Grace Page 4

  I took a deep breath and mustered up the courage to ask her what I’d been wondering ever since lunch. “Parlez-vous anglais?” I asked. “Do you speak English, Sylvie?”

  Without meeting my eyes, she shook her head. “Non.”

  No? My stomach sank. Five weeks ahead, and Sylvie and I weren’t going to be able to understand each other. How much fun was this going to be? My excitement about the trip fizzled.

  Sylvie kept her eyes on the pigeons as they pecked away. I’d never really looked at pigeons up close before. One was a mottled purple-gray, another almost apricot, and another white with tan patches. But I didn’t know enough French to comment on how unique each one was. Without sharing the same language, I felt so alone—and suddenly longed for my easy conversations with Ella and Maddy back home.

  Not knowing what else to do, I took out my phone and snapped photos for my travel blog. At least when we returned to the apartment, I could communicate with my friends online.

  When the pigeons finished their last crumbs and flew off, Sylvie led me to a large, round pool filled with sailboats that appeared to cross the pond all on their own. Then I noticed that some kids standing alongside the pool were using remote controls. Cool. I wanted to give it a try! But before I could even attempt sign language, Sylvie was moving on at a fast clip, as if she wanted to get this walk over with and get back home.

  She led me past pedal-powered go-carts of every color. Kids raced one another up and down an expanse of gravel, under the canopy of trees.

  We walked past a playground with all kinds of unusual climbing equipment. One structure resembled the Eiffel Tower, with bungee ropes for climbing toward its top. Maddy would love that! I thought to myself. She has no fear of heights and will climb just about anything.

  But before I could dwell on that thought for too long, Sylvie led me onward—past a puppet theater, riding ponies, a carousel, and a few food stands. When we spun around to head back toward home, I felt the sudden weight of tiredness. My brain felt fuzzy. And then it hit me. At home, I’d still be asleep—or maybe just waking up.

  Just then, along the inside wall of the park, I spotted a small black-and-white dog. It was crouched playfully, its curved tail wagging in the air and its head and shoulders low to the ground. Then I saw what the dog saw—another dog on a leash in the distance.

  “Look!” I said, perking right up. “The little dog wants to play.”

  Sylvie glanced at the dog, and her eyes widened in recognition. “Bonjour, petite chienne!” she called.

  The dog—with a slightly scrunched-in nose, upright ears, and short legs—lifted its head in our direction.

  “You know it?” I asked.

  Sylvie walked closer, squatted down, and clapped her hands.

  The dog wagged its tail and bounded over to Sylvie. It was a female with a black patch of fur, like a pirate’s patch, around her left eye. Sylvie spoke sweetly to the little dog in French and patted her head. I snapped a photo. Click!

  “Where is her owner?” I asked, but Sylvie didn’t answer.

  I looked for a collar. The dog wasn’t wearing one.

  I scanned our edge of the park, looking for the little dog’s people. But no one seemed aware of her or what she was doing. She was dirty and thin. If she had owners, they weren’t doing a good job of caring for her.

  Sylvie pulled the remaining piece of bread from her pocket and placed it on the ground. The little dog approached cautiously, then snatched it and ran off a few feet, as if to savor the treat in privacy.

  Sylvie waved good-bye—“Au revoir, petite chienne!”—and we continued on. As we walked, I pulled out my travel dictionary and looked up petite chienne. It meant little dog.

  The little dog was a stray. I was sure of it.

  As we walked, I kept looking over my shoulder. The stray began to follow us at a distance, but before we reached Sylvie’s apartment, she was gone.

  I wished we could help her. But I couldn’t even talk with my cousin, let alone help a dog while I was in Paris. All I could do was wish her luck.

  Poor petite chienne.

  I suddenly felt an overwhelming need to put my head on a pillow. I felt out of sorts—disappointed that Sylvie and I weren’t exactly hitting it off, lonely for my friends back home, and very, very tired.

  I blinked open my eyes, wondering where in the world I was. Images of flowers pasted on colorful construction paper decorated the walls. A narrow bookcase held titles all in French. Yellow curtains flapped softly against the screen window. Outside, cars hummed by.

