Page 11 - My FlipBook

AMY BEARCE
AMY BEARCE
crowd, squeezing through like fish moving upstream. I pressed
close to Reggie.
"Hey, you look a little rough," she said to me, deep brown

eyes filled with concern. "Even paler than usual. No offense.
You okay?"
I laughed. “You mean other than being freaked out by a

creepy guy selling junk, banging my head on the bunk first thing
this morning, and having Sophia dump water all over me two
seconds after I got up? I’m great.”
I touched the bump on my skull, courtesy of our teacher’s
drill-sergeant-style wake-up call. I kept forgetting that our ador-

able room in Le Petite Hostel had super-short bunk beds, and
I was on the bottom.
“Not the best start to the day, true, but hey! The Eiffel Tower!

Finally!” Reggie did a ta-da pose and added a little boogie, un-
concerned about the stares she drew or the people she jostled.
She didn’t follow the same rules I did. It was part of why I loved
her—she broke all kinds of rules and always managed to come
out on top.

Sophia adjusted her hipster blue-framed glasses and threw
an arm around Reggie while staring at me with her pale-blue
eyes. “I said I was sorry. And I’m the one who had to change my

pants. You were still in your pajamas anyway.” She flipped her
hair over her shoulders. Sophia unapologetically bleached her
sandy hair to a silvery white, which somehow worked with her
ivory complexion. No way could I ever pull off a look like that.
I yawned, unable to stop myself. “My favorite pajamas, yeah.”

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