©2025 SammyC

“It’s not every day an amnesiac orphan finds out she’s betrothed to the son of a millionaire French corporate executive.”

Monday morning. Halloween. Sitting in Home Room. I was spooked. And not because of all the kids careening through the halls in their Halloween costumes. After all, I myself was wearing a Travis Kelce Kansas City Chiefs football jersey, my face made up and hair all done up to look exactly like Taylor Swift, just like my twin sister Regina, sitting next to me. One school day a year, Rossington High relaxes their dress code. And everyone takes advantage.

No, that wasn’t what was spooking me. It was finding out Gigi LeClerc was practically engaged to some French dude who was expecting me to join him at The Sorbonne in Paris next Fall! I didn’t know this guy from Adam or Antoine. And the way he looked at me. Like he owned me!

Uncle Richie told me not to worry about it. It’s not like we were actually betrothed. After all, Noah was in Paris, 3,669 miles away (5,905 kilometers). There was a snowball’s chance in H E double hockey sticks that I’d be joining him at The Sorbonne next year. Not with my grades. LOL.

A devilish smile crossed my face as I pondered that private thought. Much better to contemplate how cool Regina and I would look at the Halloween party tonight at Coach Mason’s house. All the cheerleaders would be there! And all the members of the marching band…including their majorette…me! And their dates! I’ll get some quality time with Tom! I wonder if Winnie will be there. Crutches and all.

In the midst of my pondering, the IP speaker above the whiteboard trumpeted an announcement from the school secretary.

“Will Genevieve LeClerc please go to Mrs. Geldof’s office immediately! Genevieve LeClerc please go to Mrs. Geldof’s office ASAP.”

Our home room teacher, Mrs. Blake, pointed at Regina. “That’s you, Gigi. You’ve got 10 minutes before first period. Whatever it is, make it snappy.”

I stood up and placed my notebook into my backpack. “I’m Gigi. That’s Regina. Mrs. Blake.”

“I could tell you girls apart before, but you had to go and wear the same costume for Halloween. Oy vey!”

I walked through the doorway of Barbara Geldof’s office, my backpack swinging by my side. Mrs. Geldof, my guidance counselor, looked up from her desk and I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. She was wearing a pink plaid print bow decor Cami dress topped off with a faux pearl necklace straight out of the Barbie movie. Margot Robbie, she did not resemble. Even with the blonde wig.

“Oh, stop it! I’m only wearing this because we’re having a Halloween party at home tonight and my daughter insisted we dress up as Barbie together.”

“You wanted to see me, Mrs. Geldof?”

“Oh, yes, Gigi. Good news. Quite unexpected, really. Considering… Well, never mind. Congratulations, Gigi. You’ve been accepted to The Sorbonne! You’re the earliest admission we’ve ever been notified of! Usually early decision doesn’t happen until January.”

“I’m not going.”

“Paris! Oh my. You know, we had one senior who got admitted to Oxford about six years ago and then there was Cynthia Prescott who applied to Kyoto University… What? You’re not going?”

“I’m probably staying home and going to Parsons instead.”

“But why? The Sorbonne! Paris! France!”

“I have my reasons. Mrs. Geldof, I have to get to my first period class. Thanks for the head’s up.”

I turned to leave the office. Mrs. Geldof sat frozen behind her desk, a shocked Barbie expression on her face.

It was almost 6 o’clock when practice ended that afternoon. Tom had decided to add another number to our repertoire: “Separate Ways (Worlds Apart)” by Journey. How appropriate I thought when Tom announced it, handing out score sheets. For my part, as long as it was in 4/4 meter, I was fine. I was anxiously awaiting the end of practice because I was supposed to be home preparing dinner by now. I knew Regina wouldn’t do it. She’d already agreed to pick up Artie from school in my place. And she had no interest in doing housework of any kind.

Unable to spare the time to change out of my majorette outfit, I rushed out of the gym, just barely avoiding Tom’s lips as he tried to kiss me goodbye.

“Hey, babe, see you at the party in an hour. Regina told me Billy’s driving both of you to Coach Mason’s house.”

“Sorry, Tom, but I’ve literally got to run.” I blew him a kiss and almost collided with one of the school superintendents, getting ready to mop the corridor leading to the exit doors.

Almost out of breath, I barreled into the house, my eyes down, dashing into the kitchen. I threw my backpack and majorette hat onto the dinner table as I flew by my mother. My mother?! She was home early.

