Again, But Better

15. Fail
I’ve always been under the impression that the Louvre was a museum under that iconic glass
pyramid. We’re now standing in front of said pyramid, but it’s surrounded by what looks like
another palace.
“Is all of that the Louvre?” I ask, stunned.
“Yeah, of course!” Babe answers.
“Holy crap.”
I’ve been dreaming about visiting this museum since I first learned about it in sixth grade, when
we were all forced to take Intro to French and Spanish. And then of course 
The Da Vinci Code
only
added fuel to that fire.
I’m particularly hyped when we come upon the 
Winged Victory
statue—the famous, armless
angel missing a head. It’s from, like, 200 BC. I did a report on it in that sixth grade French class. I
skip up to it. I’m only there alone for a moment before Pilot appears at my shoulder.
“You want a picture with it?” he asks knowingly.
“Yes, please!” I hand him my camera.
As I step out in front of the sculpture to pose, we make eye contact—he smiles and my brain
malfunctions. I raise and lower my arms like they’ve just sprouted from my torso. 
Oh god, not this
again. Hand on hip? Both hands on hips? Arms out in glee? One hand up? Pop a foot? Jazz hands?
Stand sideways? Shit.
I snap my arms down and smile with them straight at my sides like a soldier.
And then it’s over, and I’m offering to take one of him, desperate to get back behind the camera as
soon as humanly possible. He stuffs his hands in his pockets doing his cool-guy stance. Chill as
ever.
I check the camera to see what pose he got. Jazz hands and Soldier. Cool.
We spent forty-five minutes walking from the Louvre to the Eiffel Tower. Now it looms over us,
dark and daunting. While the four of us are gazing up in awe, a man wearing a winter hat and puffy
jacket walks up to us with a giant metal ring threaded with oodles of tiny Eiffel Tower replicas.
“Five, one Euro?” he asks anxiously. We just stare for a moment. “Five for one Euro?” he
repeats.
“No, thanks,” Babe answers. The man hurries away to a new group of tourists.
“Ready to scale this thing?” Pilot beams.
“Let’s do it!” I cheer. After climbing the Vatican, I want to climb all the things.
“Yo, heights freak me out, but I guess I’m down to climb, ’cause how often am I in freaking
Paris,” Chad comments.
Babe looks from Chad (who’s paler than usual) to Pilot to me. “I don’t think I really want to—
Chad, I thought you’d want to take the elevator. I’d really rather take the elevator,” Babe says,
turning to him.
“Come 
on
, Babe, let’s do the steps. When do you get to climb the Eiffel Tower?” he whines.
Babe frowns and stares upward for a moment before her gaze drops to me. I nod at her
encouragingly. She heaves a giant sigh and mildly rolls her eyes.

---

“Fine.”
“Yay! To the stairs!” I exclaim.
Minutes later, we’re at the base of another never-ending staircase. I hurl myself upward, taking
the steps two at a time, leading the way, Pilot climbing at my heels. Three hundred and twenty-eight
steps later, we make it to the first tier of the tower. We spend a few minutes snapping pictures,
leaning against the wire fencing, and admiring the view.
Babe heaves a sigh. “Okay, guys, I’m going to take the elevator the rest of the way.” She looks
at Chad expectantly.
“Okay,” he answers, oblivious to her obvious hinting that she wants him to come with her.
“Chad, can you come with me, please?” Babe asks pointedly.
“Oh, um.” He sighs. “Yeah, sure.”
“Thanks.” Babe looks at us. “We’ll meet you guys at the bottom!” They walk off into an indoor
area.
I look over at Pilot and raise my eyebrows.
“And then there were two.” He smiles at me again.
“Ready to head for the top?” I squeak.
“Am I ready? Please, Shane.” He smirks, striding toward the next set of stairs.
A sign lets us know we have 341 steps till the next tier. We climb in silence for a few minutes,
our feet against the metal providing the soundtrack to our ascent.
“So, I’ve been pondering that back-in-time question,” Pilot says out of nowhere.
I grin in surprise. “Oh yeah? And?”
“And I like your Constitution idea. I think I’ll hit that one up with you and sit in on that
meeting.”
“Oh cool, I’ll have a buddy to back up my I’m-a-man charade. You can jump in and be like,
‘No, I grew up in his town, he’s legit. Listen to all his genius, forward-thinking ideas,’ when they
accuse me of female-ery!”
Pilot smiles at the ground, and we continue up. “Have you cemented a second choice?” he asks.
“Uh.” I look anywhere but his face because I’m blushing. “Yeah, I think I’ll hit up that Beatles
concert with you.”
He looses a breathy laugh. “Damn, when we find this time machine, it’s on.” I laugh too,
releasing some of my pent-up giddiness.
The wind whips at my cheeks, throwing my hair around as we step up onto the second tier. Pilot
and I find a spot and lean against the protective grating that encases the area. In New York City, I’ve
looked out from the windows of tall buildings at an endless sea of gray skyscrapers. Rome was a
chaotic explosion of reds and burgundies. Paris … Paris looks like a painting. A work of art that
was carefully laid out and organized to look beautiful from every angle.
“This … is so cool.” The words fall softly from Pilot’s mouth. The wind is loud; I only hear him
because we’re standing shoulder to shoulder. Chills run over my arms. Pilot pivots around, and I
bounce nervously on my heels as he stops the first person who walks by. “Hey, could you take a
picture of us?”
He wants a picture of us? A white-haired woman takes the camera from my outstretched hand,
and we pose, smiling next to each other, his arm at my back, against the edge of the Eiffel Tower.
As the woman returns the camera, Pilot turns to me, excited again. “To the top?”
“To the top!” I cheer, new energy zipping through me. Who knows what will happen when we
reach the top—it’s just the two of us and I don’t know. I feel good about getting to the top