Chapters (45)
- Cover
- Blame Iton Paris
- Copyright Notice
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Book One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Book Two
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
Adela was one of the Spanish students living in the Maison du Canada. The Canadian house and the Collège d’Espagne had a system of exchange to fulfill Cité U requirements that 30 percent of any house’s students be from some country other than the host one. Adela had frizzy dark hair, brown eyes, and dominant eyebrows. She had only moved from Seville to Paris to study European law a few months ago, and she had already gotten into yelling matches with every single one of her professors. She also had a weird flaw, which I blamed on her culture: she actually thought that if you saw somebody cute, you should attempt a relationship. “Just ask him out,” she repeated, staring at the exquisite Fauchon tarts. “It’s not that hard.”
“Adela, are you nuts? You’ve seen him! He’s gorgeous! People like me don’t date people like him. We watch them from a distance.”
Adela gave me an incredulous look and refocused on a chocolate-glazed tart with a gold F in the center of it.
“You can get hurt going out with cute guys, Adela. You know that.”
Adela pressed her nose against the elegant window, trying to peer deeper into the store.
“Besides,” I said. I was basically engaging in a monologue with no audience at this point, I could tell. So I might as well express myself. “Men are just heavy. Sure, they look cute, but then they land on you like a two-ton anchor, and your bright little ship that could sail to any horizon gets battle-chained to a good school district and a job with benefits. And then you’re stuffing your three kids into an SUV and taking trips to Disneyland.”
Adela pulled her face back from the window, leaving a large smudge on its glistening surface, and stared at me.
“I’m not kidding,” I protested. “It happened to all my school friends. And you can’t tell me the French don’t have their equivalent, only with small, environmentally sound diesels and an annual beach vacation rental in Normandy.”
“You people really drive SUVs? It’s not just in the movies? Well, what should I expect from people who won’t sign the Kyoto Treaty.” Adela pushed through the door to Fauchon’s confiserie/patisserie section, past the massive security guard clad in Armani. I slanted a second glance over his elegant suit. Surely that wasn’t really Armani. What did I know from Armani, anyway?