Gnomes

"Gnomes"

By Christine Stoddard

She swayed like a cat in heat, waist and hips fluid as an arboreal stream. From behind, a trance seemed to grip her with the Sandman's grainy hands; from the front, she suffered the obvious consequences of international airplane travel. Though slightly bloated and discolored, she was as beautiful as the tittering princesses she had worshipped as a child. Perhaps five-hundred years ago, a sweet-minded squire encountered her in a dream. To begin with, her dark lashes extended at least one inch beyond her heavily powdered eyelids. Her eyes shone an irresistible shade of gray that verged on gloominess but still emanated enough liveliness to hypnotize weaker souls. Those souls might wake up if someone whispered the fact that she wore contacts, but that event remains hypothetical. (Who would be cruel enough to destroy the spell?) Despite the smudges of concealer under her eyes, the gray-purple bags of jet-lag were still visible above her cheeks. If any of the men who wanted to touch her had the chance to do so, they would have felt the stickiness of serum in her crimped, blonde hair. It had not dried properly because, shortly after applying it, she had fallen asleep on the shoulder of somebody's grandmother during the plane ride. When she woke up to the pilot's voice that morning, Kimberly was not sure if the puddle of goo on the old woman's sweater was saliva or stray hair product. She had touched her full lips to find out; not a drop of spittle jiggled on top of them. Conveniently, she deemed herself innocent.

Now as she glided across the plane's carpeted floors to the front door, velour sweatpants cupped her round buns and neon green stars graced her shiny nails. It was just another stylish day. The moment that her ballet slipper-clad foot stepped out of the plane, Kimberly popped in her earbuds to drown out the noises of an airport that mocked her native language. She glanced up from forcing the unicorn charm on her necklace to face the right way. She barely made out the letters reading "Charles de Gaulle." The words wavered back and forth like her stomach at take-off. She slipped through Customs with an enchantress' smile and then rolled toward the baggage claim in a trance. Somehow she avoided falling asleep standing up as she waited for an epiphany of some kind.

"Where am I going?" she mumbled to herself, now that her full entourage of bags encircled her. "These Frogs better--"

"Kimberly!" A fifteen-year old boy, gangly and red-faced, jumped up and down, waving a poster at the specimen of American processed beauty. It read, "Welcom to my countrie, American princesse." Running toward her on stork legs, he was teenage over-enthusiasm for the opposite sex incarnate. Just imagine the French version.

"Hey, Pierre," Kimberly muttered as she laid her carry-on luggage on the marbled linoleum by its larger comrades. It was pathetically small in comparison, rattling with a spare charm bracelet, a book on dieting techniques from across the world, three bottles of iridescent nail polish, a still-in-the-shrinkwrap pocket French/English dictionary, an owl keychain that no longer hooted when you squeezed it, a monogrammed pen with a Tudor rose design, a My Little Pony notepad, several packs of gum, old mascara, and sparkly lipgloss.

The boy put his poster down and frowned a little. "My name is Luc, not Pierre."

"Oh." Kimberly snapped her blueberry gum. "You sure?" She pulled out her My Little Pony notepad and scanned through all her scrawling. Everything from a list of planned make-over steps to the breeds of her host family's tropical fish was there.

"Oui! I mean, yes. Of course, it is...my name."

"I'm joking," Kimberly bursted, as she shut close the notepad, "I mean, I'm tired, but I wouldn't forget the name of someone who's emailed me twice a day for the past four months. Humor. Duh."

"Ah." Luc crumpled the poster a little as it swung by his knees. "I do not understand." The poster now sagged pitifully inward, mimicking Luc's fallen posture.

"Don't take yourself so seriously. You'll hate yourself in twenty years."

"No, no, I...I'm sorry."

Kimberly re-opened her notepad, pretending to read over one of the lists there. Eventually she became aware that the conversation was moving nowhere. She closed the notepad and waved it at her face like she was hot, even though she was still recovering from a slight chill she'd caught on the plane. She began to talk very fast. "So, where's the toilet? And where can I get a greasy hamburger? They tried to feed me this fried oval thing stuffed with blue cheese. It was gross." Only after describing to the oval thing did she breathe.

