At Your Service (17 page)

He turns to face me. “Will you be all right on your own for a second? Can you stand without my help?”

“Sure, but why? Where are you going?”

Alex looks like he's ready to concede defeat. He also looks really, really tired.

“I'm planning to converse with the leech.” He gestures with his head to the guy with a camera behind him. Now that I'm facing Alex, I get my first good look at the photographer. He looks sleazy, like the kind of dude you'd expect to be skulking in the shadows, just waiting to jump out with his camera. He has on an olive-green vest with about a zillion pockets, the kind people wear on safari or to go fishing, and his hair is slicked back with something oily. Or maybe he just hasn't washed it in a long time. His head is ducked down, but I can tell that he's watching us out of the corners of his eyes. Yuck.

“Um, okay. What are you going to say?” I ask.

Alex gives me a watered-down version of his lopsided grin and shrugs. It doesn't make me feel better.

“I'll handle it. Don't worry.”

He keeps his hand on my elbow to steady me until I am balancing upright. Then he squeezes my arm and walks purposefully to where the photographer is cleaning his camera lens with the corner of his shirttail.

I should be more subtle, but I'm basically staring and I
don't even care. A few people wander in between where Alex and the photographer are talking and my spot, so I have to hobble back and forth a little to keep an eye on them. Stupid tourists. It's a not-even-real woman with a beard. Haven't you ever seen one of those before?

There is some gesturing going on, but I can't tell at all what is being said or agreed upon. Alex runs his hand through his hair and then he holds out his other hand to the photographer, who pauses for a second, then shakes it. The paparazzo flashes Alex a smug grin like he just solved a Rubik's Cube, but Alex doesn't return it. He just turns around and walks back to me.

As soon as he's in earshot, I pounce on him. “What was that all about? What did you say? What was that handshake?”

Alex holds up both hands. “Steady there. I'll fill you in, not to worry. Though, you'll have to give me your solemn word you'll not be angry.”

Angry? Why would I be angry? What could he tell a photographer that would possibly make
me
angry? It's not like I'm gossip worthy.

“Spill,” I say.

“Well, the thing of it is, he did recognize me and has every intention of following us around until he gets something he
can sell to the tabloids. And obviously, we can't have that. As soon as he realizes that Ingrid is missing, he'll be on the phone to the papers and we'll be in loads of trouble. I don't want Father to find out at all, but having him find out on the national news would be a disaster of epic proportions. I might as well start packing my bags for military school.”

“Agreed. So then, how can we ditch him? I don't know how fast you can run with me on your back, but probably not quick enough to lose that guy.”

“No, I know. It's not your fault you have a twisted ankle, but it does make things a little more challenging. We probably won't be able to shake him. But don't worry. I've touched upon a solution. He simply wants a picture to sell. I can give him that. And he's promised to leave us alone afterward.”

“Oh. O-kaaay.” Still not sure what any of this has to do with me or why I'd be mad.

“Well, so the matter is, he needs something brilliant that he knows he can get paid for.”

“Right. So, what, do you need to pose in front of Sexy Sadie or something?”

“Well, no. Not exactly. See . . . ah . . . the truth is, I said I'd let him take a picture of me . . .” Alex takes a really deep breath and studies the painted floor—“kissing, er, kissing . . .
you.” His eyes slide up a little to check my reaction.

I don't have a reaction. I'm standing statue still. If I was in Madison Square Park, pigeons would be landing on me.

I've never kissed a boy before. Like, ever. Not even when I was a little kid and we used to chase boys around at recess and try to kiss their cheeks.

But I sort of do want to kiss Alex.

At least I think I do. I mean, maybe not exactly under these circumstances, but yeah, I'm pretty sure I do. When he held my hand on the subway and I got all tingly? That was NOTHING compared to the marching band rehearsing in my stomach at the moment.

“Ah, so is it all right?” Poor Alex. He looks like he just asked me to jump off the Chrysler Building without a parachute. I wish I could tell him how totally okay it is . . . better than okay, even, but I can't exactly form any words that sound like actual words. I also can't look him in the eye. I just nod.

