A Phantom Enchantment (12 page)

I bit my lip, feeling nervous and shy. My head felt swimmy. “Not yet.”

He smiled a little. “Sometimes you've got to make your own luck.” Then he leaned down toward me, his lips barely grazing mine. The brush of his lips made my cheeks flush. I felt so lightheaded my eyelids seemed to flutter.

He kept his face close but didn't kiss me. He wanted me to be the one to initiate. He wanted me to want more.

And I did. At that moment, I wanted a lot more. But I felt this dark presence looming over us, watching us. And I couldn't bring myself to kiss him. It wasn't the right time. I had to put things to rest with Gray before I could move on with somebody new. I owed that to his memory.

As difficult as it was not to press my body into Owen's and kiss him hard on the mouth, I drew away. “Owen—”

“Stop,” he said. “I know what you're going to say. You don't think of me that way. You just want to be—”

“No!” I said. “Owen, believe me, I want to. So much. It's just . . . complicated. With Gray.”

“I'm sorry.”

“You've got nothing to apologize for,” I said. “I want to be fair to you. And right now, I'm afraid there would still be . . . Gray's ghost between us.”

“I know,” he said. “I can feel that you're not entirely here with me. Part of you is somewhere else.”

I frowned because I knew he was right. “Owen, I want you to know that as much as I value your friendship, I could see you and me together someday. As . . . something more.”

“Really?”

I nodded, smiling. “Really.”

We resisted the urge to continue where we'd left off and headed back to the room. Owen pouted as I crawled into bed beside Flynn. I rolled my eyes, reassuring him that nothing would ever happen between me and Flynn again. He flashed me a boyish grin that could very well have kept me smiling for days.

If we hadn't had to go back to Paris the next morning.

Because when I got back to my room at school and sat down to unpack my things, I realized that at some point in all that traipsing around Arles, I had lost Gray's scorpion necklace.

C
HAPTER
13

T
he first thought that ran through my head was,
Gray is going to kill me
. I knew that was ludicrous because Gray was dead. But I feared him anyway.

Over the next few days, I spent more and more time out of my room, finding any excuse to study at the library or in a café or sometimes at Owen and Flynn's hostel. Midterm exams were coming, and even though my transcripts had already been sent to colleges, I wanted to do well here to prove to my father that this year abroad hadn't been a waste of time and money.

But as I walked to and from classes, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was following me, that Gray's spirit had found its way out of the mirror and was haunting my steps. It felt like no matter how much I tried to move on with my life, some force of love or obsession between us would never let me go.

Paris in December was the perfect antidote to my fears. Trees along the Champs-Élysées were bedecked with lights, and the city council had set up an ice-skating rink on the square in front of the Hôtel de Ville. No matter where you walked, you'd stumble upon holiday markets selling decorations and gifts and the irresistible winter treat,
chocolat chaud
.

With the Christmas break in sight, everybody turned their attention to the Bal Masqué, the annual masquerade ball held at Saint-Antoine each December. This year's theme was Fin de Siècle, celebrating the decadent lifestyle in Paris during the turn of the nineteenth century. In between classes, students gossiped about whom to ask and what to wear.

Jean-Claude told Elise about a fantastic flea market where you could buy old costumes from opera and theater companies. We decided to try our luck there a few weeks before the ball, taking the Métro to a colorful but poor district on the outskirts of Paris, a neighborhood where the old rag-and-bone men used to hawk their scavenged wares.

The flea market was enormous and teeming with people. We didn't know where to begin, so we wandered past the various stalls, taking in the sights of antique furniture, vintage clothing, costume jewelry, rare collectables, along with a fair amount of garden-variety junk. If you were looking for something eccentric or strange, chances were you could find it here.

Interspersed among the vendors were people selling fragrant but greasy-smelling street food, and the occasional opportunist, hoping to con a tourist into parting with his money in exchange for having his portrait sketched or his fortune told.

“If you see something you like,” Elise said, “don't look too excited. They'll peg you for an American and take you for everything you've got. Haggle. They always come down if you bargain with them.”

We finally found the vendor that Jean-Claude had told us about. Elise scooped up a few dresses in a matter of minutes, while I stood overwhelmed at the colors and over-the-top drama of the costumes. I was particularly drawn to a red velvet dress with a lace crinoline and gold embellishments, imagining it paired with a gold domino mask.

Of course, there were no dressing rooms. I held the gown up to my body and tried to imagine whether it would fit. A plump woman with a ruddy face approached me and said, “Ça vous plâit?”