  The twin bed across from me was made, with a hot-pink pillow atop a comforter of swirling pinks and grays. Was it morning? Was Sylvie already up and gone? I glanced out the window at the late-afternoon sun. Slowly, I pieced it together. I’d fallen asleep after our walk and must have slept the afternoon away!

  I pulled my comforter over my floor mattress and stepped out to the hallway. The door to Aunt Sophie’s bedroom was open. Her feet were propped up on a pillow, and Mom sat in a chair beside her bed.

  “There you are, sweetheart,” Mom said. “I hated to wake you. You slept for four hours!”

  I yawned. “My body doesn’t know what time of day it is.”

  “I’m struggling to stay awake, too,” she said.

  “Where’s Sylvie?” I asked.

  Aunt Sophie put an extra pillow behind her head. “She’s down in the bakery with her dad. She disappears there for hours at a time. Sometimes I wonder if she’s a little uncomfortable with a baby on the way.”

  “But why?” I asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. “How could she not be excited about a new baby? I’m even excited about the baby!”

  Aunt Sophie shrugged. “She’s been through quite a bit of change in the past few years. She lost her mother when she was younger, and then her father remarried. Me. That makes me the stepmom. She lost her grandma recently. And a new baby means even more change for her.” But then Aunt Sophie smiled. “I’m so glad for Sylvie’s sake that you’re here, Grace. I think it takes a bit of the focus off me and the baby. She can focus on having a little fun with you instead!”

  I didn’t know quite how to respond to that. “I’m not sure she’s happy I’m here,” I finally said quietly, staring at the bassinet.

  “Just give her some time,” said Mom reassuringly. “You two will be getting along great before you know it. Maybe you can teach each other new words in French and English. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

  “Maybe,” I said, but what if Mom and Aunt Sophie were wrong? What if Sylvie and I didn’t start getting along soon? Five weeks could be a very, very long visit. And all the while, Ella and Maddy would be hanging out back home, growing closer every day—while I grew more distant.

  I left the room and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. The refrigerator was covered with magnets and photos. There were photos of my aunt with Uncle Bernard, including a wedding photo with a zillion relatives. I looked closely and found myself wedged between my parents.

  There were photos of Sylvie on her bike, Sylvie by a fountain, and Sylvie with the cat. I was used to having an older brother, so I never knew what it meant to get all the attention. Maybe Sylvie wondered how she’d fit into her family after the new baby came.

  “Those are her grandparents,” Mom said, coming up behind me. She pointed to a photo of an elderly couple. “Sylvie lost her grandmother a month ago. That’s one reason your aunt asked for extra support. They’d been counting on Uncle Bernard’s mother to be here to help out with the baby, and instead, they’re all feeling the loss of her in their lives. But maybe that also explains why Sylvie is feeling blue. Aunt Sophie says that Sylvie and her grandmother were quite close.”

  “Oh” was all I could say. I tried to put myself in Sylvie’s shoes. I couldn’t imagine a day when I couldn’t step into First Street Family Bakery and see Grandma, or play cards with her, or have one of our “tea parties” together. I’d feel lost, too. I felt sad for Sylvie, but still, I
wished she could at least try to pretend to be happy that I was here.

  I gazed out the window. Shadows fell across blue shutters and window boxes filled with red flowers.

  Mom seemed to pick up on my mood. “Tell you what. Tomorrow morning, let’s go see some sights together. We’ll borrow bikes from Aunt Sophie and Sylvie and explore. How does that sound?”

  The dark clouds hanging over my head parted instantly. “That would be great!” I said. “I can get photos for my travel blog. I really need to keep in touch with my friends.” I paused. “But what about Aunt Sophie? Can you leave her?”

  Aunt Sophie called from her bedroom. “I’m just a phone call away! I’ll be fine!”

  Just then the apartment door opened. “Bonsoir, Grace!” Uncle Bernard said. As Sylvie stepped in behind her dad, Napoléon leaped from the couch and wound his way around her ankles.

  “Bonsoir, Uncle Bernard,” I replied. “Bonsoir, Sylvie.”

