But there were other options. Just because we were with each other, we didn’t have to be together.
First we went to a patisserie, which means pastry shop. “I don’t know you,” I said as we stood in line. “And we will sit at separate tables.”
“Suit yourself.” Michel turned away from me. He said something in French to the girl behind the counter, and she loaded up his plate. I was drooling just looking at it.
When it was my turn, I said, “I’ll have what he had.”
“Eh?” the girl said.
I pointed to the pastries behind the glass case. “This stuff. An assortment.”
She shrugged and started speaking in rapid-fire French.
Meanwhile Michel was sitting by himself, stuffing his face.
I walked over to him. I hated to have to ask for help, but I had no choice. “Will you translate for me?”
“Eh?” he replied. “Do I know you, young lady?”
The counter girl started laughing.
So did a few of the customers in line. Then some customers at the tables.
“Come, I will serve you,” said the counter girl in perfect English.
A prank!
He had told her to pretend she didn’t know English.
I was seeing red.
I have never felt so embarrassed in my life.
Who did he think he was?
Calmly I picked up a cream puff from Michel’s plate. I gave it a good look.
Then I dropped it in his lap and headed for the door.
“Hey! Wait!” he shouted, following me out.
A few customers were applauding. Even that didn’t make me feel better.
Michel caught up to me on the crowded sidewalk. He had a powdery white stain on his pants. But I wasn’t laughing.
I could barely unclench my teeth to speak. “Why did you do that to me?”
“I’m sorry,” Michel said. “Really. It was a stupid joke. I just — well, you said you didn’t want to know me, and I guess that was a way to get you to sit next to me.”
Bonk.
That response hit me over the head. It made absolutely no sense.
“But you — do you —” I sputtered. “You don’t —”
Like me, I wanted to say. But it would have sounded idiotic. Michel hated me. He had to.
Still, he was looking at me with this sad, sorry expression. Was he faking? Was this another practical joke? I couldn’t tell.
So I just turned and walked away.
“Wait! How are you going to communicate with the Parisians?” He was right behind me.
“Sign language. I don’t know.”
“But it’s dangerous to be alone!” I could feel his hand touching my arm.
I whirled around. “You’re dangerous. I don’t trust you. I don’t like you. Now get lost before I scream!”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I wanted to pull them back. I was screaming. People were staring at us.
Michel recoiled. That’s the only way I can describe it. It was as if I’d hit him.
“I — I’m sorry,” Michel said quietly. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I thought — you know, all our arguments, the insults — I thought we were just kidding around. I thought we were just having fun together. I wouldn’t dream of hurting you, Kristy.”
My head was spinning. I felt dizzy and angry and hurt and happy all at the same time. My arms were tense. My throat was tense.
I tried to look Michel in the eye. I tried to say something. But I couldn’t.
Michel lowered his head. “Okay. Look. I could never forgive myself if something bad happened to you. My dad is French and I’ve been to Paris several times, so I can be useful to you, Kristy. Let’s make a deal. We can pretend to be friends, like an acting exercise. I promise not to play pranks or make jokes. You promise not to insult me.”
I am brave. I am strong. I can handle myself.
But I did not want to be alone. Not in a strange foreign city where people drive like maniacs and speak French.
Pretend?
He. Is. My. Friend, I said to myself.
This was not going to be easy. Not by a long shot.
I looked into his eyes. They were deep brown, like polished wood. I guess I hadn’t really noticed them before.
He smiled. That made him look a little less revolting.
I figured I could stand it. For a few hours.
“Which way should we go?” I grumbled.
“The Tuileries?”
“Whatever.”
We walked into this huge public garden, with flowers surrounded by low, trimmed hedges. Lots of kids were running around. They made me think of baby-sitting, and Stoneybrook. Both of which I was missing like crazy.
A little girl handed Michel a flower. Her mom scolded her, but Michel just smiled.
I smiled too. (Not at him. With him.)
One of the moms (or nannies, I couldn’t tell) smiled and said something to Michel in French. He blushed.
“What?” I asked.
Michel shrugged. “She said we were a lovely couple.”
I made a face. I took two long sidesteps away from him. Unfortunately, I nearly fell over a hedge.
Michel burst out laughing. So did the moms and nannies.
Part of me wanted to kick Michel. Part of me just wanted to run away. Part of me wanted to —
But I didn’t. I started laughing too.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said, brushing myself off.
Michel knew just where to go. I don’t remember all the places — an ancient Egyptian monument, a palace that contained a science museum, an apartment-building-sized arch called L’Arc de Triomphe — but they were cool.
So was Michel. He was growing on me, I guess.
He even ordered for me when we visited another pastry shop.
“Thanks,” I said between bites of croissant as we walked along this grand, tree-lined boulevard called the Champs-Élysées (pronounced something like Shonz-ellie-zay.)
Michel’s face lit up. “A kind word! Zut alors!”
“Whatever,” I replied. “It’s good food.”
“Are you saying this as yourself? Or is this still an acting exercise?” Michel asked, giving me this eager, puppy-dog look.
I let out a sudden laugh and nearly sprayed the Champs-Élysées with half-chewed croissant chunks. Which made me break into a coughing fit.
