Page 1 of Everything About You
à bon chat, bon rat.
That’s a French idiom I learned recently, and while the translation is literally “to a good cat, a good rat,” it basically
means someone has met their match.
The cat is a skilled chaser, but the rat just as cleverly evades.
I’m not exactly a cat person, and I’m definitely not going to call myself a rat, but luckily I don’t have to be either for
a while. Up until now, my entire life has been all about competition and adversaries, so I’m relieved to finally be done for
a whole summer.
I’ll still have to work hard, but I’ve already beat the competition. I’ve already won, and that’s why I’m here, in Paris, where perfection just might actually exist: There
is a feeling everywhere like you’ll just never find anything better. The grass is greener, the treats are sweeter, and the
art is bolder.
Plus, the drinking age is eighteen, which means I can enjoy a bottle of Sancerre with my best friend without a sketchy fake
ID claiming I’m a twenty-seven-year-old from Michigan.
We’re sitting at a tiny bistro table outside a cafe near the base of a bridge, crammed in with other people who also have their backs to the windows, and across the Seine, against the bright blue sky, is the Musée du Louvre.
This was the cafe we stumbled upon after a day at the Musée d’Orsay, which Celeste had somehow thought was the name of a macaron
flavor when I’d sent her a list of activities this morning. I posted my first Parisian TikTok with the iconic gilded clock,
wearing some white European tennis shoes I found at Nordstrom, thrifted jeans, and an oversized Ralph Lauren oxford from the
nineties.
Il est arrivé .
“ Mon dieu , Milo,” Celeste says. “I still cannot believe this summer is real.” She has her eye on a pink YSL crossbody passing us on
the sidewalk. Wearing a lacy top and high-waisted jeans, with her blond shoulder-length hair perfectly crowned by a black
beret, she sips her wine and quirks a brow. “Well, I sort of can believe it, actually. If anyone could make this happen, it’s
you.”
I reach for a square of the buttery croque monsieur we’re sharing straight from a cast-iron skillet. “And everything turned
out so perfectly. For all the stress and moving parts—the sleepless nights and phone calls and emails and the panic over passports
and student visas and arrangements and outfits .”
“I always knew it’d be fine,” Celeste says coolly. “This is destined, honestly. We’ve been manifesting a summer abroad for
years, it’s only fitting.”
We wasted no time after graduation, which was two days ago, before zipping our already-packed suitcases and offering au revoir and bisous bisous preemptively to anyone we encountered before our flight. Immersion is important, after all.
“You’ll stage a coop at Maison Dauphine, and I’ll find amour .”
I laugh, ignoring that last part. “It’s a coup, ma cheri . And I will not. It’ll be a friendly takeover.”
“Of course, of course.” She snaps her fingers, pointing across the street. “Nineties Chanel tweed.”
“Nobody in Citrus Harbor is that chic,” I say.
She shakes her head. “Except maybe your mother. We’ve made it to paradise. Or—how would you say it in French?”
“ Paradis ,” I say, nodding in agreement. “We have made it. We’re here. In Paris. For the whole summer.”
“We’re here!” She grabs my wrist and squeals. “Our European summer!”
Celeste’s bubbly joie de vivre might lead some to the conclusion that this was effortless. That we woke up in luxurious baroque chambers wearing satin pajamas
as breakfast was served on silver platters and Edith Piaf drifted in through the portes-fenêtres .
In fact, the road to Paris from Citrus Harbor was anything but simple.
It was March, and it was three o’clock in the morning in Florida.
Maison Dauphine, one of the biggest fashion designers in France—in the world—posted about a new apprenticeship. Open to students
internationally, it was a true talent-scouting situation. One student would get an internship on crack, training and learning
for a full-time role at the end of the summer.
I saw it around 6:30, when I was trying to find the motivation to get up for school.
One student? In the whole world? Out of billions of people?
Milo, c’est impossible . Right? Why even bother?
By lunchtime I’d plotted no less than three flawlessly designed ideas for my entry. By the final bell of the day, I had three
more.
Ideas have never been my problem. For this, especially, they came effortlessly—referencing my own knowledge of Maison Dauphine’s
iconic collections and history, speculating about the future of the design house.
I’m great with ideas, but I tend to struggle with deciding. Executing.
