Lost in Paris

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Pour ma mère et mon père. Merci pour tout. Je vous aime.

1

I traced my finger over the gold emblem of my new passport. It was blank, but it would have its first stamp very soon. A stamp that said
FRANCE
!

My brothers were playing in a lacrosse tournament overseas, which meant that I got to go to . . .
wait for it
. . . Paris!

While the boys were off playing lacrosse, Mom and I planned to tour the entire city—the City of Light. That was what they called Paris. What I wanted to do most of all was to take a boat ride down the Seine—that was the
river that flowed through the center of the city. My dad had to stay behind for work, so he would miss all the fun.
Quel dommage!
That was “bummer” in French, I thought, or maybe it was “it's too bad,” or “scrambled eggs.”

Giddy with excitement, I placed the passport back onto the middle of the kitchen table, so everyone could see it. It had my name, Gwen Russell; my picture; and my birth date, indicating that I was thirteen. “It's beautiful, isn't it?” I asked Mom for the umpteenth time.

“Yes, it is. It'll look even better with a stamp in it.” She looked at her cell phone. “The boys just texted. They'll be home soon with pizza.”

By “boys” she meant my three older brothers. There were four kids in our family. I was the youngest and the only girl, the only one who stepped on the mat when she got out of the shower, the only one who took her shoes off at the door, and the only one who'd never traveled overseas. But not for long.

I pulled up the latest Shock Value video on my tablet and turned the sound waaaay up. I grabbed a broom, played air guitar, and sang along. I didn't sing when the boys were around because they told me I was terrible, but when they weren't around, I belted it out. I knew every word to this song.

Shock Value was only THE most amazing band. I
dreamed that one day I'd get tickets to one of their concerts. I wanted to see Winston up close. He was my total fave band member. Maybe because he was the youngest, but also because he was the cutest with a capital
C
. But I doubted I would ever get to see them in person, since tickets to their shows were like a bagillion dollars. A girl could still dream, and I did. I wasn't the only one nuts about Shock Value. My brothers and parents loved them too.

When the video was over, I played it again with the volume lower and jumped over the couch with a notebook in which I wrote song lyrics. I called it my Lyrics Notebook. Creative, huh? I jotted:

I'm going to Paris.

Café au lait.

I can't wait for France.

To stroll along the boulevards.

I admired my work. Okay, so maybe these weren't the best lyrics, but I was getting better. Maybe one day I'd write a song for Shock Value.

As I studied my notebook, the door to the garage slammed open, and Josh (seventeen), Topher (sixteen), and Charlie (fifteen) walked in, each carrying a pizza box. The kitchen instantly filled with the smell of boy
sweat and garlic. They stacked their slices three high, grabbed extra-large Gatorades, and headed toward the stairs, where I knew they were about to play hallway lacrosse in between showers and burping.

“Come on, Gwen,” Topher said on his way up. “We need a goalie.”

The goalie was the one who kept the ball from rolling down the stairs.

“I'll be there in a little bit.” I pointed to my mom. “Girl talk, you know.”

“No. I don't know.” He flew up the stairs two at a time.

I sighed.

I said to Mom, “Tell me again about the flight.”

CRASH!
It sounded like the ball had knocked something over.

“We're leaving tomorrow evening, and we'll fly all night on the red-eye,” Mom said.

“AWW!” cried Josh. I was pretty sure he'd caught an elbow to the gut.

I ran up to see the boy drama. No one was dead.

I hung out, and as the hallway lacrosse game whirled around me, I put my earbuds in, played a Shock Value song, and imagined myself in front of each fab sight in Paris. Mom and I really needed some quality girl time. ASAP!

2

I'd never been on a plane ride that long before. It felt like I had just slept in a shoe box, but one glimpse of Paris and I didn't care.

