Charlotte in Paris (3 page)

“Really? I can go?! I can go?! Wooooohoooo!” I whooped, jumping up to hug Dad. “Thank you, Dad! You’re the best! A trip to Paris…this is unbelievable!”

“Wooooohooooo!” Avery echoed from the hallway and raced in to give me a high five.

“Woooof!” barked Marty in agreement.

Party Time

Late Saturday morning, Dad and I were doing the dishes from our yummy blueberry pancake breakfast when the phone rang.

“Hello? Yes, she is. Hold on just a second…. It’s Maeve,” he motioned, handing the phone to me.

“It’s all set,” she chirped. “A going-away party for you at Montoya’s at four o’clock…BSG-style fabulous!” Maeve, the self-pronounced social director of the Beacon Street Girls, announced breathlessly.

I covered the receiver and told Dad what Maeve had said. He raised an eyebrow doubtfully…. I knew exactly what he was thinking. He wasn’t crazy about the idea of a last-minute party. Ever since he gave me permission to go to Paris, Dad had been a nervous wreck, running around and making phone calls back and forth with the airlines and the Morels as he chaotically tried to help me get ready.

“But I still have to buy a present for the Morels. I bet they’d like something from a local place…like one of Montoya’s gift baskets,” I suggested to Dad before he could veto the party. “I promise I’ll only stay for an hour…just long enough to say good-bye to the BSG and buy the gift. Please, Dad? Please…?”

Dad nodded reluctantly. “All right. I have to run some errands, so I’ll drop you off and pick you up. Make sure you get all of your packing finished before you go…we’re leaving for the airport at five o’clock sharp.”

I raced upstairs to my room to put all the clothes I’d laid out into my suitcase and double-check my list. I still couldn’t believe it was happening. It was a dream come true…my very own adventure back to Paris!

From all my traveling with Dad, I’ve learned that the best way to pack is to make a list and check off each thing as you put it in the suitcase…that way you don’t end up with sneakers and no socks, or socks and no sneakers, or one T-shirt and four pairs of jeans.

Just as I was about to zip up my suitcase, Marty hopped inside and poked his head over the rim.

“Sorry, little dude. I wish you could come to Paris, but you have to stay here and keep Dad company, okay? And that’s a really important job, just so you know.”

“Ruuuuuffff!” Marty leapt onto the floor and pitter-pattered to the kitchen, where I could hear Dad talking to him. I think people talk to their dogs because dogs really seem to understand what they’re saying…sometimes even better than other humans.

Dad dropped me off in front of Montoya’s Bakery at precisely four o’clock. “I’ll be back in an hour to pick you up,” he reminded me.

I waved as Dad pulled away from the curb. When I looked over my shoulder, I could see all four of them—Maeve, Avery, Katani, and Isabel—through the bakery window, waiting for me at a table. Avery waved.

I jogged to the door and pulled it open. The air was filled with the sweet aroma of freshly made cookies, hot
chocolate, and cinnamon.
Mmmm!
I stopped at the counter first to order the gift basket for the Morels so I wouldn’t forget.

“Are you all packed and ready?” Maeve asked when I made it to the table.

“I’m ready,” I declared with a smile.

“
Paris
. I’ve always wanted to go to Paris.” Maeve sighed. “The City of Light. The City of Love! So many of the great romantic movies were set there. It’s where Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant felt the magic spell of love in
Charade
. And, oh, who could ever forget
An American in Paris
? It was so dreamy.”

Avery made a face. “What are you talking about, Maeve? You act like Charlotte is going to Paris for romance. She’s going there to find Orangina and visit Sophie. Hey, Char, make sure you tell Miss Pierce I’ll come over every day and take Marty for a run.”

“Okay, but I think she’s excited about playing with him, too,” I replied.

Even though Marty lived with me, he really belonged to all of us—after all, he was the official BSG mascot. We found the “little dude” abandoned in the park during the first week of school. We didn’t know if we’d be able to keep him because Miss Pierce, my landlady, used to have a no-pets rule. But it all worked out, and now Miss Pierce loved Marty like the rest of us. How could she not? He was irresistibly adorable! When she heard I was going to Paris, Miss Pierce said she would be glad to watch after the little guy whenever Dad’s not around.