“Gigi! Where’s the fire? Look who’s dropped by to visit.” She pointed in the direction of the living room. I walked back toward Mom and took in the scene before us.

Sitting on the sofa and various chairs in the living room were Nick, Regina, and Artie. That wasn’t unusual. After all, they live here. But there were three other people in the now-crowded room. Standing up suddenly and slowly approaching me was Noah, the boy I had met at the LeClerc house in Summit yesterday morning. I flinched as he wrapped me in his arms and planted a kiss on my cheek.

“Gigi! Mother and father are here to take us all out to dinner!”

I was too stunned to reply. Before I could muster a response, both Mr. and Mrs. Artaud greeted me warmly, kissing me on both cheeks as is the French custom. In particular, Mr. Artaud was somewhat overly affectionate, brushing the back of my skirt with an open palm.

“Oh, Genevieve, is this sort of military style in fashion with young women these days?” Mrs. Artaud asked, scanning my majorette outfit.

“This old thing? It’s a majorette outfit. I’m in the school marching band.” I pantomimed tossing a baton in the air and catching it. Then I posed with arms akimbo, my chin up and proud.

Mr. Artaud whistled. “Tu as une silhouette sexy dans cette tenue, c'est sûr.”

Mrs. Artaud gently slapped her husband on the arm. “You’re embarrassing the dear girl, cher.”

“She’s beautiful even if she wore a…what’s the American phrase? A burlap sack?” Mr. Artaud winked at his son.

“You didn’t tell us about Noah’s parents, Gigi,” interjected Nick as he too rose from his easy chair. “Mr. Artaud—”

“Charles, Nick. Charles and Anaïs. Genevieve has always called us by our first names. We insisted on it. After all, as close as we were to her parents…” He turned toward Mom. “Her adoptive parents, Marcel and Delphine, that is. It was only natural for Gigi and Noah to fall in love—”

“Charles, you’re making Gigi blush. Stop teasing the poor girl. She and Noah have to keep some things in confidence,” Anaïs scolded her husband.

“Mother, there’s no secret about our love, right, Gigi? Only the matter of legal age has kept us from marrying. When Gigi enrolls in The Sorbonne next year—”

“Gigi, is this true?” Mom asked in a worried tone.

“I don’t know. I mean, I can’t remember.” I pleaded with Noah. “I’m sure we were in love like you say but…things have changed. I have very few memories of anything before the helicopter crash—”

Mr. Artaud patted my arm. “In time, chérie. In due time. You’ll recover your memories. We have to be patient, don’t we, Anaïs?”

“When the crash happened and they couldn’t find any trace of you, I was destroyed,” Noah said. “Even my studies at The Sorbonne seemed useless. My reason for living had vanished with you. But now…now God has answered my prayers.”

“Our prayers, son. We all love Genevieve,” Charles intoned solemnly.

“I can’t wait to plan the wedding. Of course, we’ll have it in Le Gros Caillou, in the church where Charles and I exchanged our vows.” Anaïs clasped her hands together, closed her eyes and sighed.

“Wait a minute,” Nick interrupted. “If the two of you are going to be college students in Paris, what are you going to live on? I mean, two part-time jobs won’t support a couple of newlyweds. Unless rent’s a lot cheaper in France—”

“Have no worries, Nick,” Anaïs assured. “Charles is a direct descendant of the founder of L’Oreal, Eugène Schueller. The company sent him to the States to oversee our interests in this hemisphere. In fact, we plan to return to Paris next summer. Charles’ work is finished here. The children can live with us in our apartment in the 7th Arrondissement.”

“Gigi’s been there. Two summers ago on holiday. There’s a wonderful view of the Eiffel Tower out of my bedroom window,” Noah smilingly offered.

“Well, that’s a different story, isn’t it. I didn’t realize you were so…so well-connected.” Nick crossed his arms as if satisfied that his newly acquired step-daughter’s future was secure.

“You’ve all got me married already! And I’m sorry, Noah, Mr. and Mrs. Artaud but—”

“Charles and Anaïs, Gigi. Please.” Mr. Artaud patted my arm again.

“You’re virtual strangers to me. I’m sure you’re not lying to me about everything but…”

Mom put her arms around me. “We’ll work this all out, honey. You have to wait for your memories to come back. Even then, you’re a free agent. You do what you feel is right for you not what other people’s plans for you might be. Sorry, Noah, Charles and Anaïs, but my daughter isn’t ready to make a commitment right now. Give her the time to regain her memories.”

