Lily B. On The Brink Of Paris Part 5

But we were interrupted.

"Look!" Janet said, pointing. "Look at her, you guys. Look at that woman, right there!"

Janet was gesturing at a woman coming down the sidewalk with a tiny white dog. She didn't look like anything special to me-just a woman in a short skirt and a top that might be more appropriate for someone a tad younger. A decade or two.

"That," whispered Janet reverently, "is a real Parisienne. Look at her posture! Those pearls! That outfit! Have you ever seen anything so chic? So sophisticated? So positively formidable? They simply do not make women like that in America. They simply do not. Edith Piaf could NEVER have been an American."

"Who is this Edith Piaf you keep going on about?" I asked.

But Janet was fixated on the approaching figure of alleged chicness. Oh, c.r.a.pstick. It looked like Janet was going to try to TALK to the woman. The situation was morphing from Simply Stupid to Enormously Embarra.s.sing. I thought about hiding under the table, but the quarters were too cramped. So I attempted to look like I didn't know Janet, like she'd just sat down with us accidentally. Then, to my horror, my fears were realized. Janet leaped up and extended a hand toward the woman.

"Bonjour! Je m'appelle Jah-nay!" she cried brightly.

"Watch the dawg-he bites," said the woman in a distinctly Long Island accent. "I don't speak French," she added, as an afterthought.

Now, I'm not all that fond of Janet, as you might have guessed. But even I felt a teeny bit bad for her when I saw her face collapse in disappointment.

"I thought...I thought...you were French...," Janet stuttered.

The woman, who I could now see was actually CHEWING GUM, grinned.

"You ain't the only one, doll. I got the look down to my toes. Louis Vuitton," she said, patting her bag. "Chanel suit-not off the rack, mind you-cawst more than yaw fathah makes in a month. I only let Jean Louis David touch my hair. Shoes, of cawss, are Louboutin. And I'm sure you noticed my dawg's collar. Christian Lacroix! Cawst me nine hundred bucks! That's why you thought I was French, doll. I'm wearing thirty thousand dollahs' worth of the country as we speak!"

"Well, it's certainly...it's quite...chic," Janet said.

The woman pointed a manicured finger at her Chanel-encased torso.

"I speak chic, doll. I am chic." Then she tottered away on her improbably high heels. Janet looked thoroughly deflated.

But Charlotte was urging us on, so I hopped up and followed her toward the nearby metro station.

Now I freely admit it, Dear Readers. I was not paying attention because I knew Charlotte was taking care of everything. I was actually thinking, twisted as it was, that the stinking-rich American broad in Parisian couture might be a PERFECT character for my novel. What a great way to start the book! This creature is toodling around Paris in her million-dollar French garb, and she thinks she's All That. But what the reader instantly sees, because I so deftly and subtly render it so, is that this woman doesn't represent Paris at all. That she isn't the real thing. That she's more like Lindy Sloane trying to perform Shakespeare. Totally out of place, totally out of her league. And she has no idea. But WE know.

I was on a ROLL! This was why I was in Paris! To experience an Unprecedented Stream of Creative Consciousness! I started trying to think up whom the tacky character could encounter, you know, to display in crude and excruciating ways how clueless she really was. I was getting it! Material for my Great Parisian Novel! So you know, I could hardly be expected to pay a great deal of attention to my current surroundings. I just had to follow Charlotte, as usual. She knew where we needed to go. She knew what train to take. She knew how to get a ticket and what to do with it.

Charlotte was descending some kind of staircase, and I hurried after her, thinking furiously. When I stopped behind her at some kind of booth, I started imagining what the character's voice would sound like. What kind of accent she had. And to do that, I had to tune out the sounds of my friends altogether. Well, almost altogether. As I followed them through a gate and toward the track, I was dimly aware that Charlotte was speaking. The Long Island accent worked perfectly for the character, I decided. I tried out her voice in my head. Somewhere in the back of my mind I was aware of Charlotte's voice too, m.u.f.fled by the sound of a train arriving. A crowd of people pressed forward, and so did I. I could still hear my character's Texan tw.a.n.g mingling with Charlotte shouting something as I stepped onto the train. It was only when the doors closed and Charlotte's voice was suddenly much more m.u.f.fled that I realized what she'd been saying. Parts of what she'd been saying. Words like Wrong. Direction. Train. Guys. Other. Side.

I was on the Wrong Train. I was on the Wrong Train going in the Wrong Direction, and the last thing I saw was Charlotte's startled face through the window, mouthing something like "Lily You Are on the Wrong Train."

