Lily B. On The Brink Of Paris Part 3

"Lindy Sloane, the Singer/Actress/Celebrity Personality?"

Lewis studied me for a moment, the way he might look at an entirely new species of rodent discovered in Laos. Curious, but not necessarily in a good way. Maybe he didn't know who Lindy Sloane was.

"Please don't tell me you're one of those deluded Sloane fans," he said.

So he DID know who she was!

"The Sloane Rangers, you mean," I said.

Lewis nodded and pulled back slightly, as if he'd just realized I very possibly had the bubonic plague. Sloane Rangers lived and breathed for Lindy Sloane. They wore what she wore (or cheap knockoffs). They ate what she ate. They read what she claimed to be reading. And they spent every second of their free time in Lindy Sloane chat rooms, posting articles and fanfic on Lindy Sloane forums, and poring over the latest paparazzi pics posted on the gossip sites.

"No, Lewis, I am not a Sloane Ranger. In fact, I am imperatively, aggressively, and categorically NOT a Sloane Ranger. You might say I'm the antiSloane Ranger. I consider myself more of a Celebrity Social Crime Scene a.n.a.lyst. I keep track of the outrageous antics, and I incorporate them into the Character Portion of my Mental Pool."

"Your Mental Pool?" asked Lewis. He still looked a bit worried about bubonic contagion.

"It's a writer thing." I said.

"Uh-huh," Lewis said.

"And one of the people I constantly update in my Mental Pool is Lindy Sloane. In case I ever want to write a novel satirizing Hollywood." Because she certainly wasn't going to make it into my Great Parisian Novel. Lindy Sloane and Paris went together like oil and water. Like chocolate and mayonnaise. Like Not at All.

Lewis stared at me for a while, like he was still trying to decide if helping someone who admittedly had a Mental Pool was ethical or dangerous. After about a minute he hit a few keys on his Sidekick and read from the screen.

"She's gone platinum," he said.

"Her CD!" I cried, stunned.

"Her hair," Lewis said. "Platinum blond. They say she might have also added some extensions."

Now Lindy Sloane as a platinum blonde was just wrong, wrong, wrong. She had been a redhead forever.

But I waited for Lewis to continue.

"She's missed a few days of work filming s.p.a.ce Teen. Her publicist said she had the flu and got dehydrated, but a source close to the film crew says she just ran off without telling anybody."

I nodded shrewdly, as any person does when a publicist says a star "got the flu."

"The publicist says she's on location but needs to recover from exhaustion."

I nodded again.

"That's about all," Lewis said. "There are some quotes from the s.p.a.ce Teen cast saying the usual things: Lindy is the hardest-working girl in Hollywood, she does eat, and she isn't too skinny, she just photographs that way-that kind of stuff."

"Thanks, Lewis," I said sincerely. "I guess I came down too hard on your Sidekick."

I have to say, seeing Lewis in the summer Paris light, outlined with leaves and the elegant buildings of the Place des Vosges in the background, I realized that he looked...even smaller and younger than I'd always thought. He probably wouldn't be a bad-looking guy, in twenty years or so, especially to women of the five-foot-three-and-under set. But right now he just looked like a very small guy whose eyes and nose were too big for his face. Still, he was trying to be nice to me. And he'd given me the Lindy Sloane update. I wouldn't forget that.

Suddenly Charlotte appeared out of nowhere, looking distraught and out of sorts.

"What's wrong?" I asked quickly. Had she been robbed? Insulted? Had Charlotte been arrested?

"I've checked every shop here, and I can't find one that has the latest edition of The Economist!" she cried.

"So you'll find it tomorrow," I said.

Charlotte appeared, at this moment, to turn legitimately white with rage.

"The issue is published TODAY," she said. "I need to read it TODAY. While the news is still FRESH and CURRENT."

"There might be an online version," Lewis said. "Maybe I can access it."

