Grace Read online

  She translated. “Nos mères sont soeurs.”

  A wave of unexpected happiness floated over me. “Being your cousin makes me want to learn French!” I said.

  Sylvie hesitated, cocking her head for a moment, but after I repeated my wish slowly, she grinned. “Moi aussi,” Sylvie said brightly as we stepped outside into the sunshine. She pointed to her chest. “Anglais!”

  “You, too. English?” I translated.

  “Oui, oui!”

  Arm in arm, we joined Mom and Aunt Sophie as they chatted in the cool shade of a towering tree. It looked familiar to me, with its bark peeled away in large patches, revealing light gray, light green, and white. It looked just like a tree in our backyard at home. I looked up at its leaves, sheltering us from the hot sun. They looked sort of like maple leaves, and from them hung little clusters of acorn-like balls.

  As Aunt Sophie carefully put a sleeping Lily into the stroller, I touched the tree with the flat of my hand. “Qu’est ce que c’est?” I asked.

  “C’est un arbre,” Sylvie replied.

  “Arbre. Tree. Yes,” I said, “but, I mean, what kind of tree?”

  She didn’t seem to understand.

  Aunt Sophie said something in French to Sylvie, who nodded.

  “Ahh,” Sylvie said, looking from her stepmom to me. “C’est un platane, Grace!”

  “At home, you call it a sycamore,” explained Aunt Sophie. “A sycamore tree.”

  “Sick is more!” Sylvie repeated with confidence.

  I couldn’t hold back a giggle. “No, not ‘sick is more.’ It’s ‘sic-a-more,’” I said, trying to help. Then I started off a giggle session with Sylvie that woke up Lily and started her crying.

  We both had so much to learn!

  A block before we reached the pâtisserie, Sylvie and I raced ahead of our mothers. She was fast, even if she was a year younger! We rounded the corner, exactly in stride with each other, and I knew we were both expecting to see Bonbon.

  But she wasn’t sitting at the back door.

  She wasn’t there wagging her tail, ready for her bowl of dog food. And her water bowl was still full.

  “Where is she?” I asked, looking up and down the street.

  “Bonbon!” Sylvie called.

  But the street, cooling slightly in the late-afternoon shadows, didn’t show any sign of a little wandering dog. My stomach twisted. Where was she?

  That evening, Mom said we’d babysit so that Uncle Bernard, Aunt Sophie, and Sylvie could go see Sylvie’s grandfather, who was living alone. The fresh air during our afternoon walk must have been just what little Lily needed, because she hadn’t made a peep from her bassinet in over an hour.

  Mom and I both sat on the couch, and I leaned into her shoulder as she read Motivating Students, One Book at a Time. I turned pages in Sylvie’s old picture books, all in French. A few words and phrases seemed to make sense.

  But when I turned to the page with a dog on it, I broke the silence and said, “Mom, can you call someone? Can you see if Bonbon’s in an animal shelter somewhere? Please? I’m worried sick. Maybe she got hit by a car. Or she’s sick and needs help, or—”

  “Or found her way home,” Mom said.

  I half-snorted in frustration.

  “Honey,” she said, putting down her book and placing her hand on mine. “I know you’re worried about losing Bonbon, but you have to remember that she was never yours to begin with.”

  I knew Mom was right, but I didn’t want to hear it. I closed my eyes tightly, hoping that she was also right about Bonbon finding her way home. I tried to picture Bonbon wandering the streets of Paris, traveling farther from the city to find her owners. She was too nice a dog not to have had them—once. She’d be tired when she got there, and hungry and thirsty. I pictured her owners greeting her at the door in tears and throwing their arms around her, welcoming her home.

  It helped, but only a little.

  And then I remembered Mom’s words a few days back.

  “Mom, did you call and have her picked up by the authorities, like Uncle Bernard said we should?” A hot flame tickled the back of my throat.

  At first Mom didn’t answer, and the fire wafted, shooting higher.

  “Oh no! Mom, you didn’t!”

  She set her book down firmly. “No, Grace. I did not.”

