Lost!

Noise. That’s all I really remember waking up to; incoherent, undistinguishable noise. I rolled over groggily, not wanting to leave my wonderful spot on the warm beach of my dream world. That’s when reality kicked in, and I realized this wasn’t all a dream. I jolted up.

“She eez awake,” shouted a blonde girl sitting on the floor in front of the couch. She stared at me as if I was some sort of alien, and after a while it started to make me nervous. I looked away, but I could still feel her bright green eyes boring a hole straight through to my soul.

I surveyed the room nervously. I was never comfortable around people, especially strangers. I tried not to look as paranoid as I felt.

“Oh good,” smiled a tall, black haired girl that was making her way to the couch. “I am Sasha, and thees is Yasmina.” The blonde smiled and waved.

“Vot is your name?” the one called Yasmina asked, still staring at me. It made me a bit uncomfortable.

“Sophie,” I replied, wiping the sleep from my eyes.

Sasha sat down beside Yasmina, and they both smiled at me. It was like I was in a horror movie with a bunch of creepy porcelain dolls. They were beautiful, but eerie.

“Your acksend. You are from America, yes?” Yasmina asked excitedly, as if I was from some exotic land.

I nodded slightly and decided to make conversation.

“And yours, you must be from Russia?”

The smile was wiped quickly off of Yasmina’s face and replaced with a scowl. The first time I make conversation with two strangers, one of them gets offended.

“No, I am not Russhian. I am from Ukraine. I vould rather die than be Russhian,” declared Yasmina, crossing her arms.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know…” Sasha waved her hand in the air to stop me.

“Don’t vorry about her, she eez alvays touchy about her home land,” she assured me. Yasmina rolled her eyes.

I bit my lip and tried to diffuse the tension. “So, Sasha, are you from the Ukraine as well?”

“No, I am from Russia,” Sasha frowned almost instantly, but didn’t have a total meltdown like her friend.

I ran my fingers through my hair, feeling a bit awkward as the other two feel silent. I didn’t think it wise to speak again, because I didn’t want to offend anyone. But this awkward silence was becoming unbearable.

A few short moments later, another body burst into the room. He was a tall, very burly sort of guy that Jordan and Krista would go crazy over. Sasha and Yasmina smiled immediately at him, swooning frenziedly.

“Hallo, ladies,” he said nonchalantly, throwing himself on the bed. He had the same accent as the two girls, but I figured it’d be best not to ask where he’s from. The last thing I needed was to offend a guy that could probably kill me with his bare hands.

“Hugo, thees is Sophie. She’s from America,” Yasmina beamed, as Hugo threw his hand up in acknowledgment. I wasn’t sure whether to wave back or not.

Right when I thought the room couldn’t get any more crowded, another boy walked in. He was the exact opposite of Hugo. Small and thin, he moved with the grace I had only seen in the boys in the ballet class I took in high school.

“Hi there,” he said, smiling goofily at me. I was surprised to hear he didn’t have much of an accent. I nodded in his direction as Yasmina looked up from an outdated fashion magazine she found under the couch.

“That’s Peter,” she said to me. “Peter, thees ees Sophie.”

We exchanged awkward hellos and the room fell silent again. Yasmina was flipping through magazines printed before she was even born while Hugo cat napped and Sasha sat on the end of the bed, filing her nails.

I had to admit it, Peter was cute. He had a charismatic air to him, but I seemed to be the only one to notice this. Yasmina and Sasha paid him nowhere near the amount of attention that they paid Hugo. I doubted that Jordan and Krista would find him interesting, either. Then again, we’ve always had a different taste in boys. They wanted the body, I wanted the mind.

“I’m starving,” Hugo announced, finally breaking the silence. As he got up out of his bed, Sasha and Yasmina followed him like stray puppies. “Pete, do you vant to go eat vith us?”
Peter, who was stretched out on the top bunk of an empty bed with a book, looked up and shook his head. “No thanks man, I think I’m just going to chill here.”