“Uh-oh.” Michel darted behind me. He put his arms around my waist and started doing the Heimlich maneuver.
“Don’t you dare!” I blurted out.
We were standing against an old brick building, near a public phone. I wasn’t coughing anymore, but Michel still had me in a front-to-back hug. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” I smiled. A little. My acting was getting much better.
Michel seemed to notice where his arms were for the first time. He dropped them and began inching toward the phone. “Well. Uh, maybe I should call the hotel? In case the group has returned.”
Quickly he picked up the receiver and made a call. When he returned, he was grinning. “Mr. D left a message saying he’s gotten our message. He’ll meet us at the Eiffel Tower at five.”
I glanced at my watch. “It’s only four.”
“A walk by the River Seine, ma chérie?” Michel held out his arm, like someone in an old movie.
It was goony. But hey, we were acting, right?
Besides, I love rivers. They are so peaceful.
I took his arm. “Sí,” I said.
“Oui,” he corrected me.
Arm in arm, we walked along the river to the Eiffel Tower. And soon I forgot that Michel was Michel and I was me.
I guess we had sort of become our characters.
As we rode up the crowded elevator of the tower, my character felt tired. So she rested her head against Michel’s character’s shoulder.
More people were smiling at us. A woman actually called us a “cute pair” — in English.
Oh, we
ll. She was entitled to her opinion.
As we strolled out onto the observation deck, the traffic noise seemed far away. The city stretched out below us, on either side of the Seine. I thought I detected a faint bakery scent on the warm summer breeze.
“They’re here,” Michel said softly.
I looked straight down. A tour bus was pulling up to the curb.
“End of acting exercise, huh?” I said.
“We have a few more minutes.”
Michel put his arm around my shoulder.
I let it stay there. My character didn’t mind it at all.
* * *
Mr. Dougherty was waiting for us anxiously as we emerged from the elevator.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Fine,” Michel and I said at the same time.
As we approached the bus, Abby, Stacey, Jessi, Mal, and a few Berger students came running off.
Michel went off with his friends. I had a big hugfest with mine.
Stacey was giving me a sly grin. “So, how was it?”
I shrugged. “I’m a big girl. I can handle being lost.”
“Yeah, but lost with the guy you absolutely hate the most?” Abby asked. “That must have been awful.”
They were teasing me.
But I didn’t care.
I just smiled. “Hey, I’m a good actress.”
“Okay, guys, Ms. Garcia called to say she’ll be late,” Jerry announced. “That means I’m in charge. So wake up — ten minutes till the kids are here! I need two volunteers for softball!”
“Me,” Logan called out.
I raised my hand.
“Me too!” Cokie piped up.
“Okay … Logan, Cokie,” Jerry said, writing the names on his pad. “Playground monitors?”
Cokie was grinning at me. As if she’d won something.
I was so, so sick of her behavior. She was ruining the camp experience for me.
“Excuse me, Jerry,” Janine said. “Mary Anne had her hand up.”
“Hand?” Jerry repeated. “Uh, Janine, this isn’t an honors classroom. You have to yell to get what you want. Playground monitors?”
Janine had been sitting at the picnic bench. Now she stood up. “What did you say?”
Jerry gave her a weary look. “‘Playground mon —’”
“No. Before that. The comment about an honors classroom. That was unfair and insulting.”
Whoosh. Away flew my thoughts about Cokie.
I could not believe this was Janine talking. I looked at Claudia. Her jaw was open in shock.
“Can this wait, Janine?” Jerry said. “We now have eight and a half minutes.”
“No,” Janine said firmly. “I was pointing out that Cokie had railroaded Mary Anne. Listening to me would have taken very little time. By verbally abusing me, you are causing this argument. Therefore, you are wasting time.”
“Go, girl!” Claudia shouted.
“Well — why —” Jerry sputtered. “Okay, fine. Mary Anne, you do softball.”
“Hey, that’s unfair!” Cokie yelped.
“Cokie, you hate softball,” Bruce Schermerhorn said.
Cokie glared at me. “Mary Anne hates it even worse. She was just volunteering so she could be with Logan. Weren’t you, Mary Anne?”
“Well, I —” I hate confrontation. Especially when other people are around. I wanted to crumple up and cry.
This was supposed to be fun. This was my summer vacation.
“Don’t listen to her, Mary Anne,” Claudia said. “Cokie, you are so out of line.”
“Can we please get started?” Jerry asked. “Cokie, you and Dawn do playground duty —”
“No,” I blurted out.
I couldn’t take this.
Cokie had been right. Yes, I do hate softball. And yes, I was volunteering just to be near Logan. Well, and to keep Cokie away from Logan.
But that was the problem. Her behavior was forcing me to make decisions. I wasn’t free to think for myself.
Which was just plain wrong.
“Cokie can coach softball,” I said.
Logan was slashing the air horizontally with downturned palms, as if to say No!
Cokie smiled triumphantly. Then she turned and saw Logan.
Her face fell. “Oh,” she said dully. “I can see I’m not wanted.”
“Will you guys please grow up?” Jerry pleaded.