  My voice grew smaller. “Okay. Sorry, I just worried—”

  “I know.” She gazed off toward the window and then met my eyes. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll have your aunt help me make a few calls to see if we can learn anything about Bonbon. I’m doubtful, Grace, but maybe making the calls would help put your mind at ease.”

  I swallowed hard and nodded, and then I hugged her as tightly as I could.

  A shower can’t cure every problem, but it helps. As I towel-dried my hair in the bathroom, I gazed at the bold yellow, red, and blue wall tiles. Normally they cheered me up, but not tonight. I slipped into my comfy PJ’s, nestled back on the couch beside Mom, and asked her if I could go online.

  I posted photos from our afternoon at the Luxembourg Gardens: Sylvie and me in go-carts, beside our little sailboats, and leaning over the edge of a garden fountain and pool. Then I sent off a quick e-mail to Maddy:

  Bonbon is gone! She didn’t show up for her dinner.

  It didn’t take long to hear back.

  Maddy: Too bad about Bonbon! Maybe she’ll show up tomorrow. She’s a stray. She probably has a mind of her own.

  Me: Hope so. Hey, how’s your dog-walking business?

  Maddy: Not great. After Tornado ran off with his leash and the owners went crazy with worry, we backed off the dog-walking business. At least for now.

  Me: What?! Did they get their dog back?

  Maddy: Yesssss. After about six hours of his being lost. The Muellers were NOT happy about it. But how were we supposed to know that he went into someone’s house for a long visit?

  Me: Whose house?

  Maddy: A neighbor of theirs—an older lady. She must have fed him like a whole casserole and he napped the hours away. That’s why he didn’t come when we called him. When she let him out, he just walked home.

  Me: Too bad.

  Maddy: But maybe that’s exactly what happened to your little stray. Bet you’ll see her tomorrow!

  Me: Yeah. Hope so!

  Maddy: Are you having an amazing time there? You’re so lucky!

  Me: Yeah. It’s good. And hey, I’m sorry about your business not working. Maybe when I get home we can brainstorm for ways to make it work better—or try some other business idea.

  But as I wrote that line about being “sorry,” part of me actually felt glad, since I wasn’t included in Maddy and Ella’s dog-walking plans anyway. And part of me felt bad that I felt glad that their business hadn’t taken off. Friends are supposed to be happy for their friends when they’re happy, and sad when they’re sad, right? But sometimes…friendship isn’t so simple.

  ne afternoon, “all us girls,” as Mom said, were hanging out on Aunt Sophie’s bed, admiring Lily, who had just had a bath. Aunt Sophie smoothed Lily with lotion and then dressed her in a soft cotton dress.

  Looking at Lily, Sylvie said something in French and then turned to her mom.

  “You want me to translate?” Aunt Sophie asked as she swaddled Lily in a pink baby blanket.

  Sylvie nodded and then glanced at me. I wondered what she had to say, because from the almost-teary expression on her face, it seemed sort of serious. Was she upset with me about something?

  But Aunt Sophie’s smile reassured me. “Sylvie wants you to know, Grace, that before you came to visit, she felt a little lost. She was missing her grand-mère and worried about a baby coming. She didn’t know where she would fit in.”

  Sylvie added a few more words in French, and Aunt Sophie translated. “She wants you to know that now she can’t imagine her life without Lily—or without you.”

  Sylvie looked at me and smiled.

  My heart swelled, and I beamed back.
“Merci beaucoup, Sylvie,” I said. “I am happy to be here, too.”

  At the pâtisserie, Colette seemed to wear a new apron every few days. Today’s tablier du jour—apron of the day—was pale blue with a jillion red pockets.

  “I love your aprons,” I said, wondering how she could afford to own so many. But she must have read my mind.

  “I like…how you say?” She mimed stitching, weaving a needle in and out of imaginary fabric.

  “You like to sew. No wonder you have so many!”

  She nodded and then offered sweetly, “Do you want one, Grace? I sew you one?”

  I grinned. “Sure!”

  Sylvie seemed to piece together the conversation as she edged in closer. Then Colette spoke to Sylvie in French.

  “Oui, oui,” Sylvie replied with a big smile. Was she getting an apron, too? I hoped so!