"Gross? I do not know this word."

"Listen, Pierre--"

"Luc, please."

"Right. Luc. Gross means disgusting. Like, really, really bad. So bad you want to vomit. What is it--vomiter?"

They paused, staring at each other. Luc continued warping the poster until he tore about an inch into it. He blushed and hid the poster behind him immediately.

"I will flag a taxi," Luc announced, grinning too widely. "Then we shall--"

"Wait, taxis are expensive. I didn't save up for a trip to Paris to blow it all on taxi rides. Why can't your parents pick us up?"

"They are preparing for a party."

"Oh, that's cool," Kimberly chirped, "A French party my first night in France. Maybe tomorrow night I'll kiss Prince Charming at the top of the Eiffel Tower and go waltzing in the middle of the Champs-Elysée."

Luc nodded. "Er, they are celebrating the wedding anniversary of their dear friends."

"People our age don't say 'dear friends' in English, Pierre. It sounds like old people talk." Kimberly corrected her stubborn unicorn charm's improper direction without pausing. "I dunno about France, but in America, it sucks to be old. You have to eat prunes and nobody calls you anymore." She patted her hip, realized that she didn't have a pocket and therefore could not be carrying her phone there. Her eyes landed on a clock and then back on Luc's face. Like a toadstool, his face featured a red background and scores of white dots thanks to an onset of whiteheads. "Anyway," Kimberly began again, "so what's going to be at this party? Any champagne?"

"Undoubtedly.

"Wicked." She bent her fingers into quotation marks.

Luc scrunched up his forehead and pointed toward the entrance. "Let us go."

Kimberly swayed toward the glass doors, abandoning her luggage to Luc. He sighed and fetched a cart. Then heaving and scuttling ensued.

Kimberly was outside, already enjoying a fresh stick of blueberry gum when Luc appeared, panting, with the piled-to-the-sky cart.

"Oh, thanks for doing that," Kimberly said, and then issued a fat bubble from her mouth. Luc stared at the way her tongue danced to conjure the bubble back inside her realm of teeth and gums. His admiring gaze only faltered when Kimberly spoke again. "Hey, flag that one down." Kimberly pointed at an oncoming mini-van taxi with strange red racer stripes painted on the side. It looked fit for eight passengers, not two.

Luc turned toward the taxi and waved both arms with the widest span possible. The taxi skidded to a stop before them. Luc turned to Kimberly for approval, but she was too busy twisting a tiny braid in her hair. Her fingers spun her hair as tightly as a spindle's restless wheel. The golden thread danced over and over, having no choice but to immediately accept its new form.

The taxi driver, dark-eyed, big-eared, and brown-skinned, rolled down his window. A cloud of smoke billowed out into the air. The driver snorted and then said, "Bonjour," with the malaise of an out-of-tune piano.

Kimberly was still concentrating on her braid when she barked, "Yo, Jean-Claude. Could you put this luggage in the back?"

The man looked at Kimberly blankly and said, very haltingly, "I...do...not...speak...English." His bottom lip quivered a little for a second after his confession.

Luc jumped into French to translate Kimberly's words. Then he turned to Kimberly and said, "The word for luggage in French is baggage."

"That's nice." The footman had only just begun to load her carriage, when she snarled, "Careful! That's Vera Bradley, you know!"

The taxi driver, so startled, nearly dropped the bag.

"Let us get into the taxi," Luc muttered. He opened the door for Kimberly and she stepped inside. She thanked him rather offhandedly for it.

"Phew! This place smells like wet dog and cigarettes," she exclaimed. Despite the ignoble expression on her face, Kimberly sat down rather gracefully, crossing one swan leg over the other. Then she reached for the handle on her door to hurry into rolling down the window. Swirls of smoke fled out.

Luc snuggled right next to Kimberly, disregarding all of the empty seats in the van. "Is it not true that you smoke?"

Kimberly tsked, "Why would you think that?"

"Because your fingernails are yellow."

"That's nailpolish, doofus." Luc instantly rouged. "This is more yellow-green, but, anyway, yellow's 'in' right now. I mean, in America. Maybe not here. Seems like everyone wears black here."

