Part 1 (1/2)

Elizabeth Cody Kimmel.

Lily B. on the Brink of Paris.

To Patricia Donohue.

One.

Everything I know about Paris, I've learned from my Madeline books. I know, for example, that it is not unusual for houses in Paris to be covered with vines. I know that if you are a parentless little girl, you can go to stay with Miss Clavel, the nun, and walk around the city with your yellow-hatted homegirls in two perfectly straight lines. I know that if you develop appendicitis in the dead of night, caring medical a.s.sistance is rapidly available.

But the most notable thing about the Madeline books is that Paris served as the author's inspiration. And if Paris can do that for Ludwig Bemelmans, it can do it for me, too. Yes, Dear Readers, my Great Parisian Novel will soon be born, because the time has come for Lily Blennerha.s.sett to get serious about writing. The world cannot be expected to wait much longer. I have honed my craft by keeping diaries and penning advice columns, but the subjects I wrote about weren't really Life Experiences of International Interest. A trip to Paris, however, is a whole other story. Things of International Interest HAPPEN in Paris. After all, it is the City of Lights. The model for all that is elegant and timeless. The archetype for true culture and sophistication, the kind that we in America lost somewhere between the Big Mac and the Starbucks Frappuccino.

I don't have a plot yet. But I'm not going to worry about that. My job is to search out gems and nuggets of Paris at its most elegant and mysterious. Then I will add them to my Mental Pool. There are heated pools, public pools, aboveground pools, and wading pools, but to my knowledge I am the only individual in my school district with a Mental Pool. This is where I collect all my gems and nuggets and store them for later literary use. My Mental Pool already contains many amusing and baffling gems and nuggets. But I don't think any of them are novelworthy. Mark my words, my Parisian Mental Pool gems and nuggets will be novelworthy. And I will find Extraordinary Characters. Because our little group making up the Mulgrew Middle School Paris Cla.s.s Trip is not exactly br.i.m.m.i.n.g with Extraordinary Characters.

There were eight of us-nine if you counted the chaperone-enjoying the luxurious accommodations provided by John F. Kennedy International Airport's Terminal 1. Let me describe them to you, Dear Reader: Traveler Number One. First, and most important, me. Lily Blennerha.s.sett. I am, naturally, the Official Diarist of the trip. The Immortalizer of our Exploits. The Recorder of our Recreation. The Accountant of our Antics. Nothing will escape my keen eye or my razor wit. Years hence readers wanting more after devouring my Great Parisian Novel will peruse my original diary entries, and Paris will spring to life before them. The pages themselves will smell lightly of Dijon mustard and baguettes. Ernest Hemingway said that ”Paris is a movable feast.” In the hands of the capable yet hip Lily Blennerha.s.sett, I predict the city will be upgraded to a Snack Bar on Wheels. So we've got that going for us. And that's good.

Traveler Number Two. Charlotte McGrath. Locator of Pa.s.sports, Instant Calculator of euro to dollar value, and Vault of Information regarding the cultural and legal guidelines within which we will find ourselves in France. Also my best friend. Shrink, parole officer, and life coach in one. A must on any transatlantic journey.

Traveler Number Three. Bonnie Roberts. Astral Traveler, Channeler of Universal Messages, and New Age Wise Woman. Has the tannest feet of any human being not currently famous I've ever seen. Brings new level of chic to peasant blouses and ankle bracelets. And, notably, sister of Jake. Through the injustice of our society's fixation on birth dates, Jake is literally in a different cla.s.s from me. He's fifteen, a year older. And therefore not qualifiable to join the eighth (soon to be ninth) grade cla.s.s trip. He had his own cla.s.s trip last year actually, to Italy. Please ponder the Magnificent Wrongness of this: I travel to the city known throughout the world for its Celebration of Romance, and for the first time in my life I HAVE a boyfriend. But he must remain at home. Oh, how it plagues me! I cannot continue this paragraph.

Traveler Number Four. Janet Graham. Obsessed with All That Is French. Professional Irritant of the First Degree. Teacher's Pet. Also, insists on her name being p.r.o.nounced Jah-nay Gra-hahmme. Utterly ridiculous.

Traveler Number Five: Lewis Pilsky. Computer G.o.d. Poster Child for the Internet Generation. Walking Pillar of Geekdom. Not the cutest boy on the block, but he means well. Small for his age, but try to pretend you don't notice.

Travelers Number Six and Seven: Bud and Chaz, the Football Guys. Attending this school trip because it may prevent them from failing Intro to French. Become animated only when discussing professional sports. Heads suspiciously jar shaped.

Traveler Number Eight: We call him the Mysterious Tim. Last name unknown. Has attended Mulgrew for only one year. To the knowledge of everyone I've asked, Tim has never spoken to anybody, though once a rumor circulated that the friend of a girl whose brother used to be in my literature cla.s.s heard him say thank you to the lunch lady when she gave him extra Tater Tots. Whatever. Can't take gossip too seriously.

