In the Bag (11 page)
“The problem is solved,” Solange reported. “Coco will stay in bed and get better. You will call Coco from Madrid every four hours. She has music, DVDs, TV, and a refrigerator full of food.”
“But—” I objected.
“You will leave Paris tomorrow morning and be back the next morning,” Solange reminded me.
“That’s a whole day,” I said.
“D’accord,” Solange said. “And Coco will be in
bed.
If she starts to feel worse, I will have my doctor go and look at her.”
“Doctors make house calls in Paris?” I asked.
Coco lifted her head. “Of course they do, Mom. Didn’t I tell you to see
Sicko
?”
Her superior tone coupled with her ability to keep a running tally of my flaws convinced me that she was already on the road to recovery.
“Daisy, you have the best daughter in the universe,” Solange was saying. “You can trust her to stay in my apartment for twenty-some hours, for God’s sake.”
“D’accord,” I said. “I
do
have a great kid.”
Coco looked at me and smiled.
So I agreed to keep my commitment to Solange. And part of me—that secret part I really and truly don’t like very much—was grateful to have an excuse to spend some time on my own away from my perfect kid, whose only fault was that, at times, she reminded me exactly of me.
I
didn’t sleep much that night. Could’ve been the paella, but more likely I was stressing about meeting Coco.
Somewhere around 2:00 a.m., when I was sure Dad was zonked, I got out of bed and pulled on my jeans and a shirt. I grabbed a room key and went downstairs to the business center to check e-mail.
Nothing from Coco, so I read some of the other messages I’d been ignoring the last few days. They were all from friends at school.
Fr: Archboy@com
To: Webbn@com
Subject: Wassup???
hey wassup someone said yr in costa ricka or russhia or s/ware izzat right well b cool and stay safe you missed a bitchin party last pm at gavin’s house no parents + lotsa beer + laaaadies
Fr: Methatswho@com
To: Webbn@com
Subject: w/r r u?
Attached: You gottta hear this!
hey webbmaster. didnt c u @ G’s party and yr not r/trnin my t/msgs or calls u ok? g’s party was awsumest of the year open this file. u wont bleeve yr ears
I clicked on the attachment and was treated to the sound of farts performing the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.
I hit
CANCEL
and closed the file. I decided to reread Coco’s messages instead.
It wasn’t my imagination. She
was
different. Unlike my friends, she sounded alive. Awake. She was funny, which meant she was also smart. And she was polite, which meant she was also nice. Best of all, she seemed to like me. Me! ME! ME!!! Which, I admit, made me like
her
even more.
I decided to reread the messages I’d sent her. Hell, I didn’t sound half bad myself. But it was easy to sound good in e-mail, especially if you were operating under the assumption that the person you were writing to liked you.
Was
that
how it worked? You just find someone and agree to like each other—and then take it from there? Jesus H. Christ. This was so much more fun than wandering around like a pack of wolves with my dumbass guy friends who lived in the hopes of hooking up with a pack of willing she-wolves—preferably she-wolves with big boobs. It wasn’t even fun. It was boring and depressing.
This
was fun. Coco was fun.
Thinking about her made me feel strangely energized, so I went for a walk. It was pitch-dark, but the city was still wide awake. Cabs raced past the hotel. A couple kissed on the hotel steps, the girl folded into the guy’s arms.
How did people learn to do these things? And why weren’t there classes at school for stuff like this—the stuff kids really
wanted
to learn? Kissing seemed so natural for this couple. I wanted to watch them more closely but, Christ, I didn’t want to stare. So I kept walking.
I crossed the street to a narrow, tree-lined park that ran the length of Paseo del Prado. A group of sketchy-looking guys had a card table set up with stuff on it. They yelled something to me in Spanish, which I didn’t catch. Probably for the best. Then they were waving something at me. One of the guys had matches. Were they selling drugs? The matches guy was lighting something.
Oh, sparklers.
They were selling sparklers!
I hadn’t thought about sparklers in forever. My dad used to put sparklers on my birthday cake every year. We also lit them on New Year’s Eve. Dad had home movies of me running around in my Indiana Jones pajamas at midnight, holding sparklers over my head and squealing.
Matches Guy was saying something to me. “Para tí, cinco euros.” He was waving a handful of five sparklers at me.
Five sparklers for five euros? That seemed reasonable. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a five-euro bill. Matches Guy took the money and handed me four sparklers.
“Uno más,” I said, pretty sure that was Spanish for
one more
.
They laughed and pretended not to understand me—or the fact that I knew I’d just been rooked one sparkler.
