The bell rang and, as we noisily gathered our books and folders, Mademoiselle Amaury announced, "OK! Tomorrow we will talk about advanced statistical analysis."
This drew a loud groan from just about everyone in the class, myself included, and I nudged Chloé gently.
"You mean there's more advanced stuff than what we've been doing for the past six weeks?" I exclaimed. "This class is going to be the death of me."
Of course, being a Senior at the International School of Paris, I actually said this to Chloé in French, a language that I have been more or less fluent in since my parents moved to Paris six years ago.
Chloé laughed and shook her head.
"Ahh, Michel." She always calls me Michel even though my name is Michael. "If you were to focus more on what Mademoiselle Amaury is teaching and less on the length of her skirt you might find the class a little less difficult."
I blushed, realizing that Chloé might be a little more aware of my crush on Mademoiselle Amaury than I had imagined.
"Ah, that isn't fair! I don't look at her like that!" I responded.
"Michel, you are an eighteen-year-old American virgin. Watching you look at her is like watching a starving man looking at a ham sandwich. Why do you drool over her when there are so many girls of your own age you could date?"
"What? Oh, come on Chloé. I'm not that shallow!" I said, shaking my head defensively.
"Really, Michel? Tell me that you've never spent time looking at her boobs or legs?"
This rebuke was delivered with more than a hint of annoyance in her voice. Of course, being clueless about girls, it wasn't obvious to me why she might be so upset, however, I knew enough to understand that I should try to defuse the situation.
"Well, OK, maybe I'm attracted to her just a little bit," I said. "But just because I admire how she looks doesn't mean that you need to get angry."
Chloé's response was simply to arch her eyebrows, shoulder her backpack and, without as much as a single word, abruptly head to her next class.
I was a little flummoxed by her rapid exit, which, I guess, is unsurprising since the sad truth is that despite possessing a strong well-muscled physique and being one of the brightest kids in the year, I've always been pretty shy and clueless when it comes to girls. In particular, I've never quite managed to get my head around how they think—a failing which has regularly landed me in trouble with Chloé.
She and I have been best friends since just about the first day I started at the school. Her father, Jean-Yves, met my dad, who's a diplomat when they were both working in Dubai. They became good friends, as had our moms, and had stayed in touch even after returning to their home countries. When dad was offered an assignment at the Paris embassy he was excited by the opportunity to renew his friendship with Jean-Yves and his wife, Marie, especially when he discovered he could find a place for me in the same International Baccalaureate program as Jean-Yves's daughter. I guess he figured that it would be good for me to have a friend around when making a start in such an alien environment.
And make no mistake, an alien environment it was, at least to a twelve-year-old kid from DC. Not only did they speak a strange, foreign language, eat weird food and watch sports that most people had never heard of (rugby, anyone?) but their whole culture and approach to life was totally different from anything I had experienced. Consequently, having Chloé around to answer questions and guide me through the minefield of French cultural norms was a godsend that I had taken advantage of many, many times.
As it turned out, the fun and laughter that we shared as a result of my cultural ineptitude had, over the years, turned us into best friends who now spent much of their waking time together. Not only did we hang out together most nights of the week, either doing homework or working out in my basement gym, but at weekends we'd often go running or Chloé would act as a tour guide while we explored Paris together.
Now I guess I should add that while Chloé is indisputably one of the hottest girls in the school, she and I are simply friends. Sure, I've admired her statuesque beauty and the locks of golden blonde hair that tumble in curls down past her shoulders, and while I'll admit that I've lusted over her small, trim body more than once, the fact that she is my best friend has always placed her off-limits in my mind.
That's not to say that I'm immune to the charms of the female form. Like any testosterone-fueled eighteen-year-old guy I'm almost perpetually horny. It's just that, being so shy around girls, I've never really had the nerve to extend a friendship into something more intimate. So Chloé is correct in asserting that I'm a virgin, although as far as I can tell, so is she. In her case, I'm sure it's through choice rather than any lack of opportunity, however.
I caught up with Chloé over lunch, having determined that I needed to find out exactly what had been troubling her earlier.
"Is everything ok?" I asked quietly. "You left Statistics class really quickly this morning."
She smiled across the table at me. "It's no big deal, I overreacted. Don't worry about it, Michel. It's just that, you know..." she said, her voice trailing off. "Oh, never mind,"
"Chloé, you know we can talk. What's bothering you?"
She stared out of the window momentarily before turning and looking at me accusingly.
"I'm a woman, Michel," she said, pausing for a moment. "I know I'm young, only eighteen, and have all of my life in front of me. But sometimes I just wish people would notice me."
"What do you mean? Of course, people notice you. You're beautiful, intelligent, funny, caring."
She looked at me with her piercing blue eyes, smiled and shook her head.
"Thank you, I appreciate that. But why were you ogling Mademoiselle Amaury when there are so many girls of your own age?" she said, the merest hint of sadness in her voice. "You never look at me like that."
"I wasn't. I was just, ugh...it's just what guys do, Chloé. It doesn't mean anything."
She looked out the window wistfully and sighed as she turned back towards me, a look of disappointment on her face.
"Honestly, guys can be so obtuse at times! Let's just drop it."
Since it appeared that I had, once again managed to draw her ire, I was more than happy to drop it and switch subjects.
"Has your mom talked to you about plans for Ski Break yet?" I asked, brimming with excitement. "Sounds like they are planning a trip to Chamonix. I can't wait to get some skiing in!"
Her deep blue eyes regained some of their normal sparkle.
"Oh, are you sure? Mamam hasn't said anything about vacation. It would be wonderful though."