A million and five thoughts start popping up in my head like word bubbles in comic strips.

How much are my friends going to
die
when they find out? Does my breath smell like Yankee Stadium hot dogs and energy bar? Do I take off my glasses? Which way am I supposed to tilt my head? What if I go left and he does too and we
crack skulls and it's all captured for the whole world to see? What if I don't like it? What if I do? Did I remember to turn off my curling iron this morning?

I don't know why that last one was there. The most important one runs across all the other thoughts like it's on one of those scrolling messages you see on the bottom of the TV newscasts: Does it count as a real kiss if it's only happening to get paparazzi off your trail?

Through the question haze, I nod at Alex again, and he smiles in relief.

And then I stop thinking at all.

Everything from this point on is all feeling. Feeling Alex brush my arm as he slides his hands around my waist. Feeling his warm breath on my face when he says, “Ready?” I nod one more time. He dips me back a little to compensate for my ankle being off the ground and finally, finally, I feel his lips press against mine.

And then I die.

O
kay, so obviously I don't
actually
die. But c'mon. When a girl gets a first kiss like that from a ridiculously cute and funny (plus sweet and, did I mention, cute) prince, you gotta allow for a little melodrama, right? I'm choosing not to acknowledge that my fairy-tale Disney moment is taking place in front of Sexy Sadie the Bearded Lady.

When Alex gently lifts me upright a few seconds later, I'm a little wobbly, and it has nothing to do with the fact that I can't put any weight on my ankle.

“Er, cheers. Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Oh, uh, sure thing.” I'm surprised I can even form syllables. Over Alex's shoulder, the photographer waves and flashes me a thumbs-up. Is he applauding the kiss or the fact
that he got his shot? Whatever. I don't really care what the random paparazzo guy thought of the kiss. I care what Alex thought of the kiss.

“Ah, so, Chloe?” Alex's gaze is still fixated on a spot on the floor.

“Yeah?” Here it comes. The part where he thanks me for helping him out of a sticky situation and reinforces that, of course, the kiss was all business. A means to an end. A sacrifice for the greater—

“I wanted to say, well, that usually being stalked by paparazzi is for the birds, but today, for the first time, I see how it can sometimes have its advantages.”

And then his eyes come up to meet mine, and they have a kind of wicked glint in them. He flashes me his signature grin, and suddenly everything is okay and I can exhale. He might not have kissed me under different circumstances, but he might have. Somehow I just sort of know that. And either way, he doesn't regret it now. I smile back at him.

“So, um, that was unexpected, huh?” I ask. It's still a little awkward, and I don't really know what to do with my hands because they had been holding on to him for balance, but now they just feel like they're hanging at the ends of my arms like deadweight. But at least we're smiling and joking, so that
helps with the total weirdness of the moment.

“Slight bit, yes.” Alex laughs. “Anyway, now that he's gone off to ring his editor, I imagine we should meet Paisley and Sophie. We're almost late.” He's still smiling like a crazy person, which makes me feel like the glowing ball that the Good Witch of the North flies around in is bumping against my rib cage, all warm and bright.

“Yeah, okay,” I answer, and my cheeks kind of hurt from smiling so hard.

“Piggyback?”

“Oh, um, yeah.”

Alex turns around and squats so I can balance myself on his back. I spare one last look toward the gift shop, feeling a little guilty that I haven't thought of Ingrid even once in the last three minutes. And then Alex is carrying me down the city sidewalk again, and all I can think about are my arms wrapped around his shoulders and how much the cool breeze is making my teeth ache. But even though they hurt, I still can't make my mouth stop smiling.

•   •   •

“We have news!”

Paisley is practically jumping out of her shoes when she spots us making our way up Broadway toward Gap. Her face is
shining brighter than the marquee over
The Lion King
(which we've both seen seven times, for the record). Just because we can see and hear her doesn't mean we can get to her yet. That takes another few minutes. There are still about forty billion tourists around, and they're all looking up at the buildings and the lights and the flashing ads versus paying any actual attention to where they're going.