Charlotte looked at Lewis as if he had just pulled a family of puppies from a burning building. After just a few taps he turned the screen toward Charlotte. From where I was sitting, I could see the red rectangular logo of The Economist on the screen.

Charlotte gave a little shriek of delight and instantly began to read.

Paris really has brought out the best in Lewis.

FROM THE PARISIAN DIARY OF.

Lily M. Blennerha.s.sett

Today was a stroll to the magical Gothic world of Notre Dame Cathedral! With the appropriate scholastic preparation, 700 years of history simply sprang to life before me! My exhaustive knowledge of French medieval architecture certainly served me well. I might have waxed philosophical over flying b.u.t.tresses all day had we not been required to stretch our legs in the direction of the Place des Vosges. After such a day immersed in antiquity and artistic genius, our modern-day culture is all but forgotten!

Four.

I have stated More Than Once that I am no Simple Tourist. So you can imagine the shock, the DISMAY I felt when I learned what was on the board for the day. I found out by asking Charlotte, the Information Pack Commando, as we ate our Very Not French breakfast that morning.

"Don't you have your schedule, Lily?" Charlotte asked. "Where's your information pack?"

"I left it in the thingy," I said casually.

"What thingy?"

"Charlotte, you have yours IN YOUR HAND. It's just a simple question! What are we doing today?"

Charlotte was taking longer than usual to be mollified.

"You should already know," she said.

Arghhh.

"I did know, Charlotte. But I've FORGOTTEN."

"Lily, you must become more detail oriented!" Charlotte said, waving her rolled-up copy of the schedule around like a broadsword.

I never could understand why Charlotte, who knew me better than anyone, had never grasped the simple fact that writers are the ONE group of people on earth who should not have to be bothered with things like DETAILS. Had I not just the past year had a job as an a.s.sistant to a Real Writer, dealing with little irritants like crumbs and Post-its? Did this not prove that Real Writers could not deal with these little things themselves? Did Charles d.i.c.kens concern himself with printed itineraries and street maps while writing Oliver Twist? I think not.

"Can you just tell me where we're going, Charlotte?" I asked meekly.

Charlotte produced one of her vintage sighs.

"Disneyland," she replied.

"Very funny," I said. "Where are we going today?"

Charlotte stared at me evenly.

"Disneyland," she repeated.

It was even less funny the second time.

"Fine. I apologize for not being detail oriented enough and vow to do better in the future. There, I've said it. Okay? Now where are we going?"

"Disneyland Paris."

O Hammer of Thor! She was SERIOUS! You can't expect a writer to visit Disneyland while in Paris. That was like expecting Mozart to compose while listening to Snoop Doggy Dogg. That was like asking van Gogh to paint under a strobe light. Like wanting the Dalai Lama to meditate while bungee jumping. THERE WOULD BE NO GEMS AND NUGGETS FOR MY MENTAL POOL IN DISNEYLAND PARIS!

"Okay, wait," I said. "Charlotte, it has to be a mistake. You and I both know our parents didn't cough up the Benjamins for this trip so we could go to Disneyland. This is supposed to be educational."

"Remember the orientation meeting for this trip?" Charlotte asked.

I feared I was being lured into a trap, but I nodded. I did remember.

"Remember whose dad made the trip possible by getting our group the fifty-eight-percent discount on plane fare?"

"Yeah, it was Bud's dad. Or Chaz's dad. One of them."

"That's right. And what company does Bud's dad have the special work connection with, that he told us all about?"

c.r.a.pstick. I had tried to jettison this information into a Memory Abyss, but now it was bubbling back to the surface.

"Walt Disney," I mumbled.

"And what did Bud's dad really, really want us to do in Paris since we were flying on his discount?"

"Visit Disneyland Paris," I muttered.

"As his complimentary guests."