  “Bonsoir, Grace,” she replied softly.

  “Avez-vous faim?” he asked.

  I shrugged. I had no idea what he was asking, until he mimed eating.

  “Oh. Oui! J’ai faim.”

  Uncle Bernard nodded his approval. “I hope you are hungry, Grace. Tonight, I cook.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m very hungry!”

  “And you, Sylvie? Will you be ready to eat?” he asked, placing his hand on Sylvie’s shoulder.

  “Oui, j’ai faim,” she said. So she did understand some English!

  But when I smiled at Sylvie, she glanced down at the floor.

  Before dinner, Mom helped me post my first few photos to my travel blog. Then I wrote some captions:

  Having a great time with my cousin, Sylvie, and her cat, Napoléon, I lied.

  First day at Luxembourg Gardens and saw this little dog (petite chienne) who needs a home!

  When I checked my blog before bedtime, there were already two comments from Ella and Maddy:

  Ella: Really pretty. And what a cute dog!

  Maddy: Lucky you!

  I felt a rush of happiness. But now what?

  Sylvie was curled up on her bed, reading a book, so I opened one of my travel guides. Before going to sleep, I silently reviewed some French phrases, hoping I’d be able to learn enough to actually talk with Sylvie sometime soon.

  An hour later, I was still wide awake. Would my body ever get used to being six hours ahead? It didn’t help that Sylvie kept mumbling in her sleep from the bed beside me. She sounded like she was scolding someone.

  I hoped it wasn’t me.

  he next morning, Mom and I headed straight for the pâtisserie. While we studied the display cases with the other customers, I snapped photos of all the assorted treats and their French labels. There was crème brûlée and flan. There were napoléons (that name again!), éclairs au chocolat, and éclairs au café. There were madeleines, truffles, amandines, macarons, and tuiles. And tartes filled with chocolate, raspberry, strawberry, and apple. I couldn’t believe the variety! How could I possibly decide?

  I closed my eyes and pointed. Then I opened my eyes to see what was just beyond my finger. When Colette asked for my order, I said, “The chocolate éclair, s’il vous plaît.”

  Mom ordered two double-layer round cookies. “Pistachio macarons,” she explained, as we took a seat at one of the little round tables outside. “Not to be confused with macaroons, which are coconut cookies, these come in all kinds of colors and flavors. But they are always”—she took a bite, and forgot the rule about not talking while eating—“delicious!”

  “Bet they can’t beat an éclair,” I said, still savoring my first bite of the chocolate-topped pastry with creamy filling.

  “We’ll just have to trade bites to find out,” she said, smiling.

  After a bite of Mom’s cookie, I couldn’t decide which I liked better: éclairs or macarons. I declared it a tie. They were both amazing.

  When we’d finished eating, we headed off on the bikes we’d borrowed from Sylvie and Aunt Sophie. Armed with a backpack full of maps and my French–English dictionary, I had planned to take the lead. But the busy streets—full of cars, buses, scooters, and other cyclists—overwhelmed me. I followed behind Mom instead. I wasn’t about to get lost in a foreign country.

  “First stop,” Mom said, “the Eiffel Tower.”

  My heart raced at the thought of seeing that famous monument up close.

  To get there, we biked along the Seine. At first I felt stiff and nervous, almost as if I’d never been on a bike before. But the more I pedaled, the more relaxed I felt, and it all came back to me. Biking in Paris was the same as biking at home and, at the same time, totally different.

  My legs found a rhythm.

  My shoulders loosened.

  My eyes adjusted, going from tunnel vision and seeing only what was directly in my path to seeing more of everything around me: families with strollers, small dogs and big dogs, statues and fountains, and pigeons taking flight.

  Riverboats traveled up and down the Seine. Other boats were moored below us along the concrete river-walk, or quai.

  Soon, ahead of us, the Eiffel Tower loomed larger than life, reminding me that I was such a long, long way from home. As we biked toward the tower, I saw quickly that its base was way bigger than I’d imagined. The New England Patriots could play a football game beneath it!