So you see, our little Paris group will not be flocking together, as we are not exactly birds of a feather. I'm not sure we're even members of the same species. But variety is the spice of life, or so they tell me. Did I mention my name? It's Lily Blennerha.s.sett, Writer Extraordinaire.

After what seemed to be an unnecessarily prolonged period of agonizing at the gate, we were advised via loudspeaker to board the plane. I know it may come as a kind of shock, Dear Readers, since I have such a worldly air about me, but I had never actually been on an airplane before. The Blennerha.s.setts live a simple life. It is an unspoken rule in our household that any viable destination of the Blennerha.s.sett clan must be reachable by our two-door Honda hatchback. If a body of water or a mountain range lies in the way, we just don't go there. But the Blennerha.s.setts as parents are also zealous believers in the Educational Experience, as shown by our family's Frequent Outings to yarn-making seminars and walking tours sponsored by local historical societies. So they were rather quick to agree that the Mulgrew Middle School Paris Cla.s.s Trip was the ultimate Educational Experience. That is how I found myself sitting on a 747 between a future corporate executive and a flower child.

”I hope they remembered to get gas,” remarked Bonnie.

Apparently Bonnie had never flown before either. I think transatlantic flight really did seem this simple to her, just a road trip with modified equipment. She probably imagined the pilot standing out in front of the plane with the hood up, checking the engine and unfolding a map of Europe with ”Paris” circled in red Magic Marker while sipping on a 7-Eleven Big Gulp.

”Girls, seat belts,” ordered Charlotte, as she counted and re-counted the number of rows between our seats and the closest emergency exit.

As we complied, little video monitors emerged from the ceiling overhead, screens flickering.

”Oooh, television,” I said. n.o.body had told me airplanes had TV. I find it impossible not to stare at a television that is on, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. A Writer must keep apprised of popular culture. A Writer must have her finger on the pulse of the ma.s.ses. A Writer must watch MTV, the barometer of American youth. I needed to know what trend trolls like Lindy Sloane (Singer/Actress/Celebrity Personality) were listening to, what clubs they were getting tossed out of, what color their hair had turned ”for a role,” how scary skinny they'd become while claiming to eat everything-all the time-and never work out. I sat back and waited for Lindy Sloane's orange, bony, formerly freckled face to appear on-screen. My seatmates took no notice. Charlotte was intensely studying the laminated safety card she had found in the seat back. Bonnie appeared to be making some sort of origami bird out of her barf bag.

Sadly, they didn't seem to be showing anything interesting on the television. Certainly nothing about Lindy Sloane. In fact it wasn't MTV at all. As far as I could gather, it was an airline safety program about a little family of blond travelers, experiencing what appeared to be moderate to serious plane malfunction with unfailing good cheer. The family members were shown fastening seat belts with twinkles in their eyes, retrieving their oxygen masks and placing them over their noses and mouths merrily, and removing flotation devices from beneath their seats with toothy, affectionate smiles. From what I could see, there was apparently little more entertaining to this family than sudden cabin depressurization.

I don't know about you, Dear Readers, but I don't particularly like being REMINDED of what might go wrong in an airplane when my flight is about to take off. I don't want to come within ten feet of an oxygen mask or a flotation device. As for the logic of wearing a seat belt in case we take a sudden plunge from thirty thousand feet, well, I'm simply baffled. That's sort of like shutting the barn door after the horse has gotten out, don't you think?

Lindy Sloane travels by private jet.

”Let me see your seat belt,” said Charlotte. ”If you leave too much slack, it defeats the purpose.”

I endured Charlotte's examination patiently. I knew from experience not to share my lack of faith in safety protocol with her. Charlotte is strictly a By the Book girl. Whereas me, I'm more of a Buy the Book girl.

Charlotte tugged on my belt.

”Tighter,” she commanded. I made a little motion that simulated adjusting my seat belt.

”Tighter,” she repeated. I did it again.

She was onto my pantomime. She reached for the long end of my seat belt herself and tugged it vigorously, cinching it in. I felt like I'd just been strapped into a Victorian corset and had spontaneously dropped two dress sizes.

”Charlotte! That's my bladder!” I shouted.

”Safety first,” she replied, already back to studying her safety card.

Obviously, any further interaction with Charlotte was dangerous to my health, so I turned to Bonnie. Her eyes were closed, but her lips seemed to be moving.

”Bonnie?”

She opened one pale-blue eye and took me in.

”What are you doing?” I asked.

”Establis.h.i.+ng a heart link with Michael.”

Had Bonnie met a Boy?

”Who's Michael?” I inquired eagerly.

Bonnie opened her other eye.

”Michael is the governing archangel of safety and protection,” she replied, as matter-of-factly as if she were discussing her shoe size. ”I'm requesting a blessing for our flight.”

The archangel of safety and protection? Did we need safety and protection? Were we going to experience moderate to serious plane malfunction like the blond people in the video?

Bonnie examined my expression. ”If you're p.r.o.ne to anxiety attacks, Michael is a good angel to call on,” she said.

Good grief.

”Just, uh, put in a good word for me,” I said.

Bonnie nodded serenely and closed her eyes. Her lips started moving again.