Okay, Emma, lie. Don't look too excited
. “I love it!” I heard myself say. So much for playing hard to get.

“Elle est très belle sur vous,” she said.

She was using flattery now, but I wouldn't be seduced. “Combien?” I asked, placing it back on the rack like I was losing interest.

But she picked it back up and held it against me. “Pour vous? Cent euros.”

One hundred Euros. I quickly calculated it to about a hundred and thirty dollars. For a used opera dress that I would wear once. “Non,” I said. “Trop pour moi. Je suis un étudi-ant.” I was trying the sympathy card, playing the destitute student.

She frowned, considering. “D'accord. Quatre-vingts.”

Should I keep haggling?
I wondered. “Oui,” I finally said.

“Bon. Elle sera beau regard sur vous!”

She took the dress and walked it to her cash register. Elise was standing there waiting, holding a long black dress. After I paid for mine, Elise and the woman negotiated like pros until Elise smiled and handed over fifty euros.

As we walked back into the market, I marveled at Elise's tactical skills. “How did you get her down from a hundred to fifty?” I said.

“Confidence,” she said. “She knew I wasn't going to back down, and she wanted to make the sale. The buyer has the upper hand. I can always take my business elsewhere. It's the same thing with guys, Emma. When you look like we do, you can take your pick. Never settle for the first offer. Wait for the one you want.” She gave me a sly look.

“And have you figured out who you want?” I asked.

“I'm still weighing my options,” she said.

The Métro dropped us off back in town, and we walked the few blocks to Saint-Antoine.

“Can I see your dress?” I asked Elise once we got inside the warmth of our rooms.

“Of course,” she said, pulling it out of the shopping bag and draping it over her body. It was narrow, black, and beaded, with a plunging back. It looked like something out of an Aubrey Beardsley painting.

“That is gorgeous,” I said. “It doesn't even look like a costume. You could wear that anywhere.”

“I know,” she said. “Let's see yours.” I drew mine out of the bag and modeled it over my clothes. “It's very . . . sweet,” she said.

“You say that like it's a bad thing.”

“No, it's not bad at all. It's very you.”

“Somehow that still sounds like an insult.”

“Emma,” she said, pulling my arm and drawing me aside like she was about to unveil one of the mysteries of the universe. “I know you were probably saving yourself for Gray. And I totally get that. It's incredibly romantic. I just want to remind you that you're human. And you'll never be this young and hot again. There are some really cute guys at this school. Georges is freakin' adorable! He always asks why you don't come out with us more.”

“He does?”

“All I'm saying is you should wear something sexy, and try to get lucky.”

“I like this dress!” I said.

“I know. And it's not a bad dress. It just looks like something I would have worn when I was . . . five.”

“Great.”

“Never fear,” she said. “All it needs is the right pair of shoes and jewelry.” She shuffled me into her room and stood me in front of her dresser. “You need to accessorize,” she said. “Or as Tim Gunn would say, ‘Use the accessory wall very thoughtfully.' Hey, maybe I could cut a slit up the side of that thing.”

“You are not coming near this dress with scissors!”

“Fair enough. Then we'll need higher heels. And maybe fishnet stockings.”

More crucial to my enjoyment than any accessories I might wear was who I was going to go with. Elise hadn't actually ruled out Owen as her date, but after all her carrying on with Jean-Claude, I didn't think Owen would consent to that. So the question remained: How did I feel about Owen? While I had always relegated him to the dreaded friend zone, had that only been because of Gray? And was I going to keep closing myself off to the possibility of new love out of guilt and grief?

Owen had made it pretty clear in Arles that he didn't want to get hurt again. Asking him to the dance seemed weighted with expectation. In the end, I took the coward's route. I asked Owen and Flynn to come as my guests. “We can go as friends,” I said, echoing the same words Owen had said during our sophomore year when he'd asked both Michelle and me to the Snow Ball. That dance hadn't ended well for any of us. I tried to ignore the sinking feeling I had that this dance, too, would end in disaster.

I couldn't wait for my parents and Grandma to come visit. My father had just e-mailed me, asking what I wanted for Christmas. Christmas had never been the same without my mother. I had such vivid memories of decorating the tree with her and singing carols in the neighborhood and venturing to the beach for the first snowfall. She used to take our whole family to visit the beautiful crèche at the local chapel, and even though we only went to church twice a year, my mom sang the hymns louder than anyone else there. Since she had died, Christmas was only a painful reminder of what could have been had my mother lived.

