Mom looked down at my blue boot. "How bad is it honey?"
"Not that bad," I said bravely. Okay, fine. It wasn't courage, it was denial.
"You know, they make some very stylish sneakers these days," my mom said. I looked down at her high-tops. And felt tears well behind my eyes again.
"Ballet flats!" Mrs. R piped up. "They're all the rage. Last weekend I was doing aura readings down at Venice Beach and all the young kids were wearing them."
I sniffled back the tears. "You think so?"
"Sure. You'll be just as pretty as a peach in them."
I sighed. "Paris just won't be the same without heels."
"Oh, well there's no way you can go to Paris now," Mom said, still inspecting my boot.
"Whoa!" I held both hands up in front of me. Which, of course, made my crutches immediately slip out of my armpits and clatter to the floor. "I am totally still going to Paris."
"Maddie, you can't even walk!"
"I have crutches."
Mom looked down at the floor. Then back up at me, raising one eyebrow.
"What? The doctor said I'd get used to them."
"Maddie, you can't possibly go to a foreign country like this. Honey, what about your luggage? And traveling through the airports? And customs? How will you even get around?"
I bit my lip. "I'll manage." Somehow.
I'll admit though, she had a point. The more I thought about trying to navigate my way through LAX, let alone the French airports, while wearing Wonder Boot, the more my leg throbbed, my head started to hurt, and I really started jonsing for another comforting nacho platter.
But I was damned if one little Nerf boot was keeping me from Fashion Week.
"Look, I've already committed to do this. Jean Luc is counting on me. I'm supposed to fly out this weekend. There's no way I can back out now."
Mom pursed her lips, her arms crossing over her chest as she gave me a good long stare. "All right, fine."
I did an internal sigh of relief. "Thank you."
"Then I'm going with you."
"What?!"
"Maddie, there's no way I'm letting my baby fly all the way to Paris all by herself with a broken leg. If you're so intent on going, then I'm going, too."
"But, Mom-"
"Well then I'm coming too," Mrs. Rosenblatt piped up.
I tuned to her, my mouth falling open. "What?!" This could not be happening. Again I got that out-of-body feeling like my life was spiraling out of control into some late night TV farce.
"I feel responsible. After all it was my car," Mrs. R said.
"Besides," Mom chimed in, "I've always wanted to visit Paris. The museums, the shops…"
"The Eiffel Tower," Mrs. R added.
"Oh, the Eiffel Tower! Oh, think how much fun this will be, Maddie," Mom said, grabbing my hand. "It'll be like a girl's night out. Only in Paris!"
Last time Mom and I had had a girl's night out, she'd dragged me to a karaoke club where we'd spent the evening sipping watery tap beer and listening to overweight businessmen butcher Diana Ross songs.
"No. No, no, no, no." I shook my head, a sudden headache matching the throbbing in my leg. "Look, I'm a grown woman. I can take care of myself. I'll get a skycap to help with the bags. They have bellboys in Paris. I'll be fine. I'm an adult and I can take care of myself."
"Oh honey," Mom said, tilting her head to the side and giving me the same look she gave me when I was five and told her I was running away from home to join the circus. "Don't be ridiculous."
Mental forehead smack.
There are few truly unstoppable forces in nature. Tornadoes, hurricanes, an unexpected shift of the San Andreas fault line. And – you guessed it – my mother.
Which is why, one week later, as I hobbled through the front doors of the Plaza Athenee in Paris, France, I had a pair of awkward metal crutches shoved under my armpits and a pair of middle aged women flanking my sides.
"Oh my God, Maddie, would you take a look at this place?" Mom's mouth gaped open.
"It's like where them rock stars stay," Mrs. Rosenblatt said. "I bet Gwen Stefani stays here."
"I bet the queen stays here."
"I bet this is gonna max out my Visa."
They were right. The place was amazing. The floors were a pale taupe marble beneath a sparkling crystal chandelier that was larger than my bathroom. Bright red fresh cut flowers hung from tall pillars that flanked the lobby, and the walls were done in delicately painted frescoes of wildflowers and serene lakes. The entire place felt opulent, glamorous, and oh so very French.
Okay, so I was here with two postmenopausal chaperones. But I was here. In Paris. Despite the eleven hour flight, I couldn't help a goofy grin from cracking my face.
"Puis-je vous aider?" a man behind the counter asked as we approached. He was in his fifties, tall and slim with a large nose and receding hairline exposing a shiny dome of a forehead.
"I don't know what he said," Mrs. Rosenbaltt commented, "but he sure looked good saying it." She gave me a suggestive elbow in the ribs.
The dome went red and his eyes hit the floor. "Ah, Americans," he said quickly, switching to English. "And how may I help you lovely young ladies?"
Mrs. Rosenblatt snorted. "We're young ladies," she said to Mom. Mom giggled.
I handed over my credit card. "Maddie Springer. And entourage," I added, glancing over my shoulder.
"Don't mind us, we're just here to sightsee," Mom said, waving me off.
"You, ah, got any recommendations where two young ladies could have a good time there, Pierre?" Mrs. R licked her lips and leaned suggestively on the counter, her bright orange muumuu dipping down to expose a pair of breasts that gravity hadn't been kind to.
The clerk cleared his throat, going a deeper shade of crimson. " Pardon moi , mademoiselle , but the name is actually Andre."
"Really? 'Cause you look like a Pierre to me. Must be that sexy French accent of yours."
Andre suddenly became engrossed in his computer screen. "Ah, yes, we have two rooms on the 15th floor. Adjoining."
"Oh, this is going to be so much fun, Maddie," Mom squeaked, giving my arm a squeeze. "It'll be like one big slumber party."
"Uh, do you have anything maybe not so adjoining?" I asked.
But unfortunately Andre was currently hypnotized by Mrs. R running her tongue suggestively over her lipstick stained teeth. I admit, it was kind of like a car wreck – hideously unreal yet impossible to turn away.
"So, what time do you get off work, Pierre?" Mrs. R asked.
The clerk gulped. "Uh, rooms 702 and 704. Enjoy your stay." He quickly slid the card keys across the marble counter, then scurried off to help the next customer.
"I think he kinda liked me," Mrs. R said.
"I think you kinda scared him."
"Oh, Maddie, we're in Paris! This is going to be so fun!" Mom squeezed my arm again and steered me toward the elevators.
Visions of Karaoke in French flashed before my eyes.
Thankfully Mom and Mrs. R decided to take a nap in their suite before going out for an afternoon of sightseeing. I left them at their door, promising to call once I got safely to the site of Jean Luc's tent.
I slipped my keycard in the door, stepped into my room, and suddenly felt like I'd entered a dollhouse. A white, four poster bed sat in the middle, draped in bright yellow floral patterns and piled high with about a million pillows. Beneath the window sat a long chaise and on the far side of the room, a lovely antique bureau next to a small writing desk. The room was feminine, bursting with ruffles and had Paris written all over it. I loved it.
I immediately went to the window overlooking the city and craned for a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. But, while I could see clear to the mountains, there was sadly no tower in sight. Clearly not an Eiffel view room.