“You’ll have time to do some shopping, won’t you, Charlotte?” Katani asked.

“Shopping?” I was confused.

Katani was clearly horrified by my reaction. “Listen to me, Miss Charlotte Ramsey. Paris is one of the world’s major fashion hotspots! I mean, as you’re looking for Orangina, maybe you could check out the store windows on the Champs-Elysées for just a minute?” Of course, Katani, the fashion diva of our group, knew about the famous fashion streets of Paris. By what she was wearing—a rose-colored shirt with a drape neck, jeans, and tall black boots—it looked like she’d gone to Paris to pick out her outfit that very morning.

“Katani has a point. I mean, I know you’re going to look for Orangina, but you’ll have time to visit the museums, won’t you?” Isabel asked. “Have you ever been to the Picasso Museum?”

“No,” I admitted, a little embarrassed that I had lived in Paris for so long and never visited one of its most famous museums. “But I did see some of Picasso’s work at the Louvre. Maybe I’ll have time to visit a museum or two, but I’m mostly excited to get Orangina back and see Sophie again.”

“Picasso has lots of art in the Louvre, but the Picasso Museum has even more,” Isabel said. “He spent a lot of time in Paris studying the works of other famous artists and working on his own pieces. His work is still influencing artists today.” Isabel was usually pretty quiet, but she always lit up when she talked about something she loved. And art was definitely that
something. I had a feeling that someday we’d see one of her paintings hanging in a museum. It would be so wonderful to walk around with my family and say, “Yes, that famous, world-renowned artist Isabel Martinez is one of my best friends.”

“So you’re really going to Paris?” Nick asked as he brought a tray of hot chocolate and muffins to the table. Nick Montoya was in our seventh-grade class. His parents owned Montoya’s and Nick helped out. I really liked Nick, and he was always nice to me and the BSG. He was the only guy I knew who was really interested in all the places I had been in the world. Nick would be a great world traveler someday. Maybe he and I could hike the Himalayas together when we grew up!

I nodded. “Only for a week. I’m leaving tonight and I’ll be back next Saturday afternoon. I’m going to visit Sophie and look for Orangina. Sophie said she saw him near our old houseboat. If I find Orangina, I’m going to bring him back home with me.” I knew Nick would understand how important this trip was…I’d told him all about Sophie and Orangina before.

“Do you think Marty likes cats?” Avery wondered.

“Even if he doesn’t, he’ll love Orangina,” I assured her. Although secretly I wasn’t quite certain that Marty could love any cat, even one as cool as Orangina.

“Time for presents!” Maeve announced as soon as Nick left the table.

“Presents? Are you serious? You didn’t have to do that!” I exclaimed.

“What would a
bon voyage
party be without
bon voyage
presents?” Maeve reasoned.

“We couldn’t let you leave without something to remember us by,” Isabel said.

“But I’ll only be gone a week,” I protested.

“Me first!” Maeve insisted, pushing a small pink bag overflowing with hot pink tissue paper toward me.

I reached in. It was a pen on a cord, decorated Maeve-style with tiny gold and silver stars. Maeve knew how much I loved stargazing.

“This is so cool!” I exclaimed.

“Writers should never go anywhere without a pen! You know, you are going to write on your barf bag, but you need something to write
with
,” Maeve said. “Besides, you might be inspired to start your first novel while walking along the Seine. You never know!”

“Thanks, Maeve,” I said. “That was really thoughtful of you. Maybe when I publish my first novel,
Barf Bag Memories
, I’ll dedicate it to you.”

Maeve grimaced. Barf bags weren’t exactly to her liking, but I liked to write a note on them every time I traveled on a plane.

“Me next,” Avery said impatiently, pushing a crumpled brown paper bag in my direction. “Sorry, I didn’t have time to wrap it.” The presentation was so Avery.

I took a small notebook out of the bag.

“It’ll fit in your back pocket. I didn’t think you’d want to lug your journal through the streets of Paris. If you turn to the back pages, there’s a little map of Paris there that I
got off the Internet. I don’t agree with Maeve…I think you’ll need a pen AND something to write on.”

