Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“What is she doing?” Katarina asks me in a quiet voice. “Is she . . . rapping?”
“She’s trying?” I reply just as quietly, not that Molly would notice. She keeps going, adding in some hip shaking with her singing. It’s . . . a hundred percent Molly, to be honest. She’s the least hip-hop person I know outside of myself, but she’s going at it a hundred percent, never doing anything half-ass.
And now she’s putting her whole ass in it . . . literally. She starts twerking in a way that reminds me of Tina on Bob’s Burgers. But Molly seems certain that her moves are worthy of a Twerk 25K contest win.
Laughing, I gather Molly in my arms, pushing her out of the store and down the sidewalk, waving an apology toward the store manager. She says something in French, but it ends with ‘American’ so I don’t think it was complimentary.
We keep going, checking out the people as much as the shops and boutiques. While it’s interesting to see the displays in the windows of such shops like Hermes, Versace, or Saint Laurent along Rue Saint-Honoré, I have more fun and find more inspiration in the streets full of people. Still, we wander in and out of shops, sampling perfumes, fondling luxury lingerie at La Perla, and soaking in so much art that my brain buzzes.
“Photo time!” Yori calls out suddenly. “Group photo!”
“You have got to be . . . ah, what the hell,” Katarina says. “How do we do this?”
Beatrice comes to the rescue, talking a shop worker into taking photos of us with our cell phones while we pose in front of a store window with a dinosaur skeleton holding a purse. I’m not sure of the connection, but it looks fun at least. I kneel in front, smiling, so I miss most of the other girls’ poses, but when I get my phone back, I have to laugh.
Of course, Molly would be sticking her hand up in a rock n’ roll devil horns pose, her tongue hanging out. And Yori’s perfect with one leg kicked out, her fingers up in a peace sign, while between them Katarina holds her hands over her head like an invisible crown, and Beatrice does a near perfect imitation of the Breakfast at Tiffany’s pose. All she’s missing is the cigarette holder. And I’m simply cheese-smiling in the middle, which ironically seems equally silly when you put all of us together.
Afterward, we pile in taxis and go to Saint-Ouen to browse the famous flea market there. Molly finagles for me and her to share the second cab, and as soon as the driver pulls away, she pins me with a look of expectation. “You gonna tell me what’s up?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, and Molly snorts.
“Girl, you’re in la-la land that has nada to do with Paris. You’re walking along, smiling at nothing and shit.” She mimics what I supposedly look like today, but surely, I haven’t been that obvious. She makes it seem like I’m wandering the streets of Paris looking like a blissfully drunk raccoon grabbing at the air with tiny hands. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you got your back blown out by some top-notch dick.”
“What?” I shriek, cutting my eyes toward the cab driver who is definitely listening to us now. “My back feels fine,” I reply, and it’s true. My back feels great. My pussy is sore, sure. But in a good way. “I’m just excited about the competition and the day out of the workroom.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Her hum says she doesn’t believe one word of what I’m saying.
The truth is I don’t know what to tell Molly. I feel like I’ve developed some serious feelings for Simon after just two dates, and I don’t know how to deal with it. I want to do my best in the competition, but if I tell the other designers, I have no doubt that their next stop will be Jacqueline’s office and I’ll be removed from the contest.
I don’t want that.
But I do want Simon. And the competition.
Can’t I have both?
I know that makes me a greedy bitch, but this whole thing is almost too good to be true, so why not go for everything? Go whole hog, as my Grandma Daisy would say.
“I’m just . . . happy,” I tell Molly. “You know, excited?”
“Suuure,” Molly drawls out, not offended by my secrecy. “Look, all I’m going to say is good luck. And when you want to tell me all the nitty, gritty, dirty, French details, I’ll be happy to listen.”
“Thanks, Mol.”
“It’s what friends are for.”
When we get to the flea market, we stick together since Beatrice tells us that pickpockets tend to roam the narrow walking spaces between the stalls that make up the fifteen ‘markets’ that comprise the entire area.