The Road to Paris (11 page)

Ugh!
thought Paris, who couldn’t get out of that park fast enough.
Little brothers. What a pain!

“See you later!” called Sienna. “Maybe at school!”

Paris shook her head and kept walking.

Some folks can’t take a hint.

T
he following Monday, Paris was sitting in the school lunchroom, eating her tuna salad sandwich, when Sienna slipped into the empty space beside her.

“Hi!” said Sienna, grinning. “I saw you here all by yourself and figured I’d keep you company. You mind?”

You again
, thought Paris, her mouth too full to speak. She finished chewing, swallowed, and was about to say she’d rather be alone, when Sienna launched right into a story before Paris could get a word in.

Paris sighed, shaking her head.
Go on, Miss Freckles
, she thought.
Jabber all you want to. I’m not listening.
So Sienna talked enough for the both of them, and Paris finished her lunch in silence, nodding every now and then to keep Sienna from bugging her with questions.

•    •    •

The week closed with a parent-teacher buffet. The principal called it the last meet-and-greet of the school year, a chance for parents, teachers, and students to celebrate the end of the year.

Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln were there with David, Jordan, and Paris. The minute they got there, David took off looking for his buddies, dragging Jordan behind him. Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln chatted with a couple of teachers, and Paris stood nearby, sipping lemonade by herself.

From the corner of her eye, Paris noticed Sienna hurrying in her direction. Rushing to keep up was a tall man with the same shock of red hair as Sienna, and an equally tall lady who was blonde.

Must be Mr. and Mrs. Freckles
, thought Paris.
What do they want?

“Hi, Paris!” said Sienna, bubbly as a cold root beer. “And Mr. Lincoln, Mrs. Lincoln, right? This is my mom and dad.”

“I’m Jake,” said Mr. Warren. “And this is my wife, Kendra.”

“James and Esther,” said Mr. Lincoln. The adults shook hands all around.

Then Mr. Warren bent down until he was his daughter’s height.

“Hi there! You must be Paris,” he said, holding out his hand. Paris looked at it, hesitating. She searched his face, his eyes, and found not an ounce of hatred. Slowly, Paris slid her small hand into his big paw. He gave her hand a warm shake, then stood up.

“Sienna tells me she hopes the two of you are going to be good friends, so it’s nice to finally meet you,” he said. “And your parents.”

Paris glanced up at Mrs. Lincoln, who gave her a secret wink. Paris nodded, turning to Sienna. The girl’s smile had faded a little. She looked as if she might be holding her breath.

Good friends, huh?
thought Paris.
I don’t know.

The adults chatted with one another while Paris thought, long and hard. She thought about the world of hurt Ashley had caused her. Then she thought about what Mrs. Lincoln had said.
Take every person as she comes. Judge each one by her actions.

So far, Sienna’s actions had been fine, surprising as a spring rain, maybe, but just as soft, too.

Paris polished off her lemonade and headed back to the refreshment table across the room. Midway, she stopped and turned around.

“Well, you coming or not?” she said to Sienna. “I’m about to die of thirst here.”

Sienna’s smile curved as wide and bright as a crescent moon. She bolted from her father’s side and caught up with her friend.

The two girls wandered around together for the rest of the evening.

A
lot can happen in a year. Life can become normal, an address can become more than numbers on a piece of paper, and family can become more than just a word in the dictionary.

Paris woke to the honeyed scent of lilacs wafting through her window. Her bedroom was tiny as ever, but the room seemed friendlier. It was no longer a strange place. It was hers. The room, the house, everyone under its roof, and even the scent of lilacs. All were hers, now.

Viola was also hers, but in an arm’s-length sort of way. Her birth mother had her life in the city, and Paris had her life in Ossining. She and Malcolm stayed connected through letters mostly. She wished that they were still together,
but she was old enough to understand that wasn’t a decision she got to make.

“Get up, lazybones,” Paris told herself. “Or you’ll be late for the last week of school.” She rolled out of bed and got ready for the day.

The hours swam by, caught in the current of the ordinary: class, lunch with Sienna, and the noisy car ride home with David play-punching her in the backseat. Before Paris could blink, it was dinnertime and her turn to lay out the knives and forks.

Paris made a detour to the backyard. She clipped a few lilacs for the table and propped them up in a jelly jar full of water. The dash of color was exactly what the table needed.

Dinner was spaghetti and meatballs, her favorite. She couldn’t wait to dig in. First, though, she had to bow her head while Mr. Lincoln said grace. Jordan kicked her under the table, being his usual pest of a little brother. Paris didn’t give him away, but if looks could kill, let’s just say her eyes were busy doing damage during that prayer.

“Amen,” said Mr. Lincoln in his deep voice.

Mrs. Lincoln spooned up the spaghetti while Paris retrieved the hot garlic bread from the oven. She was salivating by the time she finally settled back into her seat, and dove into the mountain of spaghetti on her plate. That
was when the phone rang. It was Viola. Paris took a bite of garlic bread, then went to the phone.

“Hi,” she said. Paris hadn’t heard from Viola in a long time, but she was okay with that. She’d given up being angry with her mom, or she’d be mad all the time, and what good would that do?

“Hello, sweetheart! How are you?”

“Fine,” said Paris. “But we’re eating dinner, Mom.”

“I know, I know,” said Viola. “And I know I haven’t called in a while, and I’m sorry. But I have something important to tell you.”

Paris felt her throat tighten. “Is it Malcolm? Is something wrong?”