“Of course, Sara and Nick. We understand.” Charles turned to me. “But let’s have a welcome home dinner to celebrate the return of our little angel here. We have all the time in the world to sort things out. There’s a wonderful French restaurant in New Providence, just outside of Summit where we live, called Matisse 167. The food is to die for. Thirty minutes away. We can fit everyone in my car.”

“We can fit eight in your car?”

“No, sweetie, Regina and Artie aren’t coming with us,” Mom informed me. “Billy Bacigalupo is going to drive them to Coach Mason’s house for the Halloween party. Billy should be here to pick them up soon.”

“I have to change out of this outfit—”

“No need to, Genevieve,” Anaïs declared. “You look very cute in your majorette outfit. And it is Halloween, after all. I’m sure Pascal, the maître d, will find you utterly charming.”

As we walked toward the Artauds’ car, Anaïs gently nudged me away from Nick and Mom and started to whisper in French.

“Nous pouvons parler en toute confiance, chérie. Dites-moi, est-ce que ces gens vous traitent bien ? Pour être honnête, je n'aime pas ce Nick. Très grossier.” She sniffed the air as if recoiling from a bad odor. I understood most of what she said, employing my high school French. But I decided to answer her in English.

“Nick isn’t as bad he seems. His bark is worse than his bite. He thinks he’s acting like a good father. Sara has been more than wonderful to me. I couldn’t ask for a better home environment. And I love Regina and Artie—”

“Regina. I’ve been told she is…comment tu dis…transgender. Is that true?”

“Yes. Are you disturbed by that?”

“No, no. I think it’s wonderful that she has you as a mentor in the ways of girlhood.”

“I think I’ve learned more from her than vice versa.”

“That’s an odd thing to say.”

“Sit up front with me, Gigi,” suggested Charles as he held the passenger door open for me.

It was the second time in less than a week I found myself dressed as a majorette in a ritzy restaurant. These things only happen to me. Like going through a vortex and emerging in a different universe with all my private parts rearranged.

Pascal and Noah tried to pull out my chair for me at the same time, leading to some awkward banter in French between them. Finally, Noah wrested the assignment away from Pascal and I slid down onto the chair, remembering to smooth my skirt before I did.

Nick monopolized the table talk with Charles, extremely inquisitive about L’Oreal’s headquarters in Berkeley Heights, the dimensions of their warehouse, the size of its workforce, even the scope of its employee benefits. Give Charles credit. He knew Nick was bending his ear to eventually ask for a job but kept smiling and nodding as he scarfed his beef bourguignon.

Anaïs had taken the liberty to order for me, assuring me that it was my favorite dish on the menu. When the dish was placed in front of me, the expression on my face puzzled Anaïs.

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember your favorite dish, Gigi. It’s Moules Marinières. Mussels in White Wine Sauce. No?”

It was a pile of black-shelled clams, except these clams were longer and oblong in shape rather than round. Did I mention I’m not a big fan of shellfish? I had to try hard to resist upchucking at the sight of them.

“Gigi, you order that every time!” laughed Noah.

“She’s just like Regina. I tried feeding her shellfish at an early age. She’d spit it out at the first opportunity. That was when she was 4 or 5. The doctor says she doesn’t have an allergy. Just doesn’t like the way it looks.” She giggled. “Regina told me shellfish look like giant insects to her.”

“Can I order something else?” I asked Anaïs. She looked at me strangely for a few seconds but nodded. I caught Pascal’s eye and mimed holding a menu in my hands. A minute later, I was trying to read the French names of all the entrees. Exasperated, I must have sounded like 4- or 5-year-old Reggie.

“Can I get a cheeseburger?”

The cheeseburger was fine, a little too well-done, but, with a large dollop of ketchup and chased with what Pascal told me were “gherkins,” it went down my gullet satisfactorily with a glass of Sprite. Charles offered me a sip or two from his glass of Pinot Noir, but I demurred, reminding him that the drinking age in New Jersey was 21.

Charles winked at me. “Well, chérie, it’s legal to drink in France at 18. You turn 18 in March as I remember. Wine is the food of love, they say.”

I checked Noah’s watch (a Bell & Ross watch like the one worn by French President Macron) and sprang up from my seat.

“Do you want me to go with you, sweetie?” Mom asked.

“No, I’m fine. I’ll be quick.”

In the ladies room, I made a beeline for the stall farthest away from the door. After taking care of business, I took out my cellphone and punched in Tom’s number. After two or three rings, Tom’s familiar voice came on.