"I am wearing green--"

"Hey, are we going sometime today?" Kimberly poked the taxi driver on the shoulder. "We have a cool French party to get to." The driver flinched.

Luc translated again and the taxi driver responded with, "Oui, bien sûr."

"Oh, I understood that!" Kimberly squealed and clapped her hands together. The nailpolish bottles in her bag clinked together at her abrupt movement.

"That is good," Luc replied. "But you are supposed to be speaking French all the time to practice, no? That is part of the exchange program policy, according to what I read. So we should stop speaking English...maintenant. D'accord? Alors, qu'est-ce que tu voudrais--"

"Whoah. Hold it, Pierre. I don't think you get it. Regardless of what that glossy study abroad brochure said, I'm not here to apprendre français. I'm here to have fun. And lots of it. Like I said, I saved up a long time to do this. I'm graduating from high school next year and, after that, I'm going to college, where I'll actually have to take a trip like this seriously."

"Mais--"

"Hey, excusez-moi and all, but we're going to speak my language, okay?" Kimberly squinted her eyes when she said 'okay.'

"Et pourquoi?" Luc sat up straighter, tilting his nose in the air. He stopped wringing his hands, moved his eyes off of Kimberly's unicorn charm and right into her gray eyes, "Je pense que--"

"Because it's better. It's easier to understand, it doesn't have weird accent marks, and people all over the world speak it. You have a much bigger need to learn English than I do to learn French. It's that's simple."

"Vraiment?"

"Stop speaking French! It's an annoying language." She crossed her arms and pouted. "You sound like you're choking on snail shells or frog legs or whatever else you all eat around here." Suddenly Kimberly fished an emory board out of her pocket and began filing her nails. "They can say whatever they want about French being the language of love, but I don't see what's so attractive about this nasally stuff." Kimberly blew off the bitty piles of grated nails into Luc's face and grinned.

He spat out the keratin dust, not commenting upon how it tasted like old lemon candy. Then Luc pursed his lips. "You are sounding very ignorant right now, Kimberly. I do not wish for you to disrespect my culture, especially when you are staying in my family's house. It's is impolite and you are representing your country in a very unfavorable way."

"Representing my country? What? Am I a diplomat now?" Kimberly scoffed. "I mean, seriously. The only reason to become one of those is so you can do exactly what you want without going to jail," Kimberly snorted and then pulled another stick of gum out of her purse. She unwrapped the blueberry-flavored oral distraction, crumpling the foil and tossing it on the floor of the taxi. She folded the stick under her tongue, slid her tongue back and forth, and then flipped the gum on top of her tongue to commence her trademark snapping.

"Must you do that?" Luc asked.

"Oh, sorry," Kimberly yawned, "Did you want some?"

"Er, oui."

"You're not really going to go on like that all night, are you?"

"Comme quoi?" When Kimberly noticed that Luc didn't grab the stick of gum she had extended only half a second before, she dropped it back into her roomy purse.

"You know, speaking, what do they call it in old movies? Frog."

"It is my native language. I think best in it." Luc crossed his arms and sunk down into his seat. Unconsciously, he began kicking his feet at the back of the front passenger's seat. Dust exploded from the cushion and hovered around Luc and Kimberly's knees.

Kimberly gaped a second, her wad of gum fully visible. "Wait, can you do a French laugh?" She paused. "I mean, duh, you can. You're French. Okay, laugh."

Luc scratched the left corner of his bottom lip. "I am not an actor."

"Please! Just laugh. I'll tickle you if it helps." She lunged forward, fingers poised to draw out belly-deep guffaws.

"Non!"

"Yes!"

"Non!"

"Yes!"

"Non!"

"Yes!"

"Ha-ha," Luc said very flatly, "Is that how you Americans laugh?" He cocked his head a tad and stared at her.

"In comic books, I guess. But nobody actually laughs that way."

Luc ignored Kimberly for a moment. "Monsieur, pouvez-vous turner ici?"

"Bah, oui."

The van suddenly swerved to the left of a stone monument. A hundred pigeons burst into flight and soared to the top of an apartment building a few yards away from the monument. The chaotic honking of the other cars masked the birds' gentle coos. The pigeons seemed relieved to return to their nests upon the slate roof, just as the drivers were anxious to return to nests of their own.

