Part 1 (2/2)

I began to contemplate the drawbacks of continuing this seating arrangement for the duration of the seven-hour flight. I looked around the plane. It seemed fairly full. As I was considering the viability of spending the flight in the bathroom, a wide, sinister shape suddenly loomed over me. I let out a little shriek.

”Eh bien? Why ze scream?”

”Madame Chavotte!”

Madame Chavotte, our French teacher and our trip chaperone. Doesn't the name Chavotte bring to mind a delicate, prancing creature bathed in light? Well, forget it. Madame Chavotte was built like a tank, artillery included. She was as tall as a man and half again as wide. She usually wore a severe expression, which was enhanced by the single graying eyebrow that did not bother to pause over the bridge of her nose. Her hair, steel-wool gray, was pulled back in a bun so tight, it looked like she'd had a face-lift.

Had she asked me a question? The memory of it had been scared out of me. Madame Chavotte was almost always displeased with me. My mouth hung partially open, and I surrendered to the stupor.

”And why do you 'ave ze mouth 'anging open like ze Frankenstein?” she demanded.

I closed it. Overhead came the announcement that we were preparing for takeoff. Madame Chavotte shook her head like she disagreed with that a.s.sessment and pointed a thick, powerful finger at each of us.

”Quatre, cinq, six,” she counted. Then she moved away, like a rhinoceros suddenly breaking off an attack, down the aisle to continue her head count. I breathed a sigh of relief. Jake was SO right to take Italian instead of French. His teacher, Signor Lucci, was as mild mannered as Mister Rogers. But swarthier.

Over the seat back in front of me, a face appeared like the Loch Ness Monster surfacing from the deep to menace and terrify the innocent.

”Bonjour! Comment ca va?”

I gave Janet my most convincing scowl. It wasn't too difficult, given that with Charlotte's modification my seat belt was compressing my bladder in a most agonizing fas.h.i.+on.

”We're about to take off!” Janet gushed. ”Isn't it vraiment fantastique?”

”If you say so, Janet.”

”It's Jah-nay,” she said, smiling patiently. ”I've got this book you just HAVE to read.”

”I've brought plenty of my own-”

But it was too late. Janet was rummaging around in her bag. She produced a hardcover book and waved it triumphantly in the air.

”We've all got to read this. C'est formidable. You're the fastest reader, Lily, so you take it first.”

I peeked at the t.i.tle and recoiled.

”You want me to read a book called French Women Don't Get Fat?” I exclaimed. ”What are you trying to say, Janet?”

”It's Jah-nay,” she corrected. ”We will learn to nibble at our cheese, to savor tiny portions of le chocolat, to slowly sip a gla.s.s of fine wine. This is how we keep ourselves trim and chic in Paris.”

Clearly Madame Chavotte had not read this book.

”We're not old enough to drink wine,” I said. Janet ignored my comment.

”We are visiting the home of the legendary representative of French culture, Edith Piaf! We must be worthy of the greatest singer in French history! We must learn to live comme les Francaises!” she shouted.

The sound caused Charlotte to drop her safety card abruptly.

”Janet!” she said sternly. ”Weren't you listening to the announcement? Fasten your seat belt and return your seat to the upright position. Immediately!”

Unable to produce a suitable French phrase in response to this command, Janet disappeared, and I heard her seat belt clicking into place.

”It's Jah-nay,” I said wickedly.

Charlotte rolled her eyes, making me remember why I loved her.

The plane gave a little lurch and began to move in earnest. I was suddenly overwhelmed with anxiety and an unexpected pang of homesickness. I thought of my parents, the neurotic but lovable Phyllis and Lenny Blennerha.s.sett. They had taken me to the airport, my father concentrating on driving precisely at the speed limit while my mother issued a stream of instructions, including but not limited to: Stay with the group; make your bed every morning; don't spend all your pocket money on the first day; take pictures; stay with the group; dress neatly; don't eat any raw fish; avoid Parisian boys; and again, for good measure, stay with the group. I thought of Milo, my beloved beagle, who had tenderly licked my suitcase from top to bottom before I left. I thought of Jake, who was away on a rock-climbing trip that prevented the poignant, misty-eyed farewell scene I'd imagined. What if he met some Rock-climbing Girl while I was away? Someone lithe and muscular who was not afraid of heights? I clutched my stomach with both hands at the thought.

The plane began to taxi down the runway. I had a brief, vivid image of my mother jogging behind the plane, waving frenetically and shouting, ”Remember to stay with the group!” I forgot about Jake meeting a Rock-climbing Girl and began to giggle uncontrollably. Bonnie looked at me with tranquil concern.

”Anxiety attack?” she asked.

”Early-onset insanity,” I replied, and Bonnie nodded as if she'd known all along.

Our plane, poised on the runway, began the sudden acceleration to takeoff. My mind filled with a cycling montage of images: brief trailers from every disaster movie I'd ever seen; grim-faced newscasters reporting an aviation tragedy; a physics professor explaining the scientific impossibility of 380 tons of steel's lifting into the air. The plane appeared to be vibrating like a food processor. The noise got really loud. I gripped my armrests as we went faster. I, Lily Blennerha.s.sett, was freaking out.

To my right Charlotte was flipping through a copy of Business Week, looking as relaxed as a cruise s.h.i.+p pa.s.senger taking a little sun on the lido deck. To my left Bonnie was shuffling a deck of tarot cards, her expression Buddha-like. My two closest friends were not afraid to fly. Between the two of them they had knowledge spanning from the Federal Aviation Safety Guidelines to the Effects of Karma on Personal Well-being. If they weren't worried, I shouldn't be either.

So I closed my eyes and did a little work on my acceptance speech for the Pulitzer Prize in Fiction I'll win in ten or twenty years for my Great Parisian Novel. I had brought tears to my own eyes with my humble poignance when I felt a light, fluffy sensation in my stomach. The plane had stopped vibrating. Something had smoothed out.

”We're in the air,” Charlotte said, without looking up from her magazine.

Lily B., on the Brink of Paris.

FROM THE PARISIAN DIARY OF.

Lily M. Blennerha.s.sett

We are on our way! In only seven hours we will arrive in Paris. Our flight has just lifted off, borne skyward by magnificent wings that give one thought of the condor, that regal and powerful bird. Yes, Paris awaits us, but until then I will relax in my seat and dream of croissants and the river Seine and all the lovely delights that await us.

I love flying. I could not be happier.

Just as I was closing my journal, the plane lurched, and I uttered a long, high-pitched scream. Janet's face popped up in front of me.

”It's only la turbulence!”

”La shut up!” I cried with dignity.

On the Brink of Paris indeed.

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