  Languages and tourists from what seemed like every country swirled around us as we locked up our bikes. Then we joined a line of people at the base of the tower and waited. After going through a security check, we climbed the stairs to the second story and then rode the glass elevator to the top.

  The wind at the top of the tower was strong, blowing my hair sideways and whistling in my ears. I held on to the edge, almost dizzy with the height.

  Below us, throngs of tiny people biked, walked, or sat on park benches. Almost as if I had pressed the minus symbol on a computer screen, the city “zoomed out” into an ever-widening frame of buildings and streets, monuments and neighborhoods. And we were high above it all.

  Click! I took a photo of the world below.

  Then I pulled out my travel guide. As Mom and I took turns reading about the tower, I glanced down at the Seine, winding its way through the city’s center. I made mental notes about some of the fun things I might write later in my travel blog, such as:

  The Eiffel Tower wasn’t supposed to stay. It was built as a temporary exhibit for the 1889 World’s Fair.

  It once almost became a giant heap of scrap metal, but its use as a radio antenna saved it. Thank goodness!

  Painters use three shades of brown to paint the tower, and it takes sixty tons of paint!

  With the city stretching out behind us, Mom and I asked a woman—another tourist—if she would take our photo.

  “Of course, I take!” she said in what Mom told me later was a German accent.

  Click!

  Before we went back down the elevator, we stopped at the gift shop. I added a tiny charm of the Eiffel Tower to my bracelet, the perfect first adventure. I sighed happily. The rest of my trip stretched out before me like a dozen silver charms yet to be discovered.

  Mom and I biked on, crossing a little bridge called the Pont des Arts, the Arts Bridge. On the railings and sides of the bridge, what looked like a billion padlocks were hanging. Gold locks, silver locks, pink locks. Huge locks and tiny locks. It was crazy!

  “Mom, I don’t get it. What’s with all the locks?” I asked, slowing down and straddling my bike.

  “Well,” she said as she pulled up alongside me, “couples started adding locks to the bridge as a symbol of their love. Paris, you know, is called the City of Lights, but it’s also called the City of Love.”

  Around us, tourists snapped photos.

  “Oh. So somebody started it and it just caught on?”

  She shrugged. “I guess so.”

  An idea flickered across my mind. “Mom, you know how I mentioned how Ella and Maddy and I want to start a bu
siness?”

  “Yeah?”

  We gazed over the side of the bridge as a small boat motored beneath.

  “Well,” I said, “we thought we’d start a dog-walking business. I knew it was a good idea, but when I see this bridge—with all these locks everywhere—it just proves how one idea can really take off. I mean, even the gift shop at the top of the Eiffel Tower sold little locks. I didn’t get why, until now.”

  “You’re right, Grace,” Mom said. “One idea can really grow. What do people call it when an idea takes off online?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Mom, quit being such a teacher. I know you know the answer already.”

  “Hmmm. It’s on the tip of my tongue,” she said with a smile.

  “Viral?” I finally said.

  “Yeah, that’s it!” she said, as if she hadn’t known. Then she pointed to my backpack. “Better get a photo of us here, yes?”

  “I’m on it,” I said.

  I pulled out my phone and held it out in front of us, with the river as our backdrop. Click!

  While Mom and I waited in line to tour the towering Notre Dame cathedral, long-necked stone creatures—gargoyles—looked down on us, their mouths wide open.

  “Creepy,” Mom said, gazing up. “What do you suppose they were thinking when they built those?”

  This time, I was way ahead of her. Before falling asleep last night, I’d done some research in our guidebook. I explained that eight hundred years ago, Gothic buildings didn’t have rain gutters. So gargoyles were built to spout rain away from the sides of the buildings. “Plus,” I added, “people believed gargoyles kept away evil spirits. I’d think they’d just give you bad dreams!”

  Mom smiled. “I agree.”

  “Wait. You knew all that already. You did your teacher thing again, didn’t you?”

  “What?” She gave me a wide-eyed look and crossed her arms. “Okay, maybe I do that sometimes,” she said. “But I don’t know everything.”

  I snapped a photo of the gargoyles. Josh would like them.

  Click!

  “Either way,” I said, “they’re creepy—and kind of cool.”