“Thanks, Avery. I’m going to try to fill the whole thing up in one week.”

Katani pushed a lemon-colored bag forward. The top of the bag had been double-folded. Katani had punched two large holes in the double-fold, threaded a gauzy orange ribbon through the holes, tied the bag closed with a perfect bow, and included a card to match. I untied the ribbon, opened the bag, and found a knitted hat in a rich, royal purple…my favorite color.

“Oh, Katani. It’s beautiful…and very stylish!” I exclaimed, pressing it to my cheek. It was the softest yarn I’d ever felt.

“Isn’t it the coolest shade of purple? The bright color will make your eyes pop and seem even more green than usual,” she remarked.

“Did you make it?”

Katani nodded. “I’d already started it for you before I was sure about the Paris trip, but I worked faster these past couple of days and got it done just in time.”

“Wow—it’s wonderful. Thank you so much, Katani!” I remembered back to how Katani and I first met, and how she didn’t want to be my friend. And now we were such good friends. Life was just so surprising sometimes.

“Last but not least…,” Isabel said, holding up the gift bag on her lap. She peeked inside. “It seems kind of silly now, but I thought it was perfect when I found it at the Book Nook. I really wanted to get you the book
The
Ultimate Picasso
, but it was way too expensive. So I got you this instead. I hope you like it!”

“A Picasso coloring book?” Avery asked when I pulled the book from the bag. “Isabel, coloring books are for babies, not twelve-year-olds,” she blurted out in her typical abrupt manner.

Isabel blushed. “It
is
a coloring book, but it’s for kids our age, Avery. I thought Charlotte would want something to do on the plane. There’s a set of colored pencils in there. It has all sorts of cool facts about Picasso too.”

“I love it, Isabel. Thanks so much. I was looking for something to do on the plane, and this will be perfect.” I was not a great artist, but I still liked to color. It could be super relaxing.

We barely had time to finish our hot chocolate and one of Montoya’s famous muffins before Avery announced that she had seen my dad drive by the window.

“I better go…my dad wants to head to the airport early in case there’s traffic.”

I gave them each a hug and they stacked the
bon voyage
gifts in my arms.

“E-mail us!” Maeve called as I hurried out the door.

I turned back to wave at the girls and nearly crashed into a man walking down the sidewalk.

“Wait! Wait!” Katani called as she rushed out the door toward me. “I forgot to ask you something.”

“Sure, what is it?”

“Okay, it’s a big favor. I was wondering…if it’s not too much trouble,” Katani started to say, suddenly seeming
shy for a change. She thrust a small box into one of the gift bags in my arms. “It’s a disposable camera. Would you take a few pictures of the clothes in Paris? I’m looking for some European inspiration for my Kgirl designs.”

I promised Katani that I would take as many pictures as I could. Then the man in the car behind Dad blew his horn impatiently for the second time, so I hopped into our car and waved out the window as we drove down Harvard Street. Just as Dad was turning the corner onto Beacon, I suddenly remembered something. “Oops! Dad, can you pull over?”

“What’s the matter? Are you okay?” he asked as he pulled into a parking spot, looking concerned.

“Yeah…I just forgot the Morels’ gift basket.” I jumped out onto the sidewalk and jogged back toward Montoya’s Bakery.

Nick must have seen me coming, because he was waiting at the door of the bakery with the gift basket in his hands.

“Have a great trip, Charlotte. I want to hear all about Paris when you get back…especially the bakeries. Paris is supposed to be famous for its pastries, but are they any match for Montoya’s?” Nick asked with a grin.

“No, no, of course not!” I laughed, taking the basket from him. “Thanks, Nick. There is no way I’m leaving Paris without at least one incredible story. I hope!”

HAVE A GOOD TRIP!

B
oston’s Logan Airport was bustling when we got there. Dad was so nervous about me going on a plane by myself that he looked like he was going to have a heart attack. He was double-checking everything and asking me a billion questions.

“Do you have your boarding pass out? And your passport? You don’t have to show your passport again until you go through Customs in Paris, but you need to be able to find it easily,” Dad advised. He was twisting his bottle of water over and over in his hands.