“No! No, Malcolm’s fine,” Viola assured her. “But I
am
calling about Malcolm. And about you. And about me. It’s something I’ve been working on for a while, for all of us, honey.”

“What is it?” asked Paris, becoming impatient.

“I’ve gotten married again! His name is Marcus, and he can’t wait to meet you. And Malcolm, of course.”

“That’s nice,” said Paris, “but what’s that got to do with—”

Viola cut her off. “We’ve got a great big apartment in Brooklyn, and I’ve been working hard to get your rooms ready for you. Isn’t that great?” Her words ran together.

“We can all be a family again, honey! You and Malcolm can move back to the city, and live with Marcus and me. For good this time. No more foster homes, I promise! Prospect Park is right up the street, and there’s a school nearby, I’ve checked, and I’m sure you’ll like it, and the apartment is huge! Did I say that already? I probably did, I’m so excited. The thing is, now that I’ve straightened myself out, I really want you kids home with me. All you have to do is say yes, honey. If you want.”

Viola finally ran out of breath. She fell silent on the other end of the phone.

Paris was stunned.

After all this time
, thought Paris.
After all this time.

I’m just supposed to drop everything and leave Ossining? Leave David, Jordan, and Earletta? Give up my choir, my friends? Give up Mom and Dad Lincoln?

I guess Earletta was right, after all. She’s the one kid who gets to stay.

Paris slid to the floor, leaning her full weight against the kitchen cabinet.

The phone cord swung out from the wall and sent the handset banging loudly against the doorjamb.

“Hello? Hello? Are you still there?” said the tinny voice on the phone.

“Paris, what’s the matter?” asked Mr. Lincoln.

“Oh, Lord, what did that woman say to her? James, help her up,” Mrs. Lincoln said to Mr. Lincoln.

“Hey, Sis. Stop fooling around and get up,” said Jordan.

“Yeah,” said David.

Paris looked over at her foster family. They were all speaking at once. She could tell because she saw their mouths moving. But for some reason, her ears weren’t working. Paris couldn’t hear a thing.

For Paris, the rest of the evening was a blur. In a way, that was a special kind of blessing.

T
he next morning, for the first time ever, a grown-up asked Paris what she thought.

“The decision is up to you,” said Mrs. Lincoln. “If you want to move back to the city and live with your mother, we’ll understand. But you know, you’ll always have a home here, if you want it, Paris. This time, you choose,” she said. Then she left Paris sitting on the edge of her bed, alone.

Choose what?
thought Paris.
How? The caseworker says I’m lucky, that most kids don’t have a mother who wants them back. Plus, I’d get to live with Malcolm again. But how can I feel lucky? If I go back to the city, that means leaving here. And this is home, now.

And what about this new stepdad? What if she didn’t
like him? What if he didn’t like her? And what if she did turn her mother’s offer down—what would that mean? Would Viola be out of her life for good? Did she want that? And what if it meant never seeing Malcolm again? Could she risk that?

Paris fell back on the bed and curled up into a ball. She stayed that way for a long time, rocking herself and thinking.

Jet padded into the room and lay at the foot of her bed. Somehow, he knew she needed the company.

The light in the room shifted as noon approached. Paris sat up and looked around. She eyed the wardrobe, the small desk and chair, as well as the night-light on the wall near the door, and she sighed.

“Come here, Jet,” she called to the collie. He barked and clambered onto the bed beside her. Paris stroked his back, and let him lick her face.

“Oof!” she said. “You need a bath!” But she didn’t push the dog away. Instead, she laid her head against his hairy body and snuggled.

•    •    •

Somehow, Paris made it through that day, and the next, and the one after that.

She had a lot to think about. Like how much she’d come to love the Lincolns. How she’d come to trust them,
and to trust herself simply by being around them. And how close she felt to David and Jordan, and sometimes even Earletta. And she thought about Jolene’s comment about her not being a real member of the Lincoln family. In the pit of her, Paris knew it was true. Somehow, she’d always be an outsider. Could the Lincolns’ love change that?

Then Paris thought about Malcolm and Viola. She thought about how great it would be to live with Malcolm again. And with Viola, whom she’d finally learned to forgive. She thought about how she hardly knew her own mother, really. And she wanted to. She needed to. It’d be a shame to keep her a stranger.

Paris didn’t know anything about her mom’s new husband, what was it Mom Lincoln had told her?
Judge each person by his own actions.
Paris understood what that meant. She’d have to give this Marcus guy a chance. She’d keep her eye on him, though. And so would Malcolm.

The caseworker says he’s nice
, thought Paris.
Maybe he is.

Paris spent a lot of time gazing at the photo of herself sitting on Viola’s lap beside Malcolm. She traced the brows, the chins, the dimpled cheeks that they all shared. And when she went to sleep each night, she prayed, asking God to tell her what to do.

By the end of the week, Paris had made her decision.

P
aris waved to the Lincolns through the train window, tears streaming down her cheek. She’d miss them more than sunshine, but she was wrapped up in their love, and she was taking it with her.

Tarrytown, Dobbs Ferry, Riverdale. As Paris got closer to New York, she smiled to herself. Finally, she and Malcolm would be together again. She could hardly wait!

There was no way for Paris to tell the future. But she was not afraid. Not anymore. The rough road she’d been on had led her to a stronger sense of herself. And though she was leaving the Lincoln home, she had their love to hold on to, as well as the lessons she’d learned while under their roof.

Paris had learned to keep God in her pocket, and as long as she kept him close, she knew she’d be all right.

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