Lucky Break (3 page)

Today, when I crossed Lexington Avenue toward Orsay's outside patio lined with overflowing planters, I decided to pass on the frog legs. It was one of those rare sunny mid-March afternoons in Manhattan, where there was
almost
a hint of warmth in the air, and my plan was to celebrate the advent of spring with the famous Orsay spring salad, topped with a crusty roulette of sautéed goat cheese.

Feb was seated with her back to Lexington, but I could still spot her a mile away. Her massive black Dior sunglasses were perched atop her head, and she was typing madly on her BlackBerry (a trait I know she must have inherited from my father). Even though Feb had “gone granola” (as Patch liked to say)
when she met her boyfriend, Kelly, a few months ago, there were still a couple things from her former city life that she hadn't given up.

“Bonjour, Feb,” I said, kissing her high cheekbone as the black-suited waiter pulled out my chair.

“Coo-coo,
chérie
,” Feb said, turning her face to accept my kiss without even looking up from her PDA screen. “Two minutes and I'm all yours.”

“Can I get you something to drink, mademoiselle?” the waiter asked me, his pad and pen at the ready.

“How about a cappuccino?” I said.

Feb's head shot up. “Uh-uh.” She shook her finger at me. “Cappuccino is for
after
the meal, to be drunk slowly, over dessert.”

“Feb, I only have fifty-five minutes before I have to be back for chemistry. I don't know about all these courses—”

“Flan.” She sighed. “You'll be in Paris in two days. You really need to start adjusting your relationship with time. The French would never confine a good meal to a time-crunch just because of some boring class.” She turned to the waiter. “She'll start with a Pellegrino now, and cappuccino later.”

I looked at the waiter, whose shrug told me that my sister spoke the truth about the French rules and orders of beverage consumption.

I shrugged back. You didn't have to ask me to twice to skip chemistry. Slowly enjoying my cappuccino over dessert it was!

“So,” she said, finally putting down her BlackBerry. “All packed up?”

For my sister, who, like the rest of my family, never really stayed anywhere long enough to
un
pack, being “all packed up” was pretty much just her general state of affairs. For me, however, who
hated
to pack (how was I supposed to know what I'd feel like wearing six days from now?), packing was almost always put off until the very last minute.

I shook my head meekly, knowing what was coming from my occasionally tyrannical big sister.

Feb stared at me. “Well, have you done
anything
to prepare? Do you have your adapter and your passport ready? Do you even know what the weather is going to be like over there? It sounds like you need help getting organized.” She sighed. “Do I need to lend you Lena and Laura for the day?”

“Hey,” I said. “Give me a little credit. Didn't you hear my presentation last night at dinner?” For an off-the-cuff speech, I thought I'd presented my plans very well. Why was Feb giving me such a hard time?

“Sorry,” she said, “I had to step out at dinner to take a call from Kelly. He's all worked up about the
water level in the rice paddies in Bangkok. The monsoons have been underwhelming this season.” She paused. “Sorry, boring. Anyway, I had to talk him off the ledge. Why don't you give me a refresher course?”

I sighed, heaving the GPA binder out yet again. Feb's eyes widened when she saw the size of it, but they lit up when I started flipping through the pages. She nodded approvingly at the image printouts of our matching flats on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, and the Métro route I'd already mapped out for us to take to the Champs-Elysées.

“
Magnifique
.” She clapped when I'd finished. “Well, I guess I should eat my words—after I finish these oysters. You've really got a handle on your little Parisian adventure.”

“
Golden
Parisian Adventure,” I corrected, as the waiter set down our main course.

Feb gave me a mischievous smile and waved a sheet of paper in the air. “Then I guess you don't even need the list of tips that Jade Moodswing and I prepared for you—”

“Hey, let me see that!” I threw down my fork. The goat cheese could wait—I definitely wanted in on the latest Parisian scoop from Feb and Jade.