Plus, it's like there's an Elmo convention in town. I swear, I can count six within ten feet of me. Really it's just panhandlers who rent incredibly fake-looking costumes and try to get visitors to pay five bucks to take a picture with them. It must work enough, because there are dozens of characters in every direction, but seriously, they look more like Elmo's estranged cousin who had a run-in with a wood chipper.

And Pay has news? Ha! Wait until we're somewhere private where I can tell Paisley
my
news. Then I feel bad right away, because I should be focusing on finding Ingrid and not on replaying the kiss in my head for the fifty-third time.

Luckily, Alex is more levelheaded. I really like that about him.
Focus, Chloe!

“What news?” asks Alex, trying to catch his breath. I slide off his back and grab his shoulder for balance.

Sophie answers. “The woman at the cash register in M&M's World remembers talking to Ingrid! She sold her one of those souvenir books to put the pennies in, and Ingrid showed her the ones she had so far. Mostly from the Bronx Zoo.”

Everyone's eyes fall on me. I bite back any snarky “I told you so” comments, which I have to admit doesn't take that much effort since it feels like all the breath has been knocked out of me. Ingrid is okay. Hallelujah! I'm very composed when I ask, “Did she know where Ingrid was going next?”

Pay's head bobs up and down and her eyes shine. “That's the best part. She did! She said Ingrid asked her how she could get to the Statue of Liberty from here—”

“—and the lady showed her how on a subway map. The most brilliant part of all is it was only about thirty minutes ago!” Sophie talks over Paisley in her excitement.

All of our energy comes rushing back. Granted, I was already on a little post-kiss buzz, but now it feels like everything is right in the world again. Ingrid is safe, or at least she was a half hour ago, which is pretty fantastic. She was here, she was fine, and we know where she's going. And she's not so very far ahead of us. We all take a second to process this news, and then Pay grabs my arm and asks, “Well?”

“C'mon, let's go!” I say.

Alex crouches down, I clasp my arms on his shoulders and hoist myself onto his back, and then the four of us take off in a run (well, three of us run anyway, and I ride) toward the closest subway station.

T
he ride to the South Ferry station only takes about twenty-five minutes, but I'm fairly sure we could record an entire percussion album with all the foot tapping and finger drumming we have going on in our little part of the subway car. Now that we know Ingrid is so close, all of us are crazy impatient to get to our happy ending.

Until Paisley throws a bucket of cold water over our heads.

“How are we getting on the ferry?”

“What?” asks Sophie.

“Well, we usually take the Staten Island Ferry if we just want good views of the Statue of Liberty, and that's free. But Ingrid wants to get off on Liberty Island, because that's where the penny machine is. Which means she'll need to take a
Statue Cruise. Those? Cost big bucks. We have”—she rifles through her wallet—“five dollars and thirty-five cents.”

Ugh. This day is seriously one crisis after another. If we find Ingrid and everything turns out well, I swear I am not getting out of pajamas tomorrow. Movies and flannel, that is my Sunday. I wonder if Alex likes popcorn.
Maybe you should worry more about finding his missing sister and less about your love life, Chloe.

I know, I know. I need to remember what's important here. First and foremost is finding Ingrid, and second is my reputation as a concierge. Falling for a guest is a big no-no, and it's probably not gonna be helped by the photographic evidence that's sure to come out soon.

Yikes. I really didn't even have time to think that one through. What's going to happen when that picture is all over the place? Oh. My. Gosh. My dad might see me kissing Alex. How did I not think of that? What about my professional reputation? Was I so blinded by a lopsided smile and some dark blue eyes that I just forgot about everything I want out of life? I slide down a little in my seat, and my nervous energy saps out of me.

Tomorrow might not be movie day after all. Usually TV privileges are the first thing I lose when I get punished. As
reassuring as the thought of finding Ingrid is, it also makes the aftermath feel that much closer, and I'm finally able to give some thought to what will happen after all this is over. I don't think I even want to know what I'll lose for everything I've done today. I try to imagine the worst, most torturous punishment ever and decide it's a toss-up between a month as Marie LaFou's personal assistant or a year on that island where they imprisoned Napoleon.