Hugo nodded in my direction, as a way of asking me if I’d like to join them. I shook my head shyly, happy to see the three of them leave. Although I didn’t want to spend my afternoon in a room with a stranger, I supposed it was better than spending it with three. Plus, Peter couldn’t be much of a threat. He seemed relatively quiet. As long as he didn’t speak to me, I figured, I’d be fine.

“So, American, huh?”

Shit.

“Unfortunately.”

Peter jumped down from the bed, shaking the entire room. I found myself hoping right away that the floor wouldn’t cave in under us. I bit my lip and braced myself for whatever was coming next. I’d never been alone with a boy before, ever.

“My mother was from the states,” he announced, walking over to the window in front of me. At that moment I was kicking myself for not stealing Krista’s mace.

Peter turned to me then and raised his eyebrows. “Don’t be so tense, I’m not going to kill you or anything.”

I was trying to keep as quiet as possible. Maybe, I figured, if he thought I was shy, he’d stop talking to me. It was strange; my paranoia wanted him to stop talking to me, which was nothing new. But I could feel something else inside of me secretly wanting him to notice me. I shook it off almost immediately. This was not acceptable. I was nearly 4,000 miles from home; this was not the time to make friends. Although, it’s always better to make friends than to make enemies.

“Come on,” urged Peter as he made his way towards the door. “If you’re staying in Marseilles, you’re getting a proper tour.”

“Oh no, I think I’d rather stay here,” I assured him, shaking my head. Words cannot express how terrified I was. I just wanted to curl up and take another nap. Sadly, “scared naps” aren’t as easy to take as “angry naps.”

He walked over and grabbed my arm, pulling me towards the door so quickly I barely had time to grab my purse off the floor. I struggled to gain my footing as Peter dragged me down the spiral staircase. If this were any other person, I would have fought back. Something stopped me, though. It was just something about him that made my gut want to trust him. And my gut was never wrong.

“Where are we going?” I finally managed to ask when we reached the front door.

“Dinner!”

Peter slowed down as we got outside, and I realized we didn’t have any transportation. Town was nearly twenty minutes away. I let out a sigh of relief, maybe he’d realize his mistake and we wouldn’t go anywhere. Although I was happy about it, I couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit disappointed.

As I stood on the porch, Peter disappeared behind a few bushes near the side of the house. When he emerged, he was pushing a red electric scooter. There was no way I was riding twenty miles on the back of a moped.

“Come on,” he said, putting up the kickstand and smiling goofily.

“There is no way I’m getting on that,” I replied dryly, crossing my arms. This time, I was putting my foot down. Too bad I was easily manipulated, which would explain why I have such terrible friends.

The ride into town was quick and practically painless. The cold air nipped at my ears and blew through my hair, leaving me awkwardly clinging to this total stranger for dear life. Peter pulled in front of a quaint café in the middle of downtown Marseilles, or what I assumed was downtown, anyway.

It was beautiful. It was yet another building covered in ivy, but this time it actually looked nice. The café itself was a small brick building with a square patio out front, spotted here and there with small wire tables and chairs. Typical French restaurant.

Peter turned around and smiled at me, and I realized I hadn’t let go of his waist yet. Blushing, I hopped off the scooter and stood on the curb, watching Peter put up the kickstand.

At that moment, I could not get over his smile. I had never seen anyone smile like that. It was adorable and annoying at the same time. But nevertheless, I liked it. It definitely was contagious.

When we finally reached a table, Peter ran around and pulled out a chair for me, his signature smile still plastered on his face.

“After you, my lady,” he beamed.

I thanked him shyly. A soft breeze blew through my hair, tickling my neck and cooling me down. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. As Peter moved to sit down, I fished my English-to-French dictionary out of my purse. Heaven knows I was going to need it. He smirked, but thankfully didn’t say a word.