“Okay, good,” Feb said, sounding happy to be needed again. “Keep that binder handy so you can
take notes. You must, must, must go to Café du Marché on rue Cler for lunch; then there's Angelina's after the Louvre for hot chocolate, and of course Aubergine for the fizziest juices you've ever tasted.” She looked up from her list. “Can Alex dance?”

“That's like asking if the French make wine,” I said, remembering when Alex had hired a private tango instructor for us on Valentine's Day—and proceeded to put me to shame with his moves. “The boy practically invented it.”

“Good.” Feb nodded. “Then you'll go to Étoile. It gets really good after about three a.m.” She looked wistful for a second. “God, I miss Paris,” she said. Then she shook her head and the nostalgia seemed to vanish. “You're just going to have to go all out so I can live vicariously through you, okay?”

“Promise,” I said. With these tips from Feb, there was little chance of our crew
not
going all out. I couldn't wait to pass along these latest itinerary additions to my friends.

“What else do I need to know?” I asked. “I've already been warned about my embarrassing tendency to prematurely order cappuccino. And I texted Jade yesterday to get her French thumbs-up on a pair of sandals that my friend Amory just bought at Bendel's—”

“Perfect.” Feb nodded. “I was just getting to fashion. Now, I haven't been to Paris in at least three weeks, so I did have to lean on Jade a little bit more in that department. French restaurants are timeless—not at all like New York—but
like
New York, the look on the street changes every day.” She consulted her list. “Here's what Jade says everyone is wearing, as of three-fifteen Paris time today: cigarette pants with billowy shirts and tiny men's vests. You could do plaid, or cable knit, or even argyle.” She read down the list from Jade. “Nighttime is another story—everything has gone up, up, up in formality. You're going to need some gowns.”

All the advice from Feb and Jade was priceless, but it was also starting to make me a feel a little frantic. We were leaving tomorrow—was I supposed to tell all my friends to run out and buy argyle vests tonight?

“Okay,” Feb said. “I can see from the way you're biting that little bottom lip of yours that you're freaking.”

I grimaced—Feb had an uncanny way of reading me.

“
N'inquiétes pas, ma soeur
,” she assured me. “Jade Moodswing has graciously insisted that you bring your friends to her atelier after you sleep off the jet lag. She'll outfit you with the latest fashions. That way, you won't even be one day out of style.”

My eyes widened and I gripped Feb's hand across the table.

“Bring the boys too.” She shrugged. “You know she's just starting to branch into menswear. She'll be happy for a few studly American models. Okay, Flan,” she said. “I know you're excited, but you're going to have to stop waving my hand in the air like that. People are starting to stare.”

Whoops. I hadn't realized that my enthusiasm was causing such a scene. If Feb thought
I
was energetic, she should be there when I told my friends we'd be making a cameo at a real-life French atelier.

The waiter came by to clear our plates and said, “You still want the cappuccino, mademoiselle? Or maybe you have already had enough caffeine
aujourd'hui
?”

Feb laughed under her breath, and when I insisted that I could handle the caffeine without another embarrassing outburst of energy, we ordered the chocolate soufflé so that our savoring could linger on a little longer.

So what if it was halfway through my next class already? When you were getting too-rare bonding time and travel tips from your big sister, who cared about the periodic table?

“Thanks, Feb,” I said. “I know you're busy with your Thailand planning, and—”

“Please.” Feb waved her hand dismissively, never one to get too mushy. “Don't flatter me. I feel like I should do more. I mean, it's your first time in Paris with your boyfriend.” She grinned. “Which reminds me. I've given you fashion advice, and I've given you restaurant suggestions.” She tapped her finger to her temple. “What else am I forgetting? My little sister's going to the romance capital of the world—voilà!” she said dramatically. “You must need some romance advice,
oui
?”

“
Non
.” I grinned, crossing my arms over my chest and trying to look coyly French. “Luckily, things with Alex are so great, romance is the one area I definitely don't need any advice!”

Paging Ms. Flannery Flood to Women's Sportswear. Ms. Flannery Flood,” the Saks Fifth Avenue intercom boomed. I'd just spun through the doors on the ground floor of the bustling department store for a shopping date with my best friend/teen starlet, Sara-Beth Benny. Both of us needed some last-minute pre–spring break essentials.