Because everything has to be perfect.
I’m not someone who can just pick something and hope for the best. I have to forecast and optimize and plan contingencies.
That’s one of the reasons I love tennis so much. I can control and calculate and command the court exactly how I want to.
By dinner, the numbers on the apprenticeship posts were daunting at best. Comments, likes, shares—they all added up to one
lump sum of competition. I figured I’d have to do something drastic, but what ?
I only had one idea, and it definitely felt like it would make a statement.
My older brother was the first person I consulted. He thought the idea was absolutely nuts and would get me blacklisted from
the brand. I decided not to even ask my mother, who owns a high-end boutique and would probably have seized my phone before
letting me post.
Celeste, however, totally believed in me.
“Fuck them if they don’t get it,” she had said while we ate tacos by the pier. With queso all over her lips—one of the only foods she’d ruin her Hailey Bieber lip gloss for—she’d rolled her eyes. “You’re amazing and so talented and smart. You deserve that apprenticeship.”
My best friends from tennis were also very pro-Totally Wild Idea. Chip, in particular, was adamant that the only way to win
was to make sure I got their attention.
So, I got their attention.
I decided it must be true that all press is good press and leaned in to that. The concept was one thing, but the execution
was key.
Considering that Maison Dauphine had recently been lambasted for launching a bag that was so exclusive the Kardashians couldn’t
even get one, and considering this criticism was likely why they were trying to rebrand with this generous offer for young
talent, I figured it was a chance to look directly into the belly of the beast.
So, I submitted a Photoshopped luxurious lifestyle vignette with Maison Dauphine products. It was all gold, diamonds, pearls,
champagne, and excess, but the focus was the Waitlist, lined with the most rich and famous fashion icons, dead and alive.
It was a risk, but it was calculated.
Le reste appartient à l’histoire .
“I wonder if you’ll find love too,” Celeste muses. She stares off, wistful, and exhales as if expressing her hopes and wishes
to the universe through the simple act of wanting.
“I’m not here for love.” I sigh. This is so Celeste.
Don’t get me wrong, we both have had our share of boy-crazy moments, but Paris is different. Paris has to be different. The
guys I dated back home were distracting dead ends, so if that’s what I have to look forward to in Paris, I’d rather focus
on the apprenticeship.
“Isn’t it the city of love?”
“No,” I say. “Not for me. I’m here on business, remember?”
“Of course.” She catches my expression immediately. “Okay, but it is still our last summer before college. Before I go to college.” She corrects. “It is sort of absurd I’ll be in college, and you’ll be starting your career with Maison Dauphine.”
“As long as I crush the apprenticeship,” I say. “It’s contingent on everything going well. HR was almost too clear about the
fact that they could revoke my spot for any reason.”
“Sure, sure. Still, this summer can be business and some pleasure.” She wiggles her brow as a group of shirtless cyclists
speed by. “We deserve to have fun too!”
“There are plenty of fun things that don’t rob you of your time or, like, your soul,” I say, swirling the Sancerre in my glass
in an effort to distract her.
Celeste groans, then flicks her hair over her shoulder, pouting and glancing up the Quai Voltaire. “Currently I think the
most fun thing would be a tall, tan garcon in a Saint Laurent suit.”
“Non.” I roll my eyes. “ Absolument pas.”
Undeterred, she shrugs. “You never know what’s going to happen, Milo. No matter how hard you try to control things, this is
our summer in Paris, and it might just be unpredictable. There might just be boys.”
I’m fairly convinced there is not a guy out there for me. There are just too many boxes to check, and the odds seem slim,
if even at all probable.
That’s a rabbit hole for another day, though.
“I doubt I need to remind you, but—”
“Our summer in Paris is only the start.” Celeste parrots back my mantra. “Well, hopefully. It might be good to relieve some of the pressure and start with fun—”
I shake my head. “What are the odds of a random Citrus Harbor High School student winning a social media contest and getting
an apprenticeship with one of the biggest fashion houses in the entire world? This is, quite literally, the chance of a lifetime.
I can have fun after I get a real job with the company and am more secure in Paris. Right now, everything is riding on this
summer going perfectly and me giving a hundred and ten percent.”
“One of my favorite things about you is that you’re never intense at all.”