“Need anything else?” he asked me. “Last chance for a magazine or candy bar.”

“Nope. I’m all set. I have the coloring book from Isabel and my new journal from Avery, and hopefully the movie will be good.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back. Don’t board until I get back. And keep a lookout for Madame Giroux. She was going
to meet us at the gate.” Madame Giroux was a friend of the Morels who had been in Boston for a month and was returning to Paris on the same flight as me. Dad was glad a friend of a friend would be there to keep an eye on me.

I watched Dad jog off toward the restrooms. I had traveled to a lot of places, but never alone. Dad was by my side when we flew to Tanzania, Australia, and France and when we moved from Paris to Boston. My mom died when I was four and ever since it has been just the two of us. I loved that my dad was a travel writer. I’d been able to visit so many interesting places. We had our own special Ramsey travel contests, like racing to see who could get the most words in the airplane magazine crossword puzzle before the plane took off and seeing who would try the strangest kind of local cuisine (my dad took the lead after he ate ostrich in Tanzania).

But this time it was going to be different. I was truly on my own. And I couldn’t help being both nervous and excited at the same time.

They allowed Dad to accompany me to the gate, even though he didn’t have a boarding pass, but he had to go through a million security checks. I was glad he could come–I’ve always loved airports because of the hustle and bustle and the people from all over the world, but they can also be pretty overwhelming. If I had to find my own way, I’d probably end up in the line for Reykjavik (Iceland) instead of Paris.

I’d been so excited about the trip that I barely slept the night before, thinking over and over again how amazing
it would be to bring Orangina home with me. I wondered what Miss Pierce would think about having a dog
and
a cat. Dad always said that we didn’t find Orangina—he found us. Our first week in our houseboat on the Seine—the river that snakes its way through the middle of Paris—was in late August, and the city was steamy…much hotter than normal. The summer weather in Paris was usually pretty mild, so most Parisians didn’t have air conditioning, especially in the older sections of the city. The windows were wide open and as Dad and I explored our new neighborhood, we could hear life spilling from every Parisian household.

One morning, while sitting in the white wicker chair on the back deck of the houseboat, I saw an orange glow of light in the low-lying fog. My mind raced…ghost, alien, Tinkerbell? Turned out it was a cat—an orange tabby with vibrant marmalade stripes.

“The fog comes on little cat feet,” I had recited to myself as I watched the cat slink through the mist. It was the opening line of Carl Sandburg’s poem “The Fog,” and it described Orangina perfectly in that moment, except for one thing—Orangina wasn’t little and neither were his feet.

I tried calling to him. “Shhhhh, whhhssss, whhssss, here kitty kitty.” But he glided back and forth on the bank, carefully observing the boat and me from a safe distance, and on his own terms. That’s when I realized that this was not the purring, cuddly, stretch-out-and-sleep-in-the-sun type of cat. This was a cat with capital “A” attitude.

We saw him again a week later, several days after that, and then we started seeing him every day. By fall, he had
warmed up to us enough that he would sleep inside the houseboat, but only by the window near the dock in case he felt like leaving in the middle of the night. I came to think of him not as a stray cat, but as MY cat. I named him Orangina, after the orange-flavored soda that’s so popular in Europe. Orangina would spend hours prowling the banks of the Seine for mice. He was good at it too…. We never saw a mouse on our houseboat the entire time Orangina was with us. When I would curl up on the couch to write in my journal, Orangina would watch me carefully from his favorite spot under the window. He was a true friend. So when it was time to move to the U.S., I couldn’t bear to leave Paris without him.

We bought a cat carrier and were all set for the big journey. Then disaster struck. Orangina went missing!

I’ve always blamed Orangina’s disappearance on three little boys. They were the sons of the new houseboat owners…and extremely loud and obnoxious when they came to look at the place! When the youngest one grabbed a fork off the table and chased after Orangina, that cat scrambled out the window so fast that I was sure they had scared him off for good. Turned out I was right—I never saw Orangina again after that day.

Sophie had been on the lookout for Orangina sightings ever since Dad and I left Paris, and now—finally—it seemed there was hope of seeing my lovely furball again.

