Lost in Paris (11 page)

26

The petmobile was hidden.

Norman roamed and nibbled the grass with Sylvie on his neck. The two had become fast friends.

Winston's uncle Alphonse spoke to the birds who were still in the van in French and let them sit on top of the trellis to enjoy the sun.

Fifi had little interest in the country, and stayed glued to Henri's lap in the cottage kitchen, where we drank cappuccino. Uncle Alphonse didn't talk much, but rather busied himself around the kitchen, wiping,
straightening, and refilling our cups. He pulled up a paint-chipped stool and motioned for Clay to sit on it. Then he took a razor from a drawer, wiped it on his pants, and went to work on Clay's beard.

When we heard Murielle duPluie's news van on the gravel, we spied out the window: She shook hands with the three current members of Shock Value and explained, “This is going to be live.”

“That's right, man. Just like a good concert,” Glen said.

Murielle duPluie looked at the cameraman. “Are we ready, Kevin?”

“Ready. And . . . action!”

“This is Murielle duPluie, and I'm coming to you live from Shock Value's secret practice location.” She sat between the three handsome musicians under the trellis. “Are you guys excited about tomorrow's big show?” She put the mic in front of Glen, who seemed like the leader.

Glen said, “That's an understatement. This is going to be truly epic.”

DuPluie asked, “More than usual? How come?”

Alec moved the mic in front of his own mouth. “I guess the best thing we could do is show you,” he said. “You're gonna love this.”

“Yes. We'll show you.” Winston stood. “Come out,
mon ami
,” he called to Clay.

Clay Bright walked out of Uncle Alphonse's cottage. His hair had been cut and his beard shaved, he wore a clean shirt tucked in, and a guitar hung on his back. He looked like a totally different person. The Clay Bright everyone knew and loved.

Murielle duPluie stared at Clay. Her lips didn't move. Shock? Amazement? Awe? It was anybody's guess, but the famous Murielle duPluie froze once she saw Clay Bright.

“He's returning for the concert,” Glen said, helping her out.

Alec asked, “You're back, buddy. So great to see you. Where the heck have you been?”

“Sorry, but I needed to run away for a while, to find the music again. It's hard to explain, but I'd lost it,” he said. “But I'm back now, and I missed you guys. And I missed the fans.”

“So did you find it? Have you been writing?” Glen asked.

“I did,” Clay said. “And yes, I have been writing quite a lot. Want to hear something new?”

“Would we?” Glen looked at Murielle duPluie. “What do you think? Would your viewers like to hear a new Shock Value song from Clay Bright, who has just returned to his band?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, still in her frozen smile.

“Great!” Clay played a short section of the song about running away. “I'll be playing that one tonight,” he said to Glen.

Murielle duPluie finally cleared her throat and looked into the camera. “There you have it. Musical history. Clay Bright is back and will rejoin Shock Value tonight,” she said. “Follow me, Murielle duPluie, on
Music News
live throughout the evening. Remember, you heard it here first.” She didn't move her stare from Clay.

Kevin, her cameraman, said, “And . . . cut.”

27

The petmobile was loaded with me, Brigitte, Henri, and Natalie—Professor Camponi's granddaughter. We gave her one of the extra front-row tickets that we'd gotten for opening all the boxes. We gave Beef the fifth and final VIP ticket. For this event Brigitte had agreed, reluctantly, to leave any nonhuman friends behind. “Fifi will be so sad to miss it,” Brigitte had said.

“We'll tell her all about it,” I'd said. She didn't feel good about it until Henri suggested that we record parts of the concert and play it back for Fifi later.

I recognized the arena, the Palais Omnisports de Paris-Bercy (the locals called it POPB), from my tour books. It had a unique pyramidal shape and really cool walls that were actually covered with sloping lawns.

Brigitte navigated the van into the crowded parking lot and rolled down the window to pay the attendant for parking.

“
Bonjour
, Brigitte,” said the parking attendant.

“
Bonjour
, Monsieur d'Argent. How is the little angel?”

“Ah,
très bien
. He is getting big.” He handed her a bright red VIP parking sticker. “Put this on your window and you can park anywhere.”

“
Merci
, but you see, I have two more buses behind me. One is from the Hôtel de Paris, and the other one carries a very noisy lacrosse team.”

He stretched his neck around the petmobile and looked at the two buses behind us. “Ah! I see. Shock Value told me about them. They will have to sit with the maintenance crew in the mezzanine section. The view is obstructed, but it's the best we could do with the whole place sold out. We forgot that they would need to park.” He scratched his bald head. “But for Brigitte, it is no problem.” He took out two more red stickers. “I will give them these.” He winked at her.

“
Merci
, Monsieur d'Argent. Thank you so much.”

“For the girl who cleans Antonio's teeth, anything.”

We drove on.

“Antonio?” I asked.

“Baby alligator,” she said. “So cute and cuddly.”

“Right,” I agreed, “a cuddly alligator.”

We flashed our backstage passes to every agent. Each one seemed like they were expecting us and the huge crowd of people who trailed along behind us. Of course, they couldn't all sit in the front row or go backstage. So Étienne and the apartment doormen who had driven in the hotel van were led to the balcony, while the lacrosse team and their families were directed to a long empty row up high in the nosebleed seats.

As we parted ways, I heard one of the lacrosse players say to Josh, “Your sister rocks.”

Another player said, “She's cute, too.”

Topher said, “Dude, gross.”

I guess my new outfit, which Étienne had helped me select from the hotel store, looked good. It was a denim miniskirt and scoop-neck Shock Value T-shirt. A few days without contact sports and my legs were practically bruise-free. I'd taken some extra time to blow-dry my hair. It had never looked so good. It was amazing what some spray and a few rhinestone clips could do.