"As his complimentary guests," I repeated. Okay, in a dog-eat-dog world it made sense. When offered hugely discounted plane tickets, Madame Chavotte and our parents could not very well look a gift horse in the mouth and refuse the additional "offer" of free admission to Disneyland Paris. But surely there would be some kind of loud, unarmed rebellion? Certainly we did not intend to go quietly into that good fright?

"Bonnie? Do you realize we have to go to Disneyland today?" I asked.

Bonnie was gazing dreamily into her mug of green tea.

"Yeah, man, of course! I've always wanted to see Sleeping Beauty's Castle."

Bonnie, G.o.ddess of the New Age, Channeler of Universal Intent, Communicator with Angels, had always wanted to get closer to...Sleeping Beauty's personal residence?

"Janet?" I asked. She looked up from the Paris guidebook she was immersed in.

"J'aime bien le Teacup Ride!" she squealed. "Is it time to go?"

I was outnumbered. I was defeated. Unless I developed a sudden case of appendicitis, a la Madeline, I was going to Disneyland Paris. The Land of the Wee and the Home of the Knave. Realm of the Simple Tourist.

Oh. The Humanity.

EVERYTHING YOU EVER WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT.

DISNEYLAND PARIS BUT WERE AFRAID TO ASK,.

ACCORDING TO LILY M. BLENNERHa.s.sETT:.

MOST VOMITATIOUS RIDE: s.p.a.ce Mountain BEST INSTANT CONNECTION TO CHILDHOOD: Bonnie running toward Captain Hook's Pirate s.h.i.+p in a decidedly Tinkerbellian fas.h.i.+on BEST PICTURE: Charlotte clapping hands over eyes outside Phantom Manor and feigning horror WORST SCHEDULING DECISION: Consumption of chili dog and extra-large fries twenty minutes prior to boarding Indiana Jones and the Temple of Peril Ride MOST EMBARRa.s.sING MOMENT: Too many to specify NUMBER OF SLOANE RANGERS SPOTTED: Nine LEAST USEFUL ARTICLE ACQUIRED: Three-foot-high stuffed Donald Duck won at arcade by Lewis INTELLECTUAL PEAK: Spontaneously recalling seven miscellaneous facts about the Gold Rush while strolling through Frontierland TIMES SEPARATED FROM GROUP: None!

NUTRITIONAL ACCOMPLISHMENT: Consuming Mickey Mouseshaped lollipop measuring nine inches in diameter in under seven minutes VISITS TO LADIES' ROOM: Fourteen (three for hand and face was.h.i.+ng only) FRENCH WORDS SPOKEN: One (if "ooh-la-la" counts) MOST IRRITATING INCIDENT: Janet insisting on calling Sleeping Beauty's Castle Le Chateau de la Belle au Bois Dormant MOST TERRIFYING SIGHT: Bud and Chaz trying to flirt with Snow White MOST SOBERING MOMENT: Madame Chavotte boarding the Dumbo ride behind Tim IMPORTANT LIFE LESSONS LEARNED: See "Worst Scheduling Decision"

PARISIAN GEMS AND NUGGETS RECORDED: Zero I dozed off once or twice during the train ride back to Paris. Jet lag, it turns out, has absolutely NOTHING on Disney lag. For someone who'd allegedly spent the entire day in recreational activities, I felt like a swimmer who'd just doggy-paddled across the English Channel. My overfed stomach was pooching out against the waistband of my jeans like I'd swallowed a beach ball. At least Jake wasn't around to see that. My feet throbbed. My eardrums hurt. And I seem to have left my sense of balance back on s.p.a.ce Mountain, because every time I closed my eyes, I felt my head spin.

But I will admit in secret, Dear Readers, that I kind of enjoyed myself.

Janet was chattering away to Bonnie, who was listening with what appeared to me to be a Profound Level of Tolerance. Charlotte had somehow acquired a copy of The Wall Street Journal, but she seemed to be finished reading it. At least I a.s.sumed that was the reason she was holding the paper on her lap and staring at me for great lengths of time.