Louis And The French Kiss

2

I feel it coming, but I can't stop it.

PANIC.

They left me. My parents actually left me! IN FRANCE!

Meanwhile, Paris is oddly silent. Even the opera singer has packed it in for the night. I cannot lose it. The walls here are thinner than Band-Aids, so if I break down, my neighbors-my new classmates-wil hear everything and think i'm some weak guy. I'm going to be sick. I'm going to vomit that weird eggplant tapenade I had for dinner, and everyone will hear, and no one will invite me to watch the mimes escape from their invisible boxes, or whatever it is people do here in their spare time.

I race to my pedestal sink to splash water on my face, but it explodes out and sprays my shirt instead. And now I'm crying harder, because I haven't unpacked my towels, and wet clothing reminds me of those stupid water rides Liam and Jackie used to drag me on at Six Flags where the water is the wrong color and it smells like paint and it has a billion trillion bacterial microbes in it. Oh God. What if there are bacterial microbes in the water? Is French water even safe to drink?

Pathetic. I'm pathetic.

How many seventeen-year-olds would kill to leave home? My neighbors aren't experiencing any meltdowns. No crying coming from behind their bedroom walls. I grab a shirt off the bed to blot myself dry, when the solution strikes. My pillow. I collapse face-first into the sound barrier and sob and sob and sob. There goes my dignity.

Someone is knocking on my door.

No. Surely that's not my door.

There it is again!

"Hello?" a guy calls from the hallway. "Hello? Are you okay?"

No, I'm not okay. GO AWAY. But he calls again, and I'm obligated to crawl off my bed and answer the door. A blonde waits on the other side. He's taller than me and looks like he works out.

"Are you all right?" His voice is gentle.

"I'm Niall; I live next door. Were those your parents who just left?"

My puffy eyes signal the affirmative.

"I cried the first night, too. Everyone does" he tilts her head, thinks for a moment, and then nods. "Come on. Chocolat chaud. "

"A chocolate show?" Why would I want to see a chocolate show? My mother has abandoned me and I'm terrified to leave my room and-

"No." he smiles. "Chaud. Hot. Hot chocolate, I can make some in my room."

Oh.

Despite myself, I follow. Meredith stops me with her hand like a crossing guard. She's wearing rings on all five fingers. Why do girls do that?

"Don't forget your key. The doors automatically lock behind you."

"I know." And I tug the necklace out from underneath my shirt to prove it. I slipped my key onto it during this weekend's required Life Skills Seminars for new students, when they told us how easy it is to get locked out.

We enter his room. I gasp. It's the same impossible size as mine, seven by ten feet, with the same mini-desk, mini-dresser, mini-bed, mini-fridge, mini-sink, and mini-shower. (No mini-toilet, those are shared down the hall .) But . . . unlike my own sterile cage, every inch of wall and ceiling is covered with posters and pictures and shiny wrapping paper and brightly colored flyers written in French.

"How long have you been here?" I ask.

Niall hands me a tissue and I blow my nose, a terrible honk like an angry goose, but he doesn't flinch or make a face. "I arrived yesterday. This is my fourth year here, so I didn't have to go to the seminars. I flew in alone, so I've just been hanging out, waiting for my friends to show up." he looks around with his hands on her hips, admiring his handiwork. I spot a pile of magazines, scissors, and tape on his floor and realize it's a work in progress.