“So, what’s a cute American girl like you doing all alone in Marseilles?” His voice was good-natured, and it strangely calmed me. Had it been anyone else, that comment would have been very creepy.

I started slowly but surely telling Peter my story. For some unfathomable reason, it was easy to talk to Peter. I ranted and raved, but he didn’t seem to mind. He listened intently, and nodded at all the right pauses, never interrupting me. When I finally finished, he smiled.
“Nice to see you’re not afraid to talk to me anymore.”

I smiled and looked down at my hands resting in my lap as he called a waiter over. While Peter ordered in perfect French, I searched my dictionary’s phrase guide to find out how to ask the waiter what he recommended.

“Qu’est-ce- que- vous me- conseillez?” I sputtered out, at which both the waiter and Peter laughed.

“I recommend ze pork, it’s very good,” the waiter laughed.

“She’ll take that then,” Peter said quickly, before I could try to speak any more French.

“Do I dare ask what ze lady would like to drink?” The two looked at me expectantly.

“Donnez-moi un jus de pomme,” I said, smiling at both of them. As the waiter walked away, Peter’s jaw dropped.

“How is it you can barely speak a word of French without that dictionary, and yet you can ask perfectly for a glass of apple juice?”

I shrugged. “I just really like apple juice.”

We chatted nonchalantly until the waiter brought us our food. I could tell why he recommended the pork, it was very good. In between bites of his pasta, Peter asked a question that I knew was coming sooner or later.

“So why did your friends just leave you?”

I sighed and put down my fork. “Honestly, I don’t know. I think if I was more of a partier, more like them, they would’ve stayed. But frankly, I think I bore them, and who would want to stay behind with someone that bores them?”

It was quiet for a while, and the sun was starting to set over the hills in the distance. I couldn’t help but stare at the beautiful sight.

“Well,” Peter finally started, “You don’t bore me. If that counts for anything.”

“It does,” I replied as I tore my eyes away from the sunset and smiled weakly at him.

There was a silence looming around us, and Peter looked at me with interest, almost as if he didn’t believe that was all to the story. I honestly couldn’t believe I was letting my guard down this easily. I couldn’t believe I was getting this comfortable with a complete stranger.

“I guess Krista and Jordan never really liked me. I cramped their style, and embarrassed them quite a bit. I think they only really used me for money. Both of their dads work for my dad in a very successful law firm in Boston.” I was shocked at how smoothly the words were coming out. “But I was never like them. Jordan and Krista were always the popular, girly type, and the center of attention.”

“Well why wouldn’t they like you? Just because you’re different doesn’t mean you can’t be friends,” Peter commented, looking more agitated with the matter than I was.

“Oh come on,” I said, lifting up a strand of my hair. “What beautiful blonde would ever want to be seen with a mousy-brown haired girl like me? I guess our friendship really started going downhill when I ruined their chances of meeting cute guys at the mall because I didn’t wear makeup.”

The more I thought about it, the more I was certain that was what happened. When we were in the eleventh grade, Jordan, Krista, and I all went to the mall to celebrate my birthday. They were supposed to be helping me look for a better wardrobe. A prettier, more expensive wardrobe. The entire time, the two of them complained about my lack of makeup and hair dye.

“You’re better off without them,” Peter assured me, reaching across the table to touch my arm.

The next morning, I awoke to the sound of chickens clucking. I peered out of the window to see Adail throwing feed onto the ground in front of the hostel. She was, yet again, wearing a frightful shade of pink. I rolled over and tried to shield my eyes from the sunlight creeping in when it hit me: my passport could be in the mailbox right that instant.

I jumped out of bed and bounded down the spiral staircase, looking around to see if anyone was awake yet. I made my way into the kitchen, searching through the mail on the counter.

Nothing.

I sighed and leaned against the wall. Slowly but surely, I sank onto the floor, tears threatening to pour. It just isn’t here yet, I assured myself. It’s coming. Krista mailed my passport this morning and it’s on its way here right now.