Then the train rumbled on through the tunnel, with me unfortunately and unhappily on it. The worst fears of Phyllis Blennerha.s.set and Madame Chavotte had come to pa.s.s.

I, Lily Blennerha.s.set, had become Separated from the Group.

Six.

If any of the French people on the train noticed my horror-stricken expression, or heard my heart pounding like a jackhammer, or saw my mouth frozen open in an O of Despair, they didn't say anything. I was completely paralyzed, probably complicating the situation since the first few times the train stopped, I was too afraid to get off. I had this idea that if I just stayed on long enough, the train would eventually loop back to the place where I'd gotten on. This might have been a sound theory, but with a little investigative thought I realized I had NO idea of the name of the stop where I'd gotten on. Which led me to the even more sickening thought that I wasn't precisely sure where the VEI was either. The street had a person's name, like the Rue Will Ferrell or something, but my memory wouldn't be more specific.

Dear Readers, you simply cannot imagine the State of Terror which I was in. I had committed the Cardinal Infraction: In spite of REPEATED warnings from MULTIPLE sources, I had become Separated from the Group. I did not know the address where I was staying. I did not know where I had just been. I did not have a Working Conversational Understanding of French, except when it involved vocabulary words that I had for some arbitrary reason retained in my memory. I did not even know where the train I had boarded was going.

I was all kinds of Lost.

Only now did I realize why certain authority figures had been so insistent that I NOT become Separated from the Group. Because apparently there was no way that I was ever, EVER going to find my way back again. I didn't even know where back was! Separation from the Group apparently involved THE END OF MY ENTIRE LIFE AS I HAD KNOWN IT. I was going to become an expatriate bag lady, walking the cobblestone streets year after year, looking for my Group.

All right. I had to at least try to do SOMETHING before giving up and acknowledging that I was Forever Lost, doomed to wander the streets, muttering about Lindy Sloane's latest hair color. Maybe someone on the train spoke English. But even in English, what would I ask? n.o.body on this train could tell me in any language how to get back to my Group, because none of them knew who my Group was. At least if I could remember the name of the station where I'd just been, I'd be slightly better off than I was now, hurtling into the Parisian unknown. Could I remember the street names? Could I remember ANYTHING?

Then it hit me. Before Bonnie's past life memories took over, we had been heading for Victor Hugo's house. VICTOR HUGO WOULD SAVE ME! Who better to save a writer than another writer? If I could get back to the stop nearest Hugo's house, I ought to be back at the metro stop where I'd gotten on the Wrong Train. Then I could find the RIGHT train, the one going toward the Louvre. I'd have to wing it after that, but surely I could wing? Somebody at the Victor Hugo station would speak English and have maps and directions. Because I HAD to be at the Louvre this afternoon! Madame Chavotte didn't know that I had become Separated from the Group. And she mustn't know! She wouldn't know! Unless I did not manage to get to the Louvre in time for the tour. If I failed to do that, then she would know. And what had she said? There would be no more TREEPS! There would be NUSSING!

Madame Chavotte must at all costs NEVER know I had become Separated from the Group! I took a deep breath and summoned up the courage to ask exactly one person, in English, the name of the metro stop closest to the house of Victor Hugo. I was given a very pinched look, like I was wearing an overripe slab of goat cheese for a hat, and the curt dismissal "Je ne parle que francais." Literally, "I not speak but French." That was vocabulary that my brain HAD retained. The situation was Officially Desperate. I became utterly consumed with the Enormity of my Mistake.

So this is why the train pa.s.sed a few more stops (three? five? seven?) before it occurred to me, like a rat on a sinking s.h.i.+p, to get off. Which I did. And though I'm aware I had not to this point exactly displayed Keen Intelligence or even Common Sense, I did have the presence of mind to find my way to the train going in the opposite direction and get on that one. I even had a Small Burst of Brain in which I calculated that I should stay on this train slightly longer than I'd been on the anti-Louvre train, since Charlotte clearly intended us to travel in that direction for a few stops. I tried to gain some confidence from my Small Burst of Brain, but the truth is when I finally decided it was time to get off the anti-anti-Louvre train, I was more lost than a duck in the stock market.

After I walked up to the street, cars whizzed by and well-dressed Parisiennes strode smartly past on their high heels. That's when I really began to feel alone. Like Stanley staggering through the forest of the Congo in search of Dr. Livingstone. Like Dian Fossey hacking her way through the mountain foliage in search of African gorillas. Like Luke Skywalker facing those very bad guys in plastic armor. Seriously.