Apparently, much of Manhattan had the same idea. The cosmetics department was jammed with girls and women of all ages and credit limits, suddenly in need of SPF foundation, skin-firming body lotion, and shimmery beach-proof lip gloss. Walking through all the commotion, I was relieved to have much of the shopping pressure lifted off my shoulders by Jade Moodswing's gracious offer to provide some fabulous Frenchie clothes. But from the tone of
SBB's thirteen texts since lunch—and the urgent intercom summons—my movie star friend was in an altogether different state.

SBB had just gotten the lead in an as-yet-untitled megablockbuster, but she'd been hesitant to spill any of the details. Until the official press release went out, the film was
so
under wraps that SBB was sure her phone was being tapped by the rampant paparazzi. She insisted on waiting until we met in person to fill me in, only stressing cryptically that the part was going to be “a real growing experience” for her.

The elevator spit me out on the fifth floor just as the intercom clicked on again and I heard the beginning of my page: “Ms. Flannery Flood to the—”

“Here I am,” I called loudly at the speaker on the ceiling, earning confused looks from a few nearby shoppers. “I'm coming as fast as I—”

“You're Flannery Flood.” A sales assistant grabbed my wrist. She was pretty, with dark skin and bright pink lipstick, but underneath the expensively made-up face, there was worry. “You've got to hurry.”

I was used to SBB's little shopping freak-outs—we'd done calming yogic breathing sessions in most of the dressing rooms in Manhattan—so I had to laugh at this girl's panic. But I let her pull me toward
the back of the floor where I could already vaguely hear the shrieks of my high-strung friend.

When the sales assistant zipped me past the Marc Jacobs dressing room, where SBB liked to try on clothes because it offered the most privacy and best mirrors, I paused.

“She's not in there?” I pointed. “That's her usual—”

“Keep going,” she ordered, pulling me all the way back toward the windows looking down on Fifth Avenue. What were we doing in the athletic-wear section?

“She's in there,” the salesgirl said, but by then, I'd already heard the telltale thumps of SBB wreaking havoc on the dressing room. I nodded thanks at my escort and stepped cautiously inside the danger zone.

SBB was drowning in a sea of Stella McCartney running pants, zip-up Juicy sweatshirts, and high-end spandex. She was wearing leggings and a sports bra that looked like they were made out of titanium alloy.

“And what are you wearing, Ms. Benny?” I stepped forward, dramatically mimicking a red-carpet interviewer with a microphone. “Don't tell me—was that outfit designed by … NASA?”

SBB crossed her arms over her chest. “You are the
only person on the
planet
I could forgive for making a joke at a time like this.”

“With that outfit,” I said, “you could probably go into orbit and make friends with a few comedians on other planets.”

Finally, I got a tiny smile out of my tiny friend. “Thank God you're here.” She sighed.

“Where's Shay?” I asked. Shay was SBB's personal shopper. She had a tough, no-nonsense exterior that had sent more than a few shopgirls running for the hills, but when they weren't catfighting, Shay and SBB worked really well together. I assumed in a fashion emergency such as this one—whatever it was—SBB would already have called in all the reinforcements on her contacts list.

SBB shook her head. “That big-mouthed know-it-all couldn't keep her piehole shut long enough to make it out of this store. I can't trust her with something like
this
.” She turned around and pointed to the series of clasps on the sports bra. “Now help me get out of this trap.”

“Only if you finally tell me what this is all about,” I said, freeing her from the aerodynamically designed athletic wear.

When she was comfortably changed into a loose-fitting gray Theory tank and pajama pants, SBB
took a good look around the dressing room, got up on a step stool to turn off a camera over our heads—“in case anyone at the security desk can read lips”—and motioned for me to sit down next to her.

I pushed aside the mountain of tracksuits and took a seat.

“Okay, formalities first: pinky swear your lips are sealed. I mean, I know you're good for it, but—”