Petite Confessions by Vicki Lesage (chrysanthemum read aloud TXT) 📕

a motion with her hand, laying it flat and lifting it up high. Huh? Oh... I get it. “We’d settle for an above-ground pool. It’s much cheaper.”

“Above-ground pool? That’s a bit redneck but you’re right it’s a lot cheaper. I’ll think about it.” That was as good as a yes in my previous experience.

After the pool was installed and filled (which takes way longer than a kid has patience for), we hopped in and didn’t get out all weekend except for bathroom breaks and sunscreen re-applications. At least, I hope everyone got out for bathroom breaks.

On Monday morning, when our parents left for work, they gave us stern instructions.

“Be careful around the pool and wear sunscreen,” my step-mom, Marsha, said.

“And no jumping off the roof into the pool,” Dad added.

“Jumping off the roof into the pool? We hadn’t thought of that, but now that you mention it, what a great idea!” we collectively thought.

We nodded, our most angelic smiles convincingly plastered to our faces. Not five minutes after our parents were out the door, we were in our swimsuits in the backyard, eyeing the roof.

“I guess a ladder is the best way up,” Sarah offered. My older step-brother, Isaac, nodded his agreement.

Propping a ladder against the side of the house would be conspicuous, but then again, so was running off the roof into the pool.

“Are you sure the pool is deep enough?” I asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sarah assured me.

It didn’t seem deep enough to me, but maybe an above-ground pool didn’t need to be as deep? We all seemed to be thinking the same thing as we paused in thought. Then Sarah snapped us out of it. “There’s only one way to find out!”

One by one, we climbed the ladder. From that angle, the pool sure did seem far away. But once we were up there, no one wanted to chicken out.

“We need a running start in order to clear the edge of the pool,” Sarah proclaimed.

I was getting woozier by the minute. I’m not afraid of heights, but I am afraid of knocking my teeth out. Ever since I fell off a row of bleachers and knocked out my front teeth two years earlier (don’t worry, they’ve since been replaced), I’d been afraid of heights-as-tall-as-bleachers. Which was coincidentally the same height as jumping from the roof of a one-story house into a pool.

Without giving it much more thought, Sarah ran off the roof and splashed into the pool. When she surfaced without incident, it gave Isaac, Stephen, and my younger step-brother, Jake, all the encouragement they needed to plunge in after her.

Rebecca, my older step-sister, was not one to be left out and jumped in next.

I was now alone on the roof, my bare feet gripping the gritty roof tiles, my pale, freckly skin exposed for all the neighborhood to see. I had to do it. I couldn’t turn back now unless I wanted to be teased the rest of the summer. And I had to do it quickly before I got busted.

Well, you can always get new teeth. I should know.

So I jumped. As I came back up through the water, I was astounded I hadn’t broken anything, but I ran my finger across my teeth to be sure. Yep, all there.

Everyone took turns jumping off the roof the rest of the day. Since I’d done it once, I avoided their ridicule and instead passed the day splashing around and dreaming of suntanned skin.

Over dinner that night, Dad asked if we’d behaved. Why do parents ask questions like that? We’re never going to answer no.

“You all had fun in the pool today?” It sounded simple enough, but his tone implied it was a test. Everyone looked at me to respond.

“Yep! Thanks for getting it for us.”

“No one jumped off the roof?”

“Ha, heh, um, no!” I stammered. How much did he know?

“Then do you have any idea how all that gravel got in there? The gravel that’s the exact color of the roof tiles?”

I couldn’t hold my innocent expression much longer. “Um, maybe because of the sand? We are in Florida after all,” I tried.

“That’s not what the neighbor said.”

My stomach dropped. He knew! My face was surely red. Everyone else stared down at their plates. How would I get us out of this?

“Which neighbor? The crazy redneck next door?” I’d throw that guy under the bus if it would save us.

“No, Ron across the street.” He was triumphant. He knew he had us. “You guys had one rule and you broke it. I bet you were out on the roof ten minutes after we left.” More like five minutes, we simultaneously thought. We knew not to look at one another or else we’d burst out laughing.

“Now, I can’t take the pool away but you’re all grounded for two weeks. And no more jumping off the roof. If you do, I’ll drain that pool faster than you can swim out of it!”

 

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The minute Sarah got off the plane in Paris, we hit the ground running and made the tour of my usual bar circuit. Jetlagged and tipsy, she rattled off all the places she couldn’t wait to visit the next day. While I’d seen most of the sites myself, I didn’t mind showing her around because you can’t ever get too much of Paris.