Luc faced Kimberly, who was now diligently applying her favorite globby mascara. "Pardon? Qu'est-ce que tu as dit?" He left his lips slightly parted after the words flowed off his tongue. Kimberly seemed less caustic when primping herself. A strand of hair innocently landed by the side of her nose. Luc felt tempted to brush it away.

"Ugh! You're doing it again," she whined. She dunked her mascara wand into the tube, twisted it around, and withdrew it again. Now dark gunk completely covered the bristles, much like black tinsel on a scorched Christmas tree.

The taxi lurched forward. Kimberly flew toward the seat in front of her and then quickly snapped back. The wand of her mascara tube just barely missed poking out her eye. A dark streak of make-up was smeared across her bony cheek.

"Whoah!" The sound whooshed out of her mouth right after the event, when she finally realized what had happened.

"Whoah?"

"It means, WTF!?"

"Comment?"

"Luc, tell the taxi driver he's crazy, okay? Tell him to slow down."

Luc mumbled something at the driver just as Kimberly screwed the top back onto her mascara. Then she dropped it into her purse. It was a round leather pouch, fit for all the trucs of a magician but filled with the things of an ordinary American girl. A moment of silence passed. Luc poked a bulge in the purse.

"Seriously. I hope French drivers aren't like New Jersey drivers," Kimberly groused, "Are we almost there yet?"

"No, we are still in the far suburbs. It should take us another hour. I think."

"What do you mean--you don't know?"

"I do not know."

"You grew up here, right? You're French, you're Parisian." Kimberly waved her hands around with the fervency of mating butterflies, indicating all the 'Frenchess' around her.

"Yes, but that does not mean I know--"

"Okay, well, what do you know? Now's as good a time as any to find out. Give me the skinny on your country. I mean, I didn't bother reading the packets my teacher printed out for me," she shouted, as she folded her hands on her lap, "They were all about Napoleon or somebody."

"Well, the capital of France is Paris and--"

"Duh. Hey, non-sequitor. Don't you guys eat a lot of cheese?"

Luc shifted back and forth. "We have cheese every dinner, yes."

"Don't you have like 5,000 different kinds?"

"I see you know your cheeses," Luc grinned, "The expression is, translated, 'A cheese for everyday,' I believe, though there are many more--"

"Gawd. You guys must have gas!" She twirled her hair with her tan pointer finger.

"Er..."

"Please! I'm just kidding."

Luc grimaced.

"Alright. It's been nice chatting," Kimberly said before Luc replied, "but I have to take a nap. I'm so tired after those two flights." She stretched and yawned without a sound.

"I will wake you up when we get there."

"You better. I'm psyched about this party." Kimberly rested her head against the window and closed her eyes to grant Luc the first peace he had experienced in forty-five minutes. Sleeping Beauty would finally sleep, happily retired to her invisible chamber.

The taxi puttered along, progressing a few inches at a time in the dusk of rush-hour. Luc focused on the outside world. They passed car after car, European, American, and Asian, in every color known to the auto industry. Once they even passed a pair of ceramic holstein cows chewing their ceramic cud. When Luc opened his window to take a snapshot of the cows with his cell phone, smog poured in and he choked. Coughing, he closed it again to escape the stench of pollution only to be re-greeted by the stench of cigarettes. He sighed and asked the driver to crank up the song that was playing on the radio.

Finally, ten red Renaults and four Spanish license plates later, Luc rustled Kimberly. "We are here."

Kimberly's eyelids wavered for a second. "I hate the dentist."

"Kimberly?"

She smacked her lips and attempted to open her eyes again.

Luc prodded her. "Reveille-toi."

She opened her eyes. "I'm awake," she murmured rather unconvincingly.

"Good. We are here."

Kimberly scooted up out of her slouch and shrieked, "Escargot! There's a snail in my hair!"

"That is gum," Luc muttered and withdrew a pocket knife. "Here, let me cut it out." Mischief pulsated in his eyes and his voice grew louder. "It looks like a gross spider about to eat you."