I should’ve moved on. I should’ve known better than to try to be a tough guy with them. Judging from their business hours and retail space, they were marginal characters with thuggish leanings. But I wanted my fifth sparkler, dammit.
“Five for five,” I said. “Cinco por cinco.”
They suddenly stopped laughing.
“¿Qué dijó?” Matches Guy asked.
“Cinco por cinco,” I said again.
The guys looked at one another and took off running, leaving their card table and sparklers behind.
I helped myself to a sparkler—I
had
paid for it, after all—and kept walking.
Sparklers.
This was perfect. I’d take them to Paris and give them to Coco when I met her at the train station.
Or maybe I’d keep them with me and light one after we kissed for the first time. And if there was other stuff to follow, well, I’d light a sparkler to commemorate that. I wouldn’t have to tell her it was my first time. Or maybe I would. She sounded like a girl who’d be cool with that. I’d just have to play it by ear.
I walked back to the hotel and took the stairs up to our fourth-floor room. I opened the door quietly, careful not to wake Dad. He was out cold. After slipping the sparklers inside my (or, really Coco’s) duffel bag, I lay in bed wide awake until the sun came up. I was equal parts exhausted and excited.
This is what New Year’s Eve used to feel like,
I thought, impatient as an eight-year-old boy for the day to begin.
I
thought Mom would
never
leave.
And I really
did
feel crummy that the very last thing I’d said to her, after she asked for the five-hundredth time if I was okay with her leaving was:
Mother, I cannot get better with you hovering over me like this!
Honestly, I wanted to strangle myself when I said stuff like that to her. But it was almost like I couldn’t help it. My bratty, eight-year-old self was always more verbal than my trying-to-be-nice eighteen-year-old self. I knew I was überstressing about meeting Webb and taking it out on Mom. But of course I couldn’t tell
her
that.
When she was finally gone, I threw on some clothes and ran down to the Internet place. My fingers flew across the keyboard.
Fr: CocoChi@com
To: Webbn@com
Subject: Strangers on a Train Platform
Spidey!
My mom just left. Believe it or not, I really DID get sick, but I’m feeling much better now. Think I was just nervous. (You too?) Anyway, I’ll meet you tonight. Just tell me which station and I’ll be there, OK?
Blouse Girl
P.S. I’ll wear an article of your clothing for easy identification.
I waited. Was it possible he’d given up on me? Or maybe he’d chickened out. Before I could consider other possibilities, I had a new message.
Fr: Webbn@com
To: CocoChi@com
Subject: Re: Strangers on a Train Platform
Thanks for coming up with a title for our little scheme. And please don’t worry yourself sick. I’m the most harmless guy you (don’t) know.
Leaving here pronto. I’ll bring your bag. I like the idea of you wearing something of mine. I’ll wear something of yours, too. We’ll switch clothes in some dramatic and Hitchcockian way.
Station = Gare de Lyon. See you there at 10:41 pm.
Love,
Spidey
Oh my God. There it was again:
Love.
Suddenly I felt sick to my stomach—again.
Switch clothes in some dramatic and Hitchcockian way
? Was he suggesting we
strip
each other like in a creepy porn flick?
I read the message again.
Our little scheme
? Did he think we were going to have sex?
Then I quickly reread all of his messages, searching for clues. They were everywhere.
(h) fall madly in love . . . I haven’t done it, either. But I’m ready . . . Try, Blousey. That’s all I can ask. Mr. Hitchcock is rooting for us.
Shit. He definitely wanted to have sex.
Okay, granted, having sex was on my to-do list before I left for college. I definitely did not want to be the only girl in the freshman class at Washington University who
hadn’t
done it. And maybe the first time would be easier with someone you never had to see again. Maybe this was perfect!
Okay, it was perfect. So why was I completely freaked?
Because I didn’t even know this guy. What was I thinking? Why were we moving so fast? And what about birth control? Someone was going to have to bring that up. I hoped it didn’t have to be me. I mean, I
could.
And I would if I absolutely
had
to. My mother had been harping on the importance of safe sex since I was six years old. But she’d neglected to tell me the most important part:
Who brings the condoms—the girl or the guy?
When I got back to the apartment, I plugged in the electric kettle for tea. While the water was heating up, I flipped through my Paris guidebooks in a frenzy. I knew I’d seen something in one of the books about buying condoms in Paris. Where was it? Shit!
Where the hell was it?!
Oh, here:
The only place to buy condoms in Paris is at a pharmacy.
Webb’s train wasn’t scheduled to arrive until late.
Would pharmacies still be open then? Should I go out and buy some condoms now—just in case?
Oh, God. I was starting to work myself up into a full-blown panic attack. If I got hives on top of this, I’d kill myself.