Halfway through our pub crawl, we passed Notre Dame. I was hurrying because we were late for meeting Lisa and Katrina for karaoke, and Sarah was lagging behind.

“It’s just a bit further up this way, Sarah. C’mon!” If we didn’t hurry, the karaoke line would be super long and we’d have to sit through a bunch of crappy songs before belting out our own crappy renditions.

“Chill! Can’t a girl enjoy the view in peace?” She paused and let out an audible gasp. “Oh my God. Is that Notre DAME? You walk past Notre Dame on your way to the bars? How cool!”

I stopped. I hadn’t thought about it but she was right. That was really cool.

“I’m tipsy in front of Notre Dame. Isn’t that, like, sacrilegious? But, like, wouldn’t it be worse if I walked past without stopping?”

Good point. I suppose karaoke could wait while we had a look-see at the cathedral.

We crossed the pedestrian bridge to get a closer view. It truly is a magnificent church. So ancient, so detailed, so beautiful. No matter how many images you’ve seen in books or movies, nothing prepares you for how amazing it is up close.

“Buuuuurp.” Ahem. Perhaps I shouldn’t have finished my last drink so quickly. I silently apologized to God for being so rude before shuffling Sarah along. “We’ll come back tomorrow. It will be much better and much less blasphemous. We’ll wake up bright and early and conquer the city.”

 

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The next day, we woke up groggy and late, but still covered quite a bit of town. We caught up on gossip and reminisced about old times while winding our way through medieval cobblestone streets.

I felt proud to be showing “my city” to a guest and happy to be sharing it with my step-sister. Nothing makes you feel like a local faster. Maybe two weeks ago I was a clueless American making rookie mistakes, but now my step-sister was the rookie and I was the one who knew what was going on.

From the way I’d walk off the Métro before it came to a complete stop (livin’ on the edge, baby!) to knowing the owner of the restaurants we dined at, big city living was already second nature.

One of my favorite places, aside from my slew of regular bars, was Refuge des Fondus. Popular with tourists, this rowdy fondue restaurant is usually half-occupied by locals as well. It’s hard to say what I like most about the restaurant—from the graffitied walls to climbing over the communal table to sit on the side against the wall, its grungy ambience is a sharp contrast to typical Parisian eateries. It’s not unusual for the entire restaurant to sing “Happy Birthday” to a fellow patron, making the rounds in several different languages. And on top of that I get a huge pot of melted cheese? Count me in!

I lied when I said I didn’t know what I liked most about the place. Their gimmick is that you drink wine out of baby bottles and this is what stole my heart. It’s a guaranteed hit with out-of-town guests, who wear out their camera batteries in various poses with the baby bottles.

In my vast experience, I’ve discovered that the perfect amount to consume is four baby bottles. Three baby bottles equal one full bottle of wine, so four of the little guys is just the right amount to get you singing “Feliz Compleaños” to the group of Spaniards across the restaurant while still being able to find your way home at the end of the night.

Believe it or not, the owners of this establishment actually like me. I guess because for once, being a tipsy singing girl is the norm. When arriving for a reservation, we always greet each other with la bise, the French custom of kissing friends on each cheek. As the long line of hungry patrons outside stares in envy, I can’t help but feel cool at being immediately ushered to my table. That might be due more to having a reservation (the restaurant only holds 40 people) than them liking me, but then again they do have my picture posted on the wall. Tough call.

On around my 40th visit, I graffitied my own message on the wall, “La Reine de Fondue.” Fondue Queen. Self-proclaimed French royalty. By my 60th visit, I made my own punch card. Surprisingly, they honored it—stamping it each time I came and offering me a free digestif when I had filled all ten slots. After my 100th visit, I stopped counting how many times I’d been there. I’m sure I could get a rough estimate by reading my cholesterol chart.

 

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When Sarah, Lisa, Katrina, and I arrived at the restaurant on the last evening of Sarah’s trip, the staff gave us the friendliest of welcomes and immediately brought over the wine. By the time we slammed our 4th baby bottles down on the table, the restaurant had heard the greatest hits from “The Little Mermaid” as well as the crowd-pleasing sing-a-long, “Sweet Caroline.” Bellies full of cheese and wine, vocal cords overused and raspy, the evening had been a wild success.

Out of all the places I’d taken her to, the fondue restaurant was the highlight of Sarah’s trip. We were crazy kids again, in a different setting. The girl who had once been scared to jump into the pool had now crossed an ocean and was doing just fine.

 

 

 

Find out what happens next… pick up Confessions of a Paris Party Girl today!