Get drunk?
I have no idea.
And then Mr. Smith Goes to Washington begins. James Stewart plays a naive, idealistic man sent into the Senate, where everyone believes they can
take advantage of him. They think he’l fail and be driven out, but Stewart shows them all. He’s stronger than they gave him credit for, stronger than they are. I like it.
I think about Josh. I wonder what kind of senator his father is.
The dialogue is translated across the bottom of the screen in yel ow. The theater is silent, respectful, until the first gag. The Parisians and I laugh
together. Two hours speed by, and then I’m blinking in a streetlamp, lost in a comfortable daze, thinking about what I might see tomorrow.
“Going to the movies again tonight?” Dave checks my page number and flips his French textbook open to the chapter about family. As usual, we’ve
paired up for an exercise in conversational skil s.
“Yup. The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. You know, to get into the holiday spirit.” Hal oween is this weekend, but I haven’t seen any decorations here.
That must be an American thing.
“The original or the remake?” Professeur Gil et marches past our desks and Dave quickly adds, “Je te présente ma famille. Jean-Pierre est ... l’oncle.”
“Um. What?”
“Quoi, ” Professeur Gil et corrects. I expect her to linger, but she moves on. Phew.
“Original, of course.” But I’m impressed he knew it was remade.
“That’s funny, I wouldn’t have taken you for a horror fan.”
“Why not?” I bristle at the implication. “I appreciate any well -made film.”
“Yeah, but most girls are squeamish about that sort of thing.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” My voice rises, and Madame Guil otine jerks her head up from across the room. “Marc est mon ... frère,” I say,
glancing down at the first French word I see. Brother. Marc is my brother. Whoops. Sorry, Sean.
Dave scratches his freckled nose. “You know. The chick suggests a horror movie to her boyfriend so she can get all scared and cling onto him.”
I groan. “Please. I’ve seen just as many scared boyfriends leave halfway through a movie as scared girlfriends—”