The last of our crowd of guests to walk away were Jean-Luc, Sabine, and Robert. That's right: I asked Shock Value for tickets for them, too. And they gave them to me because they were so appreciative that I'd convinced Clay to come back.

Sabine said, “I like your hair jewelry.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Enjoy the show.”

Jean-Luc said, “You are okay, Henri, to get us these tickets.”

“It does not mean that I will not beat you in the next game,” he said.

“No, you won't,” Jean-Luc said. “That will never happen again.”

“Maybe we should bet—” Henri said.

I interrupted, “No. Let's not. Someone usually loses when you bet.” I tugged Henri toward the front row. “Are you glad now that you invited them?”

“Maybe,” he said. “They are going to get mad again when I score the next goal.”

“Probably,” I said, “Let's go.”

Mr. Camponi's granddaughter, Natalie; Beef; Henri; Brigitte; and I were given the full backstage tour before being escorted to our seats—all of us except Beef, who was asked to stay behind with the band.

Natalie oohed and aahed at everything. From the
front row I saw Murielle duPluie in the wings, where she was reporting live.

Alec, Winston, and Glen took the stage. The audience cheered, “CLAY! CLAY!” After making us wait just long enough, Clay came onto the stage, and the four original members of the band, with Beef on the tambourine, launched into their most beloved song. The audience, including me, Henri, Brigitte, and Natalie, went nuts.

The set continued through Shock Value's classic songs. They danced, and the audience sang along. Everything about the concert was perfect.

Then Clay stood at the mic and said, “It's good to be back with my three bandmates and all of you here in Paris!”

The crowd screamed.

He continued, “Finding the courage to come back wasn't easy. I had a little help, actually. You see, I met a stranger who inspired me.” The audience listened in silence. “This new friend also helped me find my way back to my love of writing music, and I think maybe I helped her discover something she didn't know about herself.” Was he talking about me? “She had no idea that her voice rocked, because her older brothers . . .” He shaded his eyes from the spotlights and looked up into the mezzanine section. “They're up there somewhere.
Anyway, they told her she couldn't sing.” He picked a guitar string. “Gwen, I want you to come up here and sing the song you wrote.”

No! Freakin'! Way!

Was he seriously doing this?

“If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be here right now.” He started playing the familiar chords. “Let's rock.”

Glen tapped the security guards in front of the stage. “Her,” he told them, and pointed to me.

Two muscular security men lifted me onto the stage.

I tugged my skirt down and brushed a lock of hair over my ear.

The crowd cheered for me. For
me
! I thought I could hear JTC, but I couldn't see anyone because the lights totally blinded me.

Clay continued plucking at the sequence of chords. I swung my hips to the familiar and catchy tune.

Glen came over and hung a mic on a wire over my ear. He looked me in the eye and said, “Deep breath.”

I took one.

Then he said, “You got this,” and he strummed his guitar. Alec boomed on the drums, and Winston pounded on the keyboard.

I was so into the beat that when Clay started the first words, I joined right in. He lowered his voice and let
me take over the song. “I could go to Japan!” I sang the whole verse; then Clay joined in to harmonize the second time through. The rest of the band hummed in the background. Beef clanked the tambourine.

I danced and walked across the stage, finally belting out, “If only I could fly!” Both of my hands were in the air.

Clay yelled, “Yeah!” and gave me a big hug. He whispered, “Thank you,” in my ear. Then he announced, “Good night, Paris!”

The lights went out and I was escorted backstage. Natalie, Henri, and Brigitte were already in the greenroom. The band was right behind me.

Alec signed an autograph for Sylvie and one for Fifi, and Winston posed for countless pictures with Natalie. Even Beef was there. I listened to her live interview with Murielle duPluie.

Murielle duPluie asked, “So, how was it?”

“Well, you know, Murray—”

“Murielle,” Murielle duPluie corrected her.

“It's like a nickname that I made for you,” Beef explained.

“I don't like it, but how was it?”

“It was like I always imagined it would be. I can't thank Shock Value enough for giving me my big break. Now I have a question for you, Murray. Where do you
get your hair done? Because it is fab and I was thinking of getting a little trim.” She fluffed her very short waves.

Murielle duPluie's mic-less hand went to her hair. “Why, thank you. I can give you some names.”

“Well, that would be appreciated,” Beef said. She was definitely a smooth talker. “And how about that ­little lady?” She indicated me with her thumb. “My new friend. Wasn't she amazing?”

Murielle duPluie focused the mic on me, and Beef moved straight to a plate of shrimp cocktail.

“Hello, Gwen,” she said. “I'm live with
Music News
.Can I ask you a few questions?”

“I'd like that,” I said.

“I think the world is wondering, ‘Who is Gwen Russell and what's her story?'”

“It's a super-simple story, really,” I told Murielle duPluie. “I came to Paris and I made a wish on a lantern that I tossed off the cliff at la côte d'Albâtre.”

“What was your wish?”

Henri interrupted, “Do not tell her. It will not come true.”

“It's okay,” I told Henri.

“Well?” Murielle duPluie asked.

“I wished for the best week ever in Paris.”

“And did you have it?” she asked me.

“I got to spend time with my old friend and surrogate sister, Brigitte, and her gang of pets. I won the Shock Value scavenger hunt. I not only met the band, but I returned their friend and bandmate to them—not many people can say they've done something like that. He convinced me to start singing, and it turns out I'm pretty good. And”—I took Henri's hand—“I made a great new friend.”

“So your wish came true?”

“You bet it did,” I said. “Wait. Actually, don't bet. Someone usually loses.”

The cameraman pushed in closer to Murielle duPluie. She stared straight into the camera, at her viewers, and said, “There you have it, music fans. A wish on a lantern ends in musical history. I'd say that's a successful trip to Paris.”