  That afternoon, when I checked my online calendar, I was shocked. How could I have just two weeks left in Paris? Each day had dragged by at first, but now the days flew by and I wanted to slow them down. I wanted to soak up every moment here in Paris, and yet I couldn’t stop part of my brain from thinking about being home, too, and starting a business with my friends. Something tickled at the back of my mind…

  Aprons.

  Colette had given me the perfect business idea! My friends and I could make and sell aprons.

  I went online and shot off the idea to Ella and Maddy.

  But that night, the reply that came back was brief:

  Ella: Good idea, but Maddy and I don’t have sewing machines—or know how to sew. Let’s keep thinking…Hey, Maddy’s here! She slept over last night.

  My mood took a sudden nosedive, maybe because Ella had shot down my business idea, or maybe because my friends were having another fun sleepover—without me. Now that I was nearing the end of my trip, I worried again: What if everything has changed between me and my friends by the time I go home?

  This time, though, I chased away the thought and told myself, Think. You just need to come up with a new business idea that you can ALL be a part of when you get back. But what? Trying to get all of us to agree on something wouldn’t be easy, but I was determined. While here, I would be looking for ideas. I would brainstorm, just as Grandpa had told me to do at the start of summer.

  And then it hit me. Grandma and Grandpa! They run a business. Why not ask for some advice about a business that my friends and I could run back home?

  I pulled out a stack of postcards I’d been collecting and started to write one out to Grandma and Grandpa. But this was something I wanted an answer to right away, so I typed my message again in an e-mail:

  Dear Grandma and Grandpa,

  I am finally learning to bake and cook a little in the pâtisserie. And Lily is getting cuter every day!

  Remember when I asked about starting a business? I still want to find an idea to try with my friends. Can you give me some advice? As soon as you possibly can???

  Miss and love you!

  Grace

  Sylvie, who carried Napoléon on her shoulder, plopped down beside me on the couch. Napoléon’s purring sounded like the diesel train back home that winds through the Blackstone Valley. When I was younger and Grandma and I’d had “tea parties” with her fine china, the train had often passed on the tracks nearby, jiggling our cups and saucers. The memory stuck in my throat.

  I missed Grandma and Grandpa.

  Sylvie pointed to the postcard I had written. “Grand-mère? Grand-père?” she asked.

  “Oui,” I replied, still holding back tears. But then I thought of Sylvie’s French grandma who had died a short time ago—the grandma Sylvie had been close to. I couldn’t imagine not having my grandparents around.

  Then a brighter thought struck: My grandparents were Sylvie’s new grandparents, too. She’d met them briefly in the States when her dad and stepmom got married, but she didn’t really know them…yet.

  Maybe I could help change that. If Sylvie could get to know her grandparents in the States, maybe that would help fill some of the empty space she must feel for her French grandma.

  I held out a different postcard to Sylvie. “Veux-tu…” I mimed writing on the postcard and said, “You write to new grand-mère? Grand-père?”

  Her brown eyes widened as she smiled. “Oui! Oui!”

  With Aunt Sophie’s help, Sylvie sat at the table and wrote her postcard in English. Then she read it aloud to me in her French accent:

  Dear Grand-mère and Grand-père,

  Bonjour! You must see your new grandbaby! I love having my new sister, Lilou. We call her Lily. And we have a cat we call Napoléon. Someday we see each other again!

  Love,

  Sylvie

  Then I read my postcard aloud to her, with Aunt Sophie translating.

  Sylvie said something to her stepmom, who relayed it to me. “Grace, about trying to find a business idea, Sylvie says she wants to help you.”

  I looked at Sylvie. “Yes! I help you!” she said happily.

  “Really?” I said. “That’d be great, Sylvie.” Looking for business ideas would be something fun that she and I could do together. Besides, at this point, I could use all the help I could get!

  To keep Mom company on her long run early the next morning, Sylvie and I biked after her.

  First stop, however: mail our postcards. Aunt Sophie had made sure we added Etats-Unis in big letters for “United States” on each postcard. And because she had stamps on hand, our task was easy. All we had to do was keep an eye out for one of the many yellow letter boxes marked La Poste. We found one just two blocks from the apartment, popped our postcards inside, and continued on our way. Voilà!