Suddenly, with every fiber of my being, I was glad I wasn't going home for Christmas. When I'd first arrived in Paris, I'd felt homesick and scared and lonely. But something had changed over the past few weeks. Maybe it was my blossoming friendship with Elise or working on the opera with Owen and Flynn or the fact that I'd finally stopped having nightmares.

But mostly, I think I was relieved not to have to face Gray's family. Ever since my mom died, we'd taken efforts to make sure our two families remained close, celebrating each other's milestones and getting together for every holiday. If I went home, I couldn't avoid them, but seeing them without Gray might undo me.

The term came to an anticlimactic close one Thursday afternoon after the last midterm exam had been given. As far as I could tell, I'd aced most of them, with the slight possible exception of AP European History. It was rumored that the exam was harder than the actual AP test.

By the weekend, the entire student body was ready to blow off some serious steam. On the evening of the dance, Elise and I had the bathroom doors open so we could come freely into each other's rooms for hair and makeup advice. Elise wanted to stand in front of the full-length mirror in my room, and I wanted to avoid the damn thing altogether. I didn't want to think about Gray tonight.

“So what do you think?” I asked Elise, showing her a flash of the fishnet stockings she'd lent me.

“They look fantastic,” she said. “Very French bordello.”

“That's exactly the look I was going for,” I said, and she laughed. “You look amazing, Elise. Very Morticia Addams.”

“Morticia Addams wishes she had this dress,” Elise said, twirling around in front of the mirror, watching the black gossamer fabric swirl around her. “I'd better get back to my room. Jean-Claude's going to be here soon, and I don't want him hanging around my door when Owen arrives.”

“No, we wouldn't want that,” I said.

Elise didn't catch my sarcasm. She went back to her room, and I tried to finish my hair. I was attempting to use a curling iron to give myself big, romantic curls, but mostly I succeeded in burning the nape of my neck. Around eight o'clock, someone knocked on my door.

I opened it to see two of my favorite people, both looking incredibly handsome in their own ways. Owen had loosely interpreted the fin de siècle theme, sporting an outfit inspired by Sherlock Holmes—a wool serge suit with a vest and double-breasted jacket and a tweed flat cap. All that was missing were the pipe and magnifying glass. Flynn went more melodramatic, wearing a fuchsia-lined trench coat over a purple-and-black leopard-print suit, sort of Bram Stoker meets David Bowie.

“You look delectable,” he said, taking my hand and kissing my knuckles, adding a little tongue just to be Flynn.

“Thank you very much. Now I have to wash my hands,” I said in mock anger.

“What you should say is,
Thank you very much. I'll never wash this hand again,
” he teased.

I smirked and pulled my hand away, giving them each their tickets. Then Flynn popped into the bathroom, leaving Owen and me to stand together awkwardly, no doubt wondering how this evening would play out.

“So . . .” I said.

“So . . . you look so pretty, Emma.”

“Thanks,” I said shyly. “Elise thought the dress was too sweet.”

“I happen to like sweet,” he said.

I was blushing as Flynn came out of the bathroom, rolling his eyes. “Oh, would you two get it over with?”

“Get what over with?” Owen asked.

Flynn sighed, exasperated. “We all know why I'm here tonight,” he said. “I'm your freakin' chaperone so you two have another excuse to drag out this . . . whatever it is you have. But you don't need a chaperone. You need a coach, someone to shove you out on the field in the middle of a big play and see what you're made of. I'm out of here.”

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“I'm off to find
Claire
—I love saying her name—and to leave you two to figure it out. I'll see you kids later. Go, Team Owen!”

And with that, he exited the room with a flourish of his coat, leaving the two of us alone. Again. To my surprise, Owen didn't look awkward anymore. In fact, he held his arm out to me and said, “Shall we?”

I linked my arm in his, and we walked toward the door. But as we did, I got the strangest sensation of someone at my back. I glanced behind me once before leaving the room and could have sworn I heard someone faintly calling my name.

The ball was being held in the main lobby of the administrative building, which had been transformed to look like a Gothic ballroom. The cavernous space was dimly lit by old gas floor lanterns. Tables had been set with white tablecloths, red napkins, and dramatic candelabras; and the walls had been swathed with purple velvet fabric that reminded me of the mirror in my room. A string quartet played elegant classical music, and most of the guests were strolling here and there, checking out one another's costumes rather than dancing. Across the room by the stairwell was an enormous Christmas tree trimmed with white lace, gold ornaments, and a cranberry-and-silk garland, topped with a magnificent gold angel.