"Cut it? No! That's my hair. You'll ruin the perfect layers." Kimberly swatted furiously at Luc, so furiously that he dropped the pocket knife. It hit his sandaled foot with a clunk.

"Ai!" Luc's hands jumped to his foot. "You are so--"

"Feisty! The word is 'feisty,' Luc. Get off of my hair before I claw your eyes out." Kimberly nearly slashed Luc's face with her acrylic talons. "You have no idea how expensive my salon back home is."

"But you cannot go to the party with gum in your hair."

Kimberly started stroking the afflicted clump of hair. "Don't you have any peanut butter at home?" She tried to massage the bits of hair around the glob of gum to release the wretched 'spider.'

"What is that?" Luc ran his fingers through his hair in befuddlement, his gaze focused on Kimberly's hideous knot.

"You know, peanut butter?" Her eyes widened for emphasis.

Everything in Luc's face expressed bewilderment. "No, I do not know."

"Buttery, creamy stuff made out of peanuts? You spread it on bread, maybe eat it with jelly? Weirdos sometimes try it with honey or banana slices."

Luc stared back, still puzzled.

"Wait. Don't tell me you don't have peanut butter in France."

Luc paused before saying, "I won't tell you then." He fumbled with his pocket knife before returning it to his pants.

"It's an expression, Luc. Gawd, I can't believe you people don't have peanut butter. What do French kids eat?"

"You want me to list? Goat cheese, apricot pudding, crayfish--"

"Eww. I would hate to grow up in France. Well, if you don't have peanut butter, how am I supposed to get this gum out of my hair?"

Luc pointed to his pocket.

"No. There is no way I'm going to cut this out. I'll figure something out when I get to your bathroom, or Water Closet. Isn't that what you people call it here?"

"Yes. W.C."

The car stopped all of a sudden. Luc and Kimberly both fell forward and shrieked. After glancing strangely at Luc's girlish scream, Kimberly put her hand to her chest in an effort to calm down her racing heart. "Really, the driving in this country," she grumbled. She twisted her unicorn charm back into place. Her fingers returned to nursing the knot.

"We are here," Luc announced. "That is why we stopped."

"Thanks for making that clear. I thought we had a flat tire."

Kimberly stepped out of the taxi and froze before the man and woman waiting there. Luc's parents stood just outside of their walled garden by a small pile of cinderblocks. The mother was somewhat tall for a woman with inquisitive brown eyes. Her hair hung down around her long, tan face, framing an aquiline nose. Her lips, painted red, were very full. When she smiled, the lips stretched much wider than one would have guessed. She wore a plain black dress and red pumps. Luc's father was somewhat short for a man with sullen, black eyes. He had no hair to frame his square jaw and shrunken lips that barely stretched when he smiled, an action he rarely took. Stubble covered the lower third of his face. He had on a blue button-down shirt with no tie and slightly crumpled khakis.

"Kimberly!" The mother screamed and pulled the American student into a hearty embrace. The father stood back, monitoring his watch. "I am Francine. This is my husband, Frederic."

There was an awkward silence as Kimberly tried to salvage what little knowledge she had of French. She stammered something but nothing coherent managed to escape her mouth. She fiddled with her unicorn.

"What is that knot in your hair?" the father asked.

Luc moved in after tipping the taxi driver, who had dumped all of Kimberly's luggage on the narrow sidewalk. "She fell asleep while chewing gum," he explained in English.

"En français maintenant!" Francine chirped. The rest of the conversation continued in French with everyone but Kimberly settling on the language shift. They began entering the garden, with Luc lugging Kimberly's belongings.

"Do you have any peanut butter I could use to get the chewing gum out of my hair, Francine?" Kimberly asked. Her fingers still clutched her unicorn charm as she walked through paths framed by rose bushes.

Francine furrowed her brow and said very slowly in her thick accent, "Peenoot booter?"

"Yeah, peanut butter. Jiffy. Skip. Peter Pan. You eat it with jelly in a sandwich."

"No, no, I do not understand. Do you understand what she is saying, Luc?" Luc shrugged his shoulders. "Here, let me give you a tour of the house. We can discuss your 'peenoot booter' later."