As our taxi zoomed, with a capital
Z
, through the streets, the highway and buildings near the airport gave way to the Paris I had always imagined. The city was already alive with people in the middle of their morning routines. I could see the beautiful cobblestone streets lined with beautiful buildings that just screamed Paris—and definitely didn't look like Pennsylvania! All the storefronts
had chic-looking everything: window displays, awnings, and shoppers—many with their dogs in tow.

Finally, we arrived at our hotel. The Hôtel de Paris lobby was small, cozy, and warm—maybe too warm—like, stuffy, and I wanted to open a window. In a modern city of glitz and fashion, the Hôtel de Paris felt like a time capsule from another century. The lights of the antique chandelier were dim, and a candle on the check-in desk reminded me of wildflowers. The drapes were heavy and dark, the furnishings were something out of a museum.

After a long late-afternoon nap (in four-poster beds) to recover from staying up all night watching airplane movies, we walked the boys to the hotel restaurant for dinner with their team, while we joined some fellow tourists gathered in the lobby. Mom and I were taking a special evening tour.

Mom skimmed over our itinerary. “We're in group C,” she said, pointing to a sign.

It was a diverse bunch of about a dozen people—old, young, men, women, all different nationalities, shapes, and sizes. They flipped through brochures and unfolded maps.

A guy who looked a little older than me, wearing a shirt with the hotel's logo, came over. He was cute in a soccer player–like way: a few inches taller than me, with sun-bleached hair pulled away from his face and
tied into a ponytail. “
Êtes-vous Américaine?
Are you American?” His accent was adorable and totally added to his cute factor.

“Yes. I'm Gwen Russell.”

“Ah, someone was looking for you.” He scanned the people in the hotel lobby and pointed to the familiar face of Brigitte Guyot. I'd met Brigitte in Pennsylvania when she and her family were living in the US for work that her dad was doing with my dad. We all hung out and became friends. She was like the big sister I never had, kind of a lot older—nine years. But then her dad's job moved them back to Paris.

He added, “You are going on the night tour to
la côte d'Albâtre
. It is . . . er . . . egg salad.”

“Egg salad?”

“Um . . . how do you say? . . .
Formidable
?”

“Excellent?”

“
Oui.
Excellent! We say
excellent
too.” He pointed to his name tag. “My name is Henri.”

“You work here?”

“
Un peu
. . .
er . . . a little, when I am not in school.”

He turned me in the direction of a podium where a woman stood. “Listen carefully. She does not like it when people do not listen,” he said. “I see you
plus
tard
. . .
er . . . later?”

“Yes,” I said. I knew a little more than basic French, because I'd studied it in school and listened to some CDs, but mostly I'd learned it from Brigitte and her parents when they were in the US.

Brigitte was exactly like I remembered, except maybe a little older. Here's the deal: Brigitte was very nice but a little
unusual
.

Her brown hair was longer now, past her shoulders, and she was still very thin. She was tall—very tall, in fact. It seemed like her legs were longer than the rest of her body. Her glasses were square and thick. Her pants were pulled up too high, and she'd buttoned her shirt all the way up to her neck. Her unusual style actually made me smile, because the thing was, it suited her. She was kind of a quirky girl.

I hoped my outfit described me in a way that said,
Bonjour, Paris! Gwen Russell is in the house!
With three brothers, I was no expert in fashion, but I'd gotten sandals, hair clips, and lip gloss for this trip. Those were big advancements to my wardrobe.

Before I could talk to Brigitte, a small woman wearing a crisply starched uniform and a name tag identifying her as Madame LeBoeuf stood behind the tour guide podium. She glanced at the clipboard in her hand.

“Welcome to the Hôtel de Paris,” she said with no
French accent at all. If anything, from her drawl, I'd have guessed she was from Alabama or Louisiana. “Tonight we will travel by bus to”—she paused at the French location—“
Atretat
, which is on the
coat de Albetross
.” Man, she'd butchered
Étretat
on
la côte ­d'Albâtre
. She continued, “Where they launch the lanterns.” She clapped twice to get the attention of a couple who was talking. She pointed to her ears and mouthed,
Listen up.
Henri wasn't kidding. She was serious about paying attention. “I will be joined tonight by my assistant.” She waved to Henri, who was lifting a tapestry suitcase onto a cart.