  As we passed a dog walker, I thought of Bonbon. Mom hadn’t been able to find out any information about her yet. I tried not to worry, but I couldn’t help scanning the streets for her everywhere we went.

  There were lots of dog walkers. I wondered for a moment if I could find a way to help Ella and Maddy improve their dog-walking business. Or was there an even better business idea out there for all of us?

  Along with the dog walkers, the streets were crowded with people walking, jogging, and biking. So many of them appeared trim and fit.

  “Mom,” I said as we paused at a light, “with all the pastries and amazing food, I’m surprised more French people aren’t overweight.”

  Mom chuckled. “It’s all about balance,” she said in between deep breaths, “and staying active. Plus, have you noticed that the French don’t snack much?”

  “Except at about four o’clock,” I said. “That’s when Sylvie and I always have a snack.” Aunt Sophie had a name for it, that time in the late afternoon when she pulled out a piece of cake or maybe slices of bread with jam or chocolate. “What’s that afternoon snack called?” I asked Sylvie as she biked up beside me.

  She stared at me intently, as if piecing my words together. “Snack,” she repeated slowly. Then she said, “Ah, le goûter?”

  That was it! “Merci, Sylvie.”

  She smiled, seeming pleased with herself.

  Not long after, as we followed Mom along the Seine, an all-in-one bike-cab passed us. The bicyclist pedaled hard, carrying a passenger seated in the sheltered cab behind him. A sign on the back of the cab read You Can Start Your Own Pedi-Cab Business!

  “Grace!” Sylvie said, pointing to the pedicab as it passed. “Business—you?”

  “Yes!” I said, pulling to a stop. I whipped out my phone. Click!

  But as I pedaled fast to catch up to Mom and Sylvie, I tried to actually imagine operating a pedicab at home. Maybe I could pedal one empty, but what if an adult got in and needed a ride? I pictured myself huffing and puffing up a long, steep hill and losing momentum. Down we’d slide to the bottom of the hill.

  “Très difficile!” I called to Sylvie.

  “Yes,” she replied with a grimace. She must have been playing it out in her mind, too.

  Mom rounded a corner, and we headed across a bridge toward the Ri
ght Bank. On the bridge, a mime was covered in sparkling silver. He swept a small pile of coins in front of his push broom and stopped for tourists who wanted to take photos of him—or beside him. There was one way to make a little money!

  Click!

  I thought of how I had stepped out of my comfort zone to sing along with Colette and Sylvie on the bridge that day. I’d done it! But I just couldn’t quite see me and my friends dressing up and miming on the streets back home.

  Luckily, other new ideas popped up along every block.

  Two hours later, we made it back to the apartment. Mom’s face was blotchy red, and Aunt Sophie insisted she drink lots of water. I was tired, too, but my mind was racing. There were way too many ideas out there!

  I posted images on my blog of business ideas, starting with the street mime. I posted photos of a woman selling grilled corn, a teenager with a table of bracelets made of braided fabric, a man at a street booth filled with candies, and artists selling their paintings along the Seine. They all looked like they were having fun.

  Help!

  I hoped to get an e-mail back from Grandma and Grandpa soon. I needed some advice, ASAP!

  As the first week of August approached, I learned that August is the month when many Parisians go on holiday and leave the city for the countryside. Uncle Bernard said, “We will close the shop for a couple of days. Be tourists!”

  As Lily “figured out her nights”—or in other words, started sleeping more at night—everyone seemed happier. Mom was back to a regular running schedule, Aunt Sophie was looking more rested and doing more each day, and Uncle Bernard started talking about holiday plans and all we’d see and do before Mom and I went back to the States.

  I was feeling part of this French family at last—just as it was almost time to go!

  On August first, the pâtisserie would close up and Colette’s internship would end. So on her last day, she produced two packages from behind her back. “Open, s’il te plaît,” she said to me and to Sylvie.

  We unwrapped the packages and held up aprons with pink satin ribbons. Mine was black with pink polka dots and Sylvie’s was orange with pink polka dots. We tried them on, beaming.