So you can imagine the great wave of relief that swept over me when, after a block or two of aimless rambling, I came upon something that I RECOGNIZED! There it was, looming ahead of me, a ma.s.sive monument around which the entire city seemed to be circling. It was a giant stone arch, covered with carvings, that I had seen and even visited more than once before. There was only one problem. The monument I recognized was the Was.h.i.+ngton Square Arch. Which meant that I was on Fifth Avenue. In New York City. On the eastern coast of the United States of America.

This left me with several possibilities: I had been more distracted than previously realized and had traveled three thousand miles beneath the Atlantic Ocean before getting off the train.

I was seeing a giant inflatable Was.h.i.+ngton Square Arch erected by Parisians bent on confusing and confounding visiting New Yorkers.

A Rare Astronomical Anomaly caused by a Bizarre Planetary Alignment was causing rays from the sun to bounce off the Was.h.i.+ngton Square Arch and beam the image to Paris, creating a Transatlantic Optical Illusion.

There was a similar arch in Paris whose existence I had not been aware of.

Oh, why, WHY was it always at the Diabolically Darkest Moments of My Life that I had occasion to realize how RIGHT Charlotte had been about something? I was wrong to have slacked off the way I had. The only research I had done on Paris was to flip through my old Madeline books. The guidebook my mother had given me was still packed away with other items I deemed unnecessary, like SPF 80 sunblock. Charlotte appeared to know the location of every landmark within a fifty-mile radius of the city. Even Bonnie was able to find a home she had not lived in for four centuries without any difficulty. But I knew nothing of the landscape of Paris because I hadn't thought it was necessary for me, personally, to prepare. As Janet might say, I was la disgrace.

To make matters worse, I stole a quick glance at my watch and discovered that it was fifteen minutes before one. I was supposed to be at ze glesspairmeed, despite the fact that I did not know what ze glesspairmeed was, in fifteen minutes or Madame Chavotte would know that I had become Separated from the Group. And then everyone would be punished, and no Mulgrew eighth-almost-ninth graders would EVER be privileged to travel overseas again. All. Because. Of. Me.

c.r.a.pstick.

I had to start moving. I had to get myself in the direction of the Louvre and worry about ze glesspairmeed when I got there.

"Louvre?" I asked a random pa.s.serby. I got the goat-cheesehat look again. Perhaps I should pick someone who was not so sharply dressed. I needed to go for someone older. Everyone knows that the Elderly Are Kind.

"Louvre?" I asked a kindly-looking elderly gentleman. I was immensely gratified when he stopped in front of me, giving me his complete attention.

"Pardon?" he asked.

"I'm trying to get to the Louvre?" I said, making a question out of that sad fact. In addition, I'm sure I wasn't saying the name correctly. p.r.o.nouncing it "the Loover" sounded wrong somehow. "The museum?" I mimed painting a picture.

Apparently, NONE of the French words I needed to communicate with this man had been retained in my brain. Instead, my brain suddenly fired strange synapses filled with French words I COULD recall, but that had NO bearing on my present situation. Cadeau means gift. La mer means the sea. Chewing-gum means chewing gum. And since I did not want or need to request a gift of chewing gum from the sea, I was obviously doomed.

My mother had insisted that most Parisians spoke English, but she'd also told me that most Parisians left Paris in August, leaving me with a city full of visitors who had probably just gotten off the bus from that French-Place-in-the-Distant-Mountainsville and spoke no English.

I took a final stab.

"Mona Lisa?" I asked, making another little painting gesture in the air.

"Ah, bien, le Louvre!" said the man, breaking into a smile.

Loo-vruh. Aha!

I nodded so vigorously, it's amazing my head didn't fly off and roll all the way back to the monument that was NOT the Was.h.i.+ngton Square Arch.

"Tu es perdu, ma pet.i.te poulette?"

I'm not sure, but I think the Kindly Elderly Gentleman had just addressed me as "my little chicken." I know that because the last week of French cla.s.s we read a picture book about a brave little chicken, and it was called La Poulette Courageuse, and I had made fun of it, asking who in the world would ever benefit from reading such a ridiculous piece of writing. The answer, apparently, was me.

"Mais tu parles un peu francais, non?" he continued.

I, Lily Blennerha.s.sett, the Little Chicken, nodded. Because I was better at understanding French than speaking it. The sentence meant "But you speak a little French, no?" And you see, when I NODDED, my intention was to be agreeing with the NO part. I speak a little French NO. I NO speak NO French NO. Yes, I am supposed to speak French and I have spoken it before and just yesterday I correctly translated the meaning of (but not the location of) deuxieme etage, and I can ask for a gift of chewing gum from the sea, but for the moment let's all just agree, Dear Readers, that I speak French NO. Wherever you put the NO word in English, it's right there. No. NO!! And it should be PAINFULLY OBVIOUS that I NO spoke a little French because I had addressed the man in English from the start.