Luc and the father fell behind to grab more luggage as Kimberly thrust herself into the house.

She nearly gasped and covered her mouth. The row house was more charming than any cottage she could have ever imagine. Despite the house's petite size, its space was bright and airy. All the windows brandished shutters and the floors, completely devoid of rugs or carpets, were dark hardwood. The furniture was wrickety with peeling paint or somewhat tattered cushions. Everything appeared worn in an elegant, antique sort of way, rather than utterly dilapidated. At first Kimberly was delighted that Francine was willing to whisk her from room to room, but when the French woman began shuffling through her vintage spoon collection, the young American cracked.

"Could you just take me to the bathroom?" Kimberly whined. "I have to take care of my hair."

Francine smiled a tight smile and set down a spoon dating back to World War One. "Of course." Her yellow teeth seemed about ready to burst out of her mouth. Francine described the bathroom's location in her most refined French and set the spoons back into their miniature cupboard.

Kimberly darted into the bathroom and began raiding the cabinets. Her hands skimmed over various bottles, cotton balls rained on the tiled floor, and a tub of Q-tips ended up in the garbage. She brought a couple jars and bottles, ones with less obvious labels, closer to her eyes. By the time she discovered the hydrogen peroxide and pink eye drops, she was panting. "There is nothing--you have nothing--my hair--Christ, my hair." Kimberly tugged at the knot, hyperventilating. "I can't believe--my hair."

Francine darkened the bathroom door. "Perhaps you could cut it off?"

"No!" Kimberly yelled. "Never. I refuse to cut my hair. It will ruin the layers."

"But even if you rub the gum out of your hair, some of your hair will come out. In fact, a lot of your hair will come out since your hair is so fine. You might as well cut it so it is a clean cut." She wiggled her ankle to better position her foot within her high-heels.

"I guess you're right," Kimberly gulped, "Where are your scissors?"

Francine reached into the medicine cabinet and, a second later, wielded scissors large enough to qualify as garden sheers. They shined beneath the flicking lightbulb that just barely illuminated the mildewy room.

Kimberly screamed.

"Calmes-toi!"

"Get away from me!"

"Je ne vais pas te hérir."

"Don't touch me!"

Francine whipped around and called for her husband, urgency seeping in each part of his two-syllable name. David sighed and stopped in the bathroom doorway.

"You want me to hold her down?"

"Yes, now."

David pinned Francine to the wall, despite her tears. Francine jumped forward, snipped the wad of gum out of the hysterical girl's hair, and threw the knot into the garbage bin with such force that it spun and toppled over. Kimberly fell into a ball and wept for her lost locks.

Nobody spoke as the bin whirled across the floor, scratching the tile. Finally Francine washed her hands and cleared her throat. "Alright, Kimberly. You should get dressed for the party now."

Kimberly nodded again, still the picture of a wilted flower. She was now sniffing and twiddling with her unicorn charm.

"What should I wear to the party?" she coughed and wiped her face with her sleeve.

"Whatever you wish."

"I'll have to cut the rest of my hair first."

"Oh, you won't have time for that."

"I have to. I can't go out in public looking like a dumb punk princess."

"Just put on something nice."

Kimberly dashed up to her new bedroom. It was sparse but attractive, with gray wood for her bed frame and armoire. In mad haste, Kimberly unzipped her luggage and and tore through all of her clothes. Panties, socks, and T-shirts flew in the air before she pounced upon her winner. Kimberly slipped into a brown silk dress with a bulging bubble skirt that ended several inches above the knee. Then she nestled a bright red headband into her hair, pinning back the uneven chunk. Next came her elaborate make-up routine. She sorted through a three-tiered case big enough to hide an infant, getting her hands mucky with powder and mysterious goo.

"Kimberly!" Francine called.

Kimberly nearly tripped as she raced down the stairs. She ripped off the pair of false eyelashes she had just finished applying because she knew she wouldn't have time to put on the second set.

"So, what do you think?" Kimberly asked as she twirled before Francine and Co. Her unicorn dizzily twirled with her.

Luc grinned and exclaimed in English, "You look like a gift!"

Kimberly scrunched up her nose. "You wouldn't say that in English, Luc."