“’Morning,” Peter announced as he skipped into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He took one look at me, frowned, and disappeared upstairs. Surely I couldn’t have looked that rough.

He returned quickly, throwing a bundle that was a tanktop, shorts, and sandals at me. “Get up, we’re going to the beach!” I could tell right away he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

I changed in the small downstairs bathroom, and then we were off. The scooter ride wasn’t near as shocking as it was the previous night. It actually felt refreshing to have the sun on my shoulders and the wind in my hair. Peter kept looking back at me and smiling, then nearly wrecking.

When we finally got to the beach, it was like nothing I’d ever seen. I was used to the sandy beaches of South Carolina that my parents went to every summer. There was no sand here, only small, surprisingly smooth pebbles. Also absent were the obnoxious sunbathers in their brightly-colored swimsuits. It was perfect.

“You like it?” Peter asked, obviously noticing the smile that was plastered on my face.

“Only a whole lot!”

I climbed off of the scooter and ran towards the bluish-green water. I felt like a child again, like nothing mattered. For that moment, I forgot all about being lost. Perhaps that was because I wasn’t lost at all. I felt at home with Peter, and that scared me. I hardly knew him. But that didn’t seem to matter.

We spent the entire day at the beach, watching the tides come and go at strange times, skipping rocks, and feeding the occasional seagull. Peter and I talked about anything and everything, and I realized then and there that maybe everything did happen for a reason, like my mother always said.

After a picnic lunch that Peter somehow snuck past me at the hostel, we lay on the beach, watching baby seagulls chasing after their mother. I was laughing at one of the babies tripping over rocks when I felt Peter staring at me.

“What’s up?” I asked, turning over to face him.

What he said next made me euphoric and broke my heart all at the same time.

“You’re perfect.”

“Is this heat getting to you?” I joked awkwardly.

“No,” he said, looking me straight in the eyes, “I seriously think you’re perfect. You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met. You have this personality that’s so unique. You’re so funny, and you don’t even mean to be. You are this raw type of awesome that comes unintentionally.”

Silence took over then, I was speechless. Usually, Peter was all jokes and laughs, but this time he was serious. I didn’t know what to say. Every inch of my heart was screaming to tell him how I thought the same thing about him, but my brain was telling me it’d never work. He rolled over and stared casually at the sky.

“I just like everything about you. I like how you’ve drank nothing but apple juice the entire time we’ve known each other. I like how your eyes are the color of that sea foam over there,” he motioned to the ocean. “Most of all, I like how you’re completely petrified of every stranger here, but somehow, you’re comfortable with me.”

It took me a long time to think of how to word what I was feeling.

“I’m at home with you,” I finally said, breaking the silence.

Peter reached over and grabbed my hand, and we stayed like that for ages. It was the best feeling in the world, somehow knowing he wasn’t expecting me to make any sort of commitment. It was more like he was confessing his feelings to a diary rather than to the person whom his feelings were for.

When we arrived back at the hostel, the group of Russian (and Ukrainian) teens still was nowhere to be found. We stood around awkwardly in our communal room, not really knowing what to say. I sat on the couch and stared out the window, while Peter lay on his bed and pretended to read. I could hear him opening and closing the book.

I couldn’t take it anymore. Turning around quickly, I caught his eye. As if he was worried something was wrong, Peter came over quickly and joined me on the couch.

“What is it?” he asked quickly.

“I love you,” I said frankly. I had never said that cluster of words to another human being in my life, and yet, I was sure I meant it. I bit my lip, unsure of what his reaction might be.

Finally, he smiled as goofily as he had on the day we met. He wrapped his arms around me in a giant embrace that I had only dreamed of. We held each other all night, hardly talking at all, yet smiling the entire time.

As I felt Peter fall asleep behind me, I knew that losing my passport was the best thing that ever happened to me.