Beautiful Americans Read Online Free Page A

yapping at our feet.
    I coo in delight. I’ve always wanted a dog! When one of the poodles pees on my foot, I don’t care in the slightest. These dogs are just the cutest little puppies in the world!
    “ Elise !” Mme Rouille bellows when she sees the little puddle and the drops on my flip-flop. The maid reappears and wipes my foot and the floor aggressively with a hot, soapy towel. I look up at Mme Rouille, laughing. She shrugs. I hope she knows that I don’t mind. What’s a little dog pee among new friends?
    “Seriously,” I tell her. “I, like, looooove dogs. My mom won’t let me have one. I’ll walk them, whenever you want. Every morning!”
    “ D’accord, ” Mme Rouille accedes, perhaps more to get me to shut up than anything else. The dogs bark their agreement, and it’s settled.
    Mme Rouille’s apartment is not large, but it is very fancy, crowded with furniture and Baroque in its over-decoration. It’s almost scarily clean. The polished hardwood floors gleam as though they were still wet from being scrubbed. Every piece of crystal in the gargantuan chandelier in the living room flashes reflections of the light streaming through the spotless, opened window panes.
    Mme Rouille quickly explains to me that she’s just finished having her apartment repainted. That’s why the light green walls of her son’s room—the room where I will be staying—are bare. She hasn’t hung his posters back up yet.
    “Thomas lives in le dortoir now,” Mme Rouille says, a little sadly. “He is too busy studying to be a docteur for to visit his maman . He’s brilliant, my son.” At the French word for doctor her voice brightens with pride a bit. “You can make this room your own, if you want.” Then she bustles out, clearly not one for long conversations.
    I want to flop down on the twin bed and close my eyes for at least the next twelve hours, but my audition awaits. Growing agitated, I choose my favorite leotard, a new black one with halter straps and a sweetheart neckline, to wear for my big moment.
    We hop back into the Mercedes and set off for the ballet academy. I steal another glance at my host mother.
    Madame Rouille is impossibly put together, unlike the moms I know in Southern California who live in flared jeans and tank tops. She’s obviously very rich, with her posh apartment and her live-in maid. Looking at her, wanting her to like me, I resolve to shed all my grotesque American habits as soon as humanly possible. My feet, for example. Sticking out of my flip-flops are dry, callused toes covered in spotty, chipped hot pink polish. No Parisian wears flip-flops, I’m sure. Dance has made my feet as mangled enough as it is—the least I could have done was get a pedicure before I left.
    I was too busy saying goodbye to Vince, I guess. I didn’t have time to properly prepare for my swanky new lifestyle.
    “This neighborhood is called Ternes ,” Mme Rouille states in a nasal, snooty voice as we drive along a wide street called Boulevard de Courcelles . “It’s a very elite area of Paris. Full of good families.” Mme Cuchon had told us that our host families would speak to us in French, but Mme Rouille addresses me in English only. It seems like she has nothing much to say to me, in either language, at all. At this point I’m feeling so weary and overwhelmed that I don’t really mind.
     
    Located on the outskirts of Paris, the Paris Opera Ballet School houses the best young dancers in the world. They live and breathe ballet and have to be absolutely committed to a life of dance.
    Today I’m trying out for the non-residential program of the Paris Opera Ballet School, the program that allows the students to go to regular school but also get top-notch ballet training. Best of all, classes are at the Opéra Garnier, right in the center of Paris.
    “ Pour les danseuses avancées ,” the young teacher’s assistant guides me toward a group of ballerinas gathered to one side of the basement studio.
    I