It was too late, though. The man started chattering away in French, the merry smile never leaving his face, as he jabbed in the air, indicating lefts and rights and this ways and that ways. And I, the Little Chicken, nodded and smiled and made the "ah, yes, I understand completely" face until he finally stopped and in his Kindly Elderly Manner he waved me along.

At least I had gotten the general direction. I was on a main street-it was wide and busy and full of shops and restaurants (like Fifth Avenue, where I now recognized I was NOT)-so it obviously went somewhere important and the Kindly Elderly Man had clearly indicated his Little Chicken was to proceed down it.

Progress.

I looked at my watch. It was eight minutes before one.

I began to jog. Though I interviewed no witnesses, I feel certain that the sight of a little American chicken jogging down the street, red-faced and wheezing, was not going to improve any international reputations.

I jogged as long as I could. Then I stopped and clutched my leg in alarm, letting out a little shriek that signaled approaching doom. I had injured myself. Possibly gravely. Possibly fatally. I felt no pain, but my entire right leg was shuddering. It was convulsing in agony. I grabbed my thigh muscle and squeezed.

There was something in my pocket. I reached in frantically and pulled the thing out. It was small and dark and vibrating, and it looked like a phaser from Star Trek. But before I had the chance to scream and hurl it into the street, I realized what it was. It was the cell phone that my mother had given me. And I remembered that my father, Esteemed Law Abider Lenny Blennerha.s.sett, who is Diametrically Opposed to All Cell Phones for Any Reason but Grudgingly Accepts Their Role in Personal Safety, had painstakingly followed the instruction booklet and programmed my phone to vibrate, not ring, so as not to violate the Personal Listening s.p.a.ce of other people.

Someone was calling me. I had no idea who it could be, and I didn't care to guess. Someone was reaching out to touch me, at a moment when I'd never felt more alone.

I jabbed the phone against my ear and barked, "h.e.l.lo?"

The phone kept vibrating.

Why, oh, WHY, had I not learned how to operate this machine?

I stared at the phone. b.u.t.tons. Many b.u.t.tons. One of them was green. Green! The international signal for GO! I pushed it and frantically put the phone to my ear again.

"h.e.l.lO?" I shrieked.

No one was there. What kind of cruel trick was this? I stared at the phone again. Maybe I'd hit the wrong b.u.t.ton.

Wait a minute. There was something written on my little display screen.

where r u?

What kind of question was that? It was patently obvious that I was lost, and now my PHONE wanted to know where I was?

"I'm lost, stupid!" I yelled at the phone. Nothing happened.

Wait.

WAIT!.

I had another Small Burst of Brain. My phone wasn't talking to me. It was typing to me!

Maybe I was supposed to type back.

what?

The little cursor blinked on and off. As an afterthought, I hit the green b.u.t.ton, and my words disappeared.

where r u?

All sorts of witty responses occurred to me. But I was alone and lost in Paris, and my phone was trying to make friends with me. It might pay to be concise.

lost. where r u?

Then I thought about it, and added: who r u?

I waited. And waited. Until: Lewis @ the Louvre "LEWIS?!" I shouted at the phone. "What do you mean, Lewis? How can you be Lewis?"

The cursor blinked at me, just as confused. A few people shot the cheese look in my direction and hurried by.

how why help I typed rapidly. Though it goes against every fiber in my being to write sentence fragments and use convenience spellings like "u," I was one desperate Little Chicken, and I didn't want Lewis to go away.

For a minute no message came back, and I began to panic. But then suddenly the screen filled with words.

ok. told mdme c just saw u. thinks u r in bathrm.

This seemed to require a response: ok and?

Lewis shot back: gt hr as sn as psble. msg me whn u r here. gtta go 4 now.

Gotta go for now?

"NO!" I yelled at the phone. "You have to tell me where HERE is!"

Then I typed it. But Lewis was gone. Apparently he was buying me some time. I had to get to the Louvre, fast.

Jogging was simply out of the question. I settled for an ants-in-the-pants kind of speed walk. Have you ever tried to rush somewhere when you don't know where you're going? I'm sure it looks all kinds of stupid.

I was going to have to ask someone else for directions, and I just didn't have time to mess around with the French and be called the diminutive form of another barnyard animal. I needed to find a Tourist. At this point, even a Simple Tourist would do.

I looked down the street before crossing it, and there they were, gleaming golden and familiar in the sunlight like a beacon of hope in an ocean of despair. The Icon of Recognizability. The Object of Every Lost Soul's Hopes and Dreams.