His eyes fell to the floor.

Francine butted in, "Like a fairy then. Now let's go to the party."

"Wait, what? I thought the party was here."

"No, it's at a friend's house. We have to drive over. It is a surprise party."

"Oh. I guess that's cool. I mean, as long as there's champagne."

"There will be, undoubtedly," Luc said, clapping his hands.

"Nobody our age uses the word 'undoubtedly' in English, Luc. If I actually cared enough, I'd tutor you."

"That is a splendid idea! I could tutor you in French and you--"

"I don't want to learn French. This is a cultural experience, not a language experience."

"Is language not a part of culture?"

Francine glanced at her watch. "We must leave now. We have to help with the hors d'oeuves."

"Ugh. I'm not touching that stuff."

David shot Kimberly a nasty glance. "I suppose in your country you eat"--he switched over to his heavily accented English--"jalepeño poppers and Buffalo wings. I know of Hooters." He nearly gagged on the name of the restaurant.

"Don't forget mozzerella sticks," Luc said, bobbing his head enthusiastically. "They are sticks of fried Italian cheese I have heard are quite delicious."

Kimberly breathed in for a moment and said, "Okay, guys, so I'm ready for my first French party. Let's go!"

They rammed into the car, Kimberly complained about the music on the radio station for the next ten minutes, and then they arrived to their destination.

A bunch of small, compact cars crowded the condominium's underground garage. After several rotations, David discovered an empty parking space and pulled in nose first. Not a second passed before Kimberly did what Kimberly did best.

"I am so dizzy!"

Luc patted her arm, while Francine tensed up her shoulders.

"Get out, Kimberly," David griped, "Get out and enjoy yourself."

The four of them took the garage elevator up to the condo's pool, where the party had apparently already started. Tables, topped with French flags for table cloths, framed the patio. They brimmed with food and drink, from bowls of grapes to fresh apricots to hunks of Camenbert to sliced ham to juicy chicken legs and more. It was an entire buffet arranged American-style but decidedly French in its options. Not a hunk of Chicago-style pizza or onion rings laid in view. The sight of deli meats, fruits, and cheeses didn't particularly excite Kimberly ("Just give me a strawberry banana smoothie, a baby spinach salad, and a plain hamburger any day, and I'll be happy for the rest of my life.") Neither did the prospect of kissing every single party guest.

Kimberly extended her hand when Francine first introduced her to the guests of honor. "Here are my dear friends, Claire and Claude. Tonight they are celebrating their 20th wedding anniversary."

Claire was a willowy woman with cropped gray hair and morosely gray eyes. A single, very pale mole hovered on her otherwise unblemished face, near her left nostril. She sported a draping blue tunic, black leggings, and gladiator sandals. Her nails were long and shined with the glossiness of black nail polish. She reminded Kimberly of the kind of woman who would appear in a cold cream advertisement. Claude reminded her of the kind of man who would appear in a dog food commercial, throwing a new-smelling frisbee to his smiling labrador retriever. He seemed about ten years younger than Claire, maybe at 45 or 50, and looked at her with placid green eyes. His high cheekbones were his most noticeable feature, despite his mossy stubble and dark sideburns.

When nobody reached for her hand, Kimberly hid it behind her back. Claire leant toward her, her lips rounded for a kiss. Kimberly quickly bent forward to peck her once and then leant back into place.

"No, no, no," Francine chided, "Like this." Francine stepped forward and gracefully puckered up. Then, in an aristocratically sweeping motion, planted a kiss on Claire's cheek before patiently moving to the other. She proceeded to give Claude the same poetic treatment.

"Did you guys practice that before I came here? 'Cause that just looked like a dance."

Luc snorted and turned to Kimberly, "That is simply how we greet people here."

"At this party?"

"No, in France. You greet someone with one kiss on each cheek."

"I thought that was only in Pepe Le Pew cartoons."

Luc raised an eyebrow. "I know not what you are referring to, Kimberly, but you must learn how to greet people in this country if you plan to stay here for three months."

"So I'm supposed to kiss everyone I meet?"

"Yes."

"Even strangers?"

"Yes."

[Read the rest of the story here.]