“Gigi? Regina told me you were out to dinner with some family friends. Kind of last minute, eh?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that, Tom. I wanted to call you before the party broke up to explain.”

“Why aren’t you facetiming this? You could show me how ritzy this restaurant is. Ritzier than Ophelia?”

“Because I’m sitting on a commode in a stall in the ladies’ room. You want to see me with my skirt down around my ankles? Don’t answer that!”

“So, tell me what’s going on.”

I tried to condense the facts of the matter into a palatable paragraph or two. As I was explaining things, I even started to doubt my own sanity. What must Tom think of my life, not to mention my mental state.

“Whoa! You’re engaged to this French dude? And you’re going to study at The Sorbonne and live with his parents and him in Paris? Jesus, Gigi, you’ve got to be kidding me—”

“I’m not engaged! I don’t remember this guy or his parents at all. Maybe they’re telling the truth but I’m…seriously…a different person entirely from the Gigi they used to know. Believe me!”

“Eventually, you’ll get your memory back, Gigi. And you’ll leave us all behind. Especially me. You should be ecstatic. A millionaire’s son is head over heels in love with you and you’ll get to study at The Sorbonne and live a block away from the Eiffel Tower—”

“I really like you, Tom. I don’t want to go to France. I want to be with you…”

“I like you too, Gigi. A lot. But we’re from two different worlds. One day, you’ll wake up and remember who you really are. And you’ll want to study in France and live in Paris and marry that French dude with the millionaire parents. Look, a bunch of us are heading over to the Orange Lantern right now so I’ve got to get off the phone. By the way, Regina and Artie are probably already home by now. The kid got kind of sick from too much candy and soda. Regina and Billy took him home. See you tomorrow!”

He disconnected, leaving me tearful and distraught, sitting on the toilet, my skirt around my ankles, cursing the universe. This universe, my original universe, any universe!

I needed some time to pull myself together, so I went through a side door of the restaurant and leaned against a brick wall to calm myself. I didn’t even notice the stench of garbage emanating from the dumpster just a few feet to my right. The door opened suddenly, startling me. It was Noah.

“It’s cold out here. Want me to get you your majorette jacket?”

“No, I’m coming back in now.” As I passed him, he reached out to gently grab my shoulders and look into my teary eyes.

“Something wrong?”

“I wish…I wish I could remember things. Anything. I’m sorry, Noah. You’re a nice boy. I’m sure you are. But I don’t know you. Do you understand?”

“I don’t understand. But it’s something we can get through together. By this time next year, all your memories will have returned. And we’ll be studying and living together in Paris. We’ll do our homework with a view of the Eiffel Tower. I promise you. You’ll see.”

“Forget me, Noah. Find yourself a new love. You don’t need a basket case like me, hanging around, complicating your life. I don’t think I’ll ever regain my memories. You can’t live with that.”

“I wish I could stay with you and help you but my flight back to France is tomorrow morning. It kills me to leave but midterms are scheduled starting next week Monday and, I confess, I haven’t studied much the last week or so ever since my parents told me you were alive.”

“I’ve already caused you problems. You see? You’re better off forgetting all about me—”

“Like you’ve forgotten all about me?” The painful look on my face made him contrite. “That was not funny. And uncalled for. Forgive me. Your mother told me you’re going to the Homecoming Dance with the big man on campus, the quarterback on the football team—”

“Well, Nick made me go with him. I wasn’t planning to.”

“Let’s go back inside. You’re starting to shiver.” He escorted me through the door and into the heated warmth of the restaurant.

“You’re one lucky girl, Gigi. It’s not every day an amnesiac orphan finds out she’s betrothed to the son of a millionaire French corporate executive. And has been admitted to study at The Sorbonne in Paris, where she gets to live in an apartment overlooking the Eiffel Tower.”

The Artauds had just dropped us off at our house. Nick fumbled with his keys as he recapitulated the various ways in which I was “one lucky girl.” I kept silent but Mom tsk-tsked him, wiping some stray tears from my cheeks as we waited for him to unlock the door. Nick had finished off a bottle of Pinot Noir with Charles’ help. Apparently, Charles was sober enough to drive even after downing several glasses, but Nick was a little worse for wear, swearing under his breath as he struggled with the key. Finally, Mom took the key from him and popped the lock.

As if replying to what Nick had said minutes ago by now, I asked, “Don’t I have a say in all of this?”

They answered discordantly. Nick said, “No.” Mom said, “Yes.”