“My feelings exactly,” Cokie said, storming away. “I hate being around babies. I quit.”
“Come back here!” Jerry yelled.
“Oh, stuff it, Michaels,” Cokie replied.
Jerry threw down his clipboard. “Terrific. I’m losing a counselor. You see what you started, Janine?”
Janine’s eyes widened. I thought she was going to cry.
She took a deep breath. She looked straight at Jerry and said, “Stuff it, Michaels.”
Claudia let out a hoot.
I almost did too.
Janine turned away and jogged after Cokie, stopping her by the playground entrance. Janine talked to her calmly, with a concerned, respectful expression.
Jerry’s face looked ashen. “Well, uh, let’s get to work.”
Logan smiled at me. I smiled back.
He and Bruce Schermerhorn ran to the equipment shed.
Dawn and I went to the playground. “This is the most exciting day so far,” she said, “and the kids aren’t even here yet.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Janine and Cokie greeting the Barrett/DeWitt kids as they came in.
Cokie took Taylor DeWitt’s hand, and they skipped over to the hopscotch area.
Janine was beaming. “Jerry?” she called out. “The gate hinge is coming loose. Can you find a screwdriver?”
Jerry muttered something and walked inside.
I could see a tiny smile forming on Janine’s face.
Claudia ran to her from the arts and crafts area, gave her a big kiss, and ran back.
I was very impressed.
“Earth to Mal!” Jessi said.
I quickly closed my journal and looked up.
The park benches around me were empty. A moment ago, they’d been full of SMS and Berger students.
“Where is everybody?” I asked.
Jessi was standing over me, hands on hips. “Walking through the Tuileries. Admiring the flowers. Which is what we’re supposed to be doing.”
I stood up, tucking my journal under my arm. “Sorry. I was at the good part.”
“Yeah? Is Mariel in the past yet?”
“She just made the time switch. But she doesn’t know it yet.”
We were approaching the group now. Everyone was oohing and aahing over flowers.
“Kristy was right,” Jessi said. “This place is stunning.”
“Do you think she should let anyone know?” I asked.
“Who? Kristy? She did —”
“No, Mariel. I mean, if someone else knew, then that might add extra suspense to the plot. You know, will the trusted person reveal the secret? Or do you think that would take the emphasis away from Mariel’s inner thoughts?”
“Mallory?” Jessi said. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Do you remember where we’ve been today?”
“Um.” I was drawing a blank. “Wait. That big jail place —”
Jessi laughed. “The Bastille! Did you hear what the guide said? You know, that the French Revolution started there, after six hundred people stormed it and released all the prisoners?”
“Cool,” I said. “I missed that part. I must have been writing.”
“You were writing at the Cathedral of Notre Dame too.”
“I know, but that was the toughest part. I had to straighten out all the details about Mariel’s life in the present.”
“That place was incredible, Mallory! It’s eight hundred years old. It took two hundred years to build. The frescoes, the statues, the flying buttresses —”
I burst out laugh
ing. “The what?”
“Girl, have you forgotten something? We are in Paris. You may never have a chance to see this place again.”
“As soon as I finish the story —”
“Look, I know I’m not a writer, okay? But when I was in the Bastille, I thought of a dozen story ideas.”
“Then you should carry a notebook. Writers need to write all the time.”
“And dancers need to dance, Mal. But we also have to rest. We have to experience life. If you spend all your time writing, you’re forgetting to live. And if you forget to live, how can you be a good writer?”
Hmmm.
I hadn’t looked at it that way.
I glanced at my notebook again.
I knew what I needed to write. The ideas weren’t going to fly away.
“Okay,” I said, tucking my notebook into my backpack. “I guess Mariel can wait until Stoneybrook.”
* * *
Well, I am really glad I listened to Jessi. I loved our visit to the Latin Quarter. We wandered through the Sorbonne (an ancient French university that’s still active), and Mr. D somehow found this weird little museum in a police station that featured torture weapons and displays of Paris’s most grisly crimes. (I thought I was going to barf. Jessi said, “This’ll be perfect for your first horror novel.”) But my favorite part of the day was eating dinner in a cozy little bistro with brick walls and a working fireplace.
I was stuffed and happy when we reached our hotel.
Jessi fell asleep right away. But I couldn’t.
So I turned on my night-light. And I took out my journal.
Okay, so we weren’t in Stoneybrook yet.
I was only doing it to make myself tired. That’s all.
“What’s the point of being in Paris and going to Disneyland?” grumbled Kristy.
“Right,” I said.
“You can go there anytime when you’re in the States.”
“Yup.”
“But you can only take a tour of the Paris sewer system when you’re in Paris.”
“Exactly.”
I’ve learned not to disagree with Kristy when she’s in a mood. I wasn’t sure why she was grumpy, but I wasn’t asking.
Besides, I really was thrilled about this tour. I mean, think about it. How can you really know a city without seeing what’s underneath it?
Most of the other SMS and Berger kids were piling into the EuroDisney tour bus. Stacey was helping her mom round up the Stoneybrook gang. It was nice to see the two McGills getting along again. That trip to Normandy really seemed to bring them together.