Henri waved back, but his mouth gaped open for a second like this was a surprise to him. He forced a smile.

I was psyched to hear this because I wanted to talk more to Henri. He was cute, French, and seemed about my age. Plus, if he was as
sportif
as he looked, we had something in common.

I was good at most sports. Kind of by accident, really. You see, I'd been recruited for every backyard game my brothers played. Whoever was “stuck” with me on their team pressured me to be tougher, faster, and stronger. This meant that I made every team I tried out for. Now I was a three-sport girl: soccer, basketball, and lacrosse. It also meant that I often had black eyes, fat lips, and bruised legs. I'd had more broken fingers than anyone—boy or
girl—in my school. I had a few girlfriends, but mostly I hung out with the boys.

Recently, I'd been trying to be more girly. My hair finally reached my shoulders, and my mom had bought me some trendy new clothes, which I'd brought with me.

Madame LeBoeuf continued, “You must stay with the group at all times. Raise your hands to ask questions. Speak slowly and clearly so that everyone can hear. Capeesh?” she snapped. Then she said, “If you require the facilities, now would be the time. We're leaving in five. That's
minutes
, people!” Her yelling definitely had a southern twang, proving there was nothing French at all about Madame LeBoeuf except her name. I used the translation app on my phone.
Le boeuf
was “beef.” Kind of a perfect description of her too.

Everyone in group C scampered to the bathroom. But not me. This woman wouldn't scare me into going when I didn't have to. Instead I went to see Brigitte.

She hugged me, instantly transferring hair or fur or something strange and fuzzy from her shirt onto my new V-neck tee, which I'd tucked into capris.

“Gwen! The little sister I never had.” I figured Brigitte was probably twenty-two years old now. “I am so glad you are both here,” she said to Mom and me. “You are going to have a wonderful trip!”

“Are you coming on the night tour?” Mom asked her.

“Yes! I wouldn't miss it. I've lived here all my life and I've never been to
la côte d'Albâtre,”
she said. “Besides, I want to hear all about every little thing going on in Pennsylvania.”

Brigitte led us outside to the tour bus. I didn't get on the bus right away because I heard a familiar sound and started to wander toward it. A guitar.

There was a guy with a full beard, knit cap, wild hair, and sunglasses (at night), strumming and singing. The words were in English, something about running away. He stopped singing after lyrics about leaving worries behind. Brigitte nudged me to get on the bus. I did, but I wanted to come back later and hear more. In my town, no one hung out on the street and jammed like that.

Many seats were already taken, so all three of us couldn't sit together. Henri called me over to sit next to him. Yay!

Brigitte sat with Mom, and the two of them began to chatter.

I looked at the guitar guy through the window. “Is he there a lot?” I asked Henri.

“Every day. I see him at other places too. Do you like music?”

“I love it. My fave band is Shock Value. Do you know them?”

“Everyone knows Shock Value. They are very famous in France. One of the guys is French.”

Together we said, “Winston!” He was the only French member of the band.

We shared a laugh. “They're big in America, too.”

Henri asked, “You hear of the legs?”

“The legs?” I asked. Then I pointed to my legs. “Legs?”

“
Non. Non.
Not legs. It is like a story that I tell you and then you will tell another person . . . how you say? . . . Leg—”

“Legend?”

“
Oui!
Legend. You hear of the legend of the lanterns?”

I loved a good legend almost as much as I loved Shock Value. “Tell me.”

“Parisians, they fly lanterns to the night sky at Étretat
to welcome
l'été
. . . er . . . summer,” Henri explained. “If you make a wish as you let your lantern”—he raised his hands over his head and then made a pushing motion—“out of your hands, it will come true.”

And at those words, I knew exactly what my wish would be—an awesome week in Paris.