My heart leapt when I heard the flight announcement. “Air France Flight 1046 for Paris now boarding first-class passengers at gate 34.” I nervously fiddled with the zipper
on my messenger bag. Flying across the Atlantic without Dad was starting to seem really scary.

A mob of people in the waiting area sprang into action, gathering their belongings, but only a handful of them walked toward the gate. No matter what city, big or small, airports are the greatest places for people-watching. I think it’s because people have to go to the airport for all kinds of reasons—vacation, business trip, family visit, even a mission across the Atlantic to find a lost cat. I wondered if anyone was people-watching
me
.

An Italian soccer team filed past, dressed in red warm-up suits and carrying matching red duffel bags. They were laughing and talking a mile a minute.

“
Ciao, bella!
Hello, beautiful!” one of the boys called to me, grinning as he passed by.

I looked down at the floor, a little embarrassed, but also kind of flattered that I had been called “beautiful.” Maeve would swoon when I told her—she thought Italian boys were dreamy.

My eyes wandered over to the other side of the terminal where a family was packing up their carry-on bags. A little girl with blond pigtails ran up and down the row of seats with a miniature pink rolling suitcase. She tripped on its wheels and tumbled to the floor. Her mother picked her up, suitcase and all, and sat her between her two brothers, who were so engrossed in their video games that they didn’t seem to hear their sister’s sniffling.

Nearby, an annoyed older man looked up from his newspaper, picked up his leather briefcase, and moved to the far
end of the seats. A small group of women in matching red hats knitted quietly. A college boy with curly hair practiced tricks with a yo-yo, flinging it dangerously close to several people as they hurried past with their luggage. I could have filled a whole journal with descriptions of the people around me. I wondered about their stories…where they came from, where they were going, and what they were all about.

I spotted Dad jogging toward me as a voice sounded over the loudspeaker.

“Any passengers traveling with small children or anyone needing special assistance…” The Air France employee announced instructions for the next group to board the plane. I shot a warning look at Dad before he sent me toward the gate with the three-and four-year-olds.

“Okay, I get it. You’re not a little girl. You’ll always be
my
little girl, though,” he said, and then swallowed hard. “Now, you be careful…and don’t talk to any strangers. Madame Giroux will be there if you have any problems on the flight. Speaking of…where is Madame Giroux? She’s supposed to be meeting us right here.”

Just then, Dad’s cell phone began to ring. “Hello?” he answered, and stepped into a quieter corner to take the call.

“Madame Giroux is stuck in security,” Dad announced after he flipped his phone shut and joined me again. “She says to go ahead and board the plane…she’ll meet you at your seat.”

“Okay,” I agreed, trying not to show Dad how nervous I was.

“I’m going to miss you, you know. It’ll be strange this
week to come home from work to an empty house.” Dad looked so sad that I thought for a moment I might cry. I tried to chase the tears away by forcing a smile.

“Come on, Dad,” I said, gently slugging his shoulder. “You won’t really be alone. Marty will take care of you. And Miss Pierce is right downstairs. Just think—you can turn up those jazz tunes as loud as you want and eat sardines, anchovies, and all those smelly fish dishes that make me gag.”

Dad laughed, but it wasn’t a big, happy laugh. When they called my row number, I hugged Dad extra tight. He and I were a team. It was hard to leave him. Choking back a sob, I broke away.

“Call me as soon as you get to Sophie’s. I love you.”

“I love you too.” I waved at Dad as I joined the line of people waiting to walk down the jetway. The flight attendant smiled as I handed my boarding pass to her. “Good evening,
mademoiselle. Bon voyage
.”

“
Bon soir. Merci
,” I replied as I took the boarding pass back and carefully put it into the smallest pocket of my bag. Walking backward down the jetway, I waved good-bye to Dad, who was still anxiously peering through the crowd.

“Love you,” I mouthed just before bumping into the couple in front of me, who had stopped suddenly. After apologizing and picking up a small pillow the woman dropped, I tried to catch another glimpse of Dad but only saw the top of his head. Before I knew it, I reached the door of the plane. I was off to Paris, and on my own for the first time ever. I gulped back the lump in my throat, stifled a squeak of excitement, and stepped aboard the plane.