Free Lucky Break by J. Minter Page A

packages.
    I glanced down at the handwriting on the box, and I hated to admit it, but my heart sank when I recognized it as Camille’s. Instantly, a tidal wave of guilt hit me. I should be glad that I had friends who remembered to send me things even while they were having the time of their lives with their boyfriends in the most romantic city in the world.
    With a sigh, I gave the FedEx man my best attempt at a smile and took my package out to the balcony. It was only eight o’clock, but our villa was already so quiet. My dad’s golf clubs were gone from their spot in the corner and so was my mom’s massive purple Longchamp shoulder bag. I guessed both my parents were already hard at “work.”
    Using the keys to our villa, I cut open the tape on the box to find a small gold-wrapped package and an envelope with my name on it. Inside the envelope was a group photo of the Paris crew, arm in arm at the top of the Eiffel Tower. All eight of them looked like they were having an amazing time—with big grins on their faces and big baguettes poking out of their tote bags. It would have been totally frameable if Camille hadn’t drawn in a grinning stick figure next to where she stood in the photo. Her drawing had straight, shoulder-length hair, a crude depiction of the GPA binder in her hand, and the words
Flan in spirit
written above an arrow over her head. Despite myself, I was smiling when I read the card:
    DEAR FLAN,
    PARIS EST FANTASTIQUE, MAIS TU NOUS MANQUE!
ARE YOU SURE YOU CAN’T JET UP FROM ITALY? WE MISS YOU DESPERATELY!
    (It was right about then that I started to feel the tears well up again. Was my mom right? Was there no end to a woman’s tear production? I read on.)
    OKAY, OKAY, I KNOW YOU NEED THIS WEEK TO RECUPERATE, BUT WE’RE THINKING ABOUT YOU EVERY SECOND. IN FACT, I WAS THINKING ABOUT YOU THE WHOLE TIME I WAS READING THIS BOOK ON THE PLANE. READ IT—MAYBE IT’LL HELP. CALL ANYTIME.
    EVERYONE SENDS
MILLES BISOUS
,
    C.
    I held the package in my hand. The silky wrapping paper was so pretty that I almost didn’t want to rip it. Carefully, I pulled at the tape until the paper fell away and I could see the title of the book:
Feast, Fast, Fall.
    I opened the cover to read the jacket copy and started to understand why Camille had thought of me while she was reading—it was a memoir about a woman trying to get over a really bad breakup. It was sweet of Camille to think of me, but I wasn’t sure it was going to do any good.
    Occasionally, SBB would send me to the self-help section of one of the bookstores in my neighborhood when she was too paranoid of paparazzi to go herself. So I’d spent a lot of time flipping through the books on the shelf to find something suitable for her insanity du jour. But personally, I’d never been too into the self-help books for myself. Then again, I’d never really been through anything like this.
    With no parents to entertain me, and no real way to get anywhere (after yesterday morning, I wasn’t going to risk taking out the scooter on my own), I stepped back into my bedroom to grab the tray of breakfast food. I guessed I could just hunker down on the balcony, reading and eating the day away.
    Only a few pages into the book, I was hooked. This woman really had the right idea. She wasn’t trying to rush herself into getting over her breakup—in fact, she was totally indulging herself. A woman after my very own heart. She was in Italy; I was in Italy. She was stuffing her face with pizza; I was stuffing my face with
pane alla cioccolato
. Though pizza sounded really good—I wondered if any of the pizzerias in Sorrento delivered. Hmm …
    â€œYoo-hoo, darling!” I heard my mother’s voice followed by the click of her stilettos on the marble floor.
    I looked up from my book to see my mother, fully done up in snakeskin Derek Lam heels, a navy blue Calvin Klein bathing suit with matching