in my life, along with matching underwear.
“This place is amazing,” I told Mom, who’d also picked up some silky stuff for herself.
“Didn’t I tell you?” she said in her singsongy voice. “Do you know how much French women spend on lingerie?”
“Mother,” I hissed as we were getting on the escalator. “People can hear you.”
“Women in France spend twenty percent of their clothing budget on underwear,” she continued, undeterred. “Now do you understand why I told you to pack your worst bras and undies? I always do that when I come here. That way you can wear your old stuff once, throw it away, and replace it with prettier pieces.”
“Keep in mind I don’t have any underwear to throw away because I don’t have my bag, remember?”
“Well,” Mom said, pointing to my shopping bag filled with bras and matching underwear, “now you have some lovely new things to wear.”
We took the escalator down to the second floor, home of Mode Tendance, which I translated as cool clothes that were hipper than the designer stuff on the third floor.
Mom and I both found things we liked and retreated to side-by-side dressing rooms. I was trying on jeans with short, fitted jackets. I decided maybe in Madrid I’d wear a jacket with a camisole under it, if I could find one in Solange’s closet. Would that look cool or slutty? I wanted to wear something super Euro chic when I met Webb.
“Do you think Solange would let me borrow a scarf to wear with this?” I asked Mom, showing off my jeans, T-shirt, and linen jacket ensemble.
“Sure,” Mom said. “Turn around. That jacket looks great on you. Would you wear it back home?”
“Of course!” I insisted, unsure if I really would or not.
“Linen wrinkles like crazy,” Mom warned.
“Wrinkles are cool,” I claimed. “I could totally wear this to school next year. And I’ve got five hundred dollars coming from the airline, remember? For their luggage screwup?”
“Right,” she said. “We need to get you a nice pair of black slacks, too.”
“Black pants? Why?”
“Because you’re going to wear them with one of my white blouses when you help me serve at Solange’s exhibit opening.”
Whiskey tango foxtrot?
I tried not to freak visibly. “Actually—” I started to say.
“Stop using that word,” Mom snapped. “Just say what you want to say.”
“Okay,” I snapped back. “Here’s the thing: I don’t want to be your server in Madrid.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” Mom said firmly.
Oh, great. This means it’s a done deal in her darkened brain. I’m going to be forced to serve food at Solange’s stupid event in Madrid. Which means the only way I’ll be able to meet Webb will be at the damn event. And then he’ll see me in a dorky waitress outfit. This is NOT going to happen.
I had to switch gears quickly. I had to e-mail Webb and tell him this meeting thing wasn’t going to work out after all.
While Mom was on the ground level of Galeries Lafayette, shopping for makeup, I snuck up to the electronics department on the fourth floor and found a demo laptop with an Internet connection. I honestly planned to log on to my e-mail account and send Webb a message, suggesting we try to meet in St. Louis sometime in May. I was going to use “Meet Me in St. Louis?” as the subject line.
I wasn’t prepared for the e-mail I found waiting for me.
Fr: Webbn@com
To: CocoChi@com
Subject: Re: About your bag
My answer:
(h) fall madly in love.
Your move, Blouse Girl.
CHAPTER 19
Andrew
I had enough on my mind. I didn’t need to worry about Webb, too.
But after waiting two and a half hours for him, I gave up and walked back to the hotel. There I found my son, alone, in the business center, hypnotized by a computer screen. A half-eaten sandwich sat next to him on a grease-stained napkin.
I didn’t know whether to be relieved or angry. We were in Europe, for God’s sake. He should’ve been at the Prado, soaking up art. He
“This place is amazing,” I told Mom, who’d also picked up some silky stuff for herself.
“Didn’t I tell you?” she said in her singsongy voice. “Do you know how much French women spend on lingerie?”
“Mother,” I hissed as we were getting on the escalator. “People can hear you.”
“Women in France spend twenty percent of their clothing budget on underwear,” she continued, undeterred. “Now do you understand why I told you to pack your worst bras and undies? I always do that when I come here. That way you can wear your old stuff once, throw it away, and replace it with prettier pieces.”
“Keep in mind I don’t have any underwear to throw away because I don’t have my bag, remember?”
“Well,” Mom said, pointing to my shopping bag filled with bras and matching underwear, “now you have some lovely new things to wear.”
We took the escalator down to the second floor, home of Mode Tendance, which I translated as cool clothes that were hipper than the designer stuff on the third floor.
Mom and I both found things we liked and retreated to side-by-side dressing rooms. I was trying on jeans with short, fitted jackets. I decided maybe in Madrid I’d wear a jacket with a camisole under it, if I could find one in Solange’s closet. Would that look cool or slutty? I wanted to wear something super Euro chic when I met Webb.
“Do you think Solange would let me borrow a scarf to wear with this?” I asked Mom, showing off my jeans, T-shirt, and linen jacket ensemble.
“Sure,” Mom said. “Turn around. That jacket looks great on you. Would you wear it back home?”
“Of course!” I insisted, unsure if I really would or not.
“Linen wrinkles like crazy,” Mom warned.
“Wrinkles are cool,” I claimed. “I could totally wear this to school next year. And I’ve got five hundred dollars coming from the airline, remember? For their luggage screwup?”
“Right,” she said. “We need to get you a nice pair of black slacks, too.”
“Black pants? Why?”
“Because you’re going to wear them with one of my white blouses when you help me serve at Solange’s exhibit opening.”
Whiskey tango foxtrot?
I tried not to freak visibly. “Actually—” I started to say.
“Stop using that word,” Mom snapped. “Just say what you want to say.”
“Okay,” I snapped back. “Here’s the thing: I don’t want to be your server in Madrid.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” Mom said firmly.
Oh, great. This means it’s a done deal in her darkened brain. I’m going to be forced to serve food at Solange’s stupid event in Madrid. Which means the only way I’ll be able to meet Webb will be at the damn event. And then he’ll see me in a dorky waitress outfit. This is NOT going to happen.
I had to switch gears quickly. I had to e-mail Webb and tell him this meeting thing wasn’t going to work out after all.
While Mom was on the ground level of Galeries Lafayette, shopping for makeup, I snuck up to the electronics department on the fourth floor and found a demo laptop with an Internet connection. I honestly planned to log on to my e-mail account and send Webb a message, suggesting we try to meet in St. Louis sometime in May. I was going to use “Meet Me in St. Louis?” as the subject line.
I wasn’t prepared for the e-mail I found waiting for me.
Fr: Webbn@com
To: CocoChi@com
Subject: Re: About your bag
My answer:
(h) fall madly in love.
Your move, Blouse Girl.
CHAPTER 19
Andrew
I had enough on my mind. I didn’t need to worry about Webb, too.
But after waiting two and a half hours for him, I gave up and walked back to the hotel. There I found my son, alone, in the business center, hypnotized by a computer screen. A half-eaten sandwich sat next to him on a grease-stained napkin.
I didn’t know whether to be relieved or angry. We were in Europe, for God’s sake. He should’ve been at the Prado, soaking up art. He
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