Paris Cravings: A Paris & Pastry Novel by Kimberley Montpetit

figure out how I’m going to get to a clothing store in a borrowed nightgown. Mrs. Dupré and I are not the same size by a long shot. I turn on my newly charged cell phone and punch the speed dial number for home.
    It rings and rings without any answer. I look at my watch again and count backward six hours. Mom should be home. What if someone from the tour called her and she collapsed into hysterics when she learned I’m missing? My mother might be anal about rules and standards, but she’s also high-strung, and I can’t help worrying about her. I should have called this morning right after my accident, but it was the middle of the night and I didn’t want to wake her.
    Quickly, I dial Mathew’s number even though it’s early on a Saturday morning for him. His mother answers. A live person at last, someone I know. Sort of. I’ve never had a real conversation with Mathew’s parents. I never know what to say to them. When I go to Mathew’s apartment, his mother and father are usually having drinks with their television and newspaper, only talking when absolutely necessary. Like, “Pass me the sports section, Jane,” or “I can’t get the remote to work, Harry.”
    I think Mrs. Perotti was, like, forty-five when she gave birth to Mathew so when I say he has older parents, I mean old . Having ancient parents does have its advantages, though. Mathew often gets free rein to do whatever he wants because his parents are too occupied being retired.
    It’s not because they want to be “cool” parents, but because they’re just too tired. They rarely ask him where he’s going or what he’s doing, and they don’t care if he takes girls into his bedroom. My mom had a fit when she found out and told me I’d be grounded for the rest of my life if I ever do it again, even if all we did was sit on the floor and look at his CD collection. Well, that’s not exactly true, either. We did a lot of kissing, and Mathew wanted to shut the door and do more than just kissing, but I felt really weird with his parents in the next room watching the History Channel.
    “Oh, hi, Mrs. Perotti,” I say now, trying to sound light and happy, as if getting stuck in Paris is totally no big deal. “It’s Chloe calling from Paris— Bon-jour !”
    “Chloe—you mean Chloe Dillard?” Her voice even sounds old-lady-ish. “Did I hear you right? You’re still in Paris? I thought Mathew said you were coming home today.”
    “With the flight and time difference, I’ll actually be home Monday. At the moment I’m a little stuck. See, I had an accident—”
    “Oh my, what happened?”
    “Nothing serious, but I missed my tour bus and well, I just wanted to talk to Matthew. Have you heard anything? Like from my mom?”
    I have no idea why I’m asking her that. Our mothers do not chat.
    “Heard what?”
    I’m feeling stupid now.
    Mrs. Perotti lets out a little gasp. “Oh, yes, Mathew said he tried to call you, but your phone was off. I don’t understand why you would miss your flight, Chloe.” Her voice becomes very pointed. “You haven’t run away from home, have you?”
    “Of course not,” I protest, but the words sound hollow to my own ears. How did she guess? And I haven’t missed my flight yet.
    “I’m listening,” Mrs. Perotti says, as if she just tuned in.
    “I just missed the bus . Not the flight. And I broke my ankle.” Breaking my ankle is a huge exaggeration, but I can’t help wanting to elicit sympathy. I rotate my toes and realize that my foot is actually feeling a bit better.
    Mrs. Perotti starts making worried noises. “How did that happen? Have you seen a doctor?”
    “A very nice family has been helping me. I’m completely fine and I’m going to come home as soon as I can. Um, could you get Mathew for me? I’d like to talk to him.”
    “I’m afraid that’s impossible. He’s still in bed.”
    “Oh.” I don’t know what to say. Mathew’s mother doesn’t offer to wake him up for me, and it feels