Part 6 (1/2)
The Golden Arches.
The Blennerha.s.setts are not, as a rule, a McDonald's family. We go only once a year, as an elaborate staged ”accident,” on the way to our lake house when my dad pretends to get lost. But right now it looked like home. I trotted toward it with desperation.
There was a guy standing outside the door, talking to a girl in a large floppy hat and enormous sungla.s.ses. I did a cla.s.sic double take, unable to believe my eyes. The sad slouch and hands thrust deep in pockets were unmistakable. It was the Mysterious Tim, not looking sick to his stomach at all. The Mysterious Tim, big as life right there outside Mickey Dees, chez Paris. Why or how he had got there was the least of my concerns. Perhaps no one had ever heard him speak, but the chances were excellent that he could, and that when he did, it would be in ENGLIs.h.!.+
I took off in a sprint toward him.
”TIM!” I bellowed. He turned and looked at me right away. When he saw me, his jaw dropped, and he took a step backward. I skidded to a stop inches before knocking him down.
”Tim, thank G.o.d!” I yelled. ”I'm lost and I'm supposed to be at the Louvre right now and I don't know how to get there and Lewis is covering for me but Madame Chavotte is going to figure it out when I don't come back from the bathroom and everyone will be expelled because of me and I've got to get there fast but I have no idea how far it is and if I should get back on the train or try to get a cab which I don't even know how to DO in French and you've GOT to help me!”
I only stopped because I needed to breathe. Between heaving gasps, I heard the girl say something, possibly in Italian. Did NO ONE in this town speak English?
”Of course she's not paparazzi,” Tim said to her. ”She's a girl from my cla.s.s.”
Paparazzi?
In spite of my plight, I turned to check the girl out. You know. For my Mental Pool. And I beheld the face of the very last person I ever expected to see on This Planet or Any Other.
Lindy Sloane.
Seven.
It was like one of those standoffs in an old western movie. Slack-jawed, I stared at Lindy. She stared back at me, face dwarfed behind the giant, buglike gla.s.ses. The two of us just stood there, neither taking her eyes off the other. If Clint Eastwood were here, he'd put two fingers on his holster and say, ”Draaaaaaaaaaaaaaw.”
But Clint Eastwood was not here.
”Why are you staring at me?” asked Lindy Sloane.
Why was I staring at her? Let's review the top five reasons: She was on the cover of every magazine except The Economist that had been published in the last six months.
Already this year she had made two movies, launched her own pajama design line, released a signature collection of edible hair products, been given the key to Tulsa, Oklahoma, appeared on her own MTV reality show to doc.u.ment the making of her new CD, endorsed a series of experimental hybrid SUV convertibles, written a children's book, guest hosted American Idol, been engaged to and subsequently dumped the lead singer of Savage Karma, and caused a near riot in the Mall of America.
She was wors.h.i.+ped and revered by a bizarre group of teenagers calling themselves the Sloane Rangers, who spent hours on the Internet discussing her every move. They copied her clothes, hair, and mannerisms, and had even been known to paint freckles on their shoulders in the same places Lindy Sloane had freckles.
She was close personal friends with Houston Ramada, celebutante and internationally photographed bad girl.
I had absolutely nothing like her in my Mental Pool.
Okay. That was reason enough.
”Why are you staring at me?” Lindy Sloane repeated impatiently.
”Phletamgah.”
Sorry, but that's what came out of my mouth. Strangely, Lindy gave a small nod, as if I'd inadvertently stumbled upon the correct pa.s.sword.
”What are you doing here?” asked Tim.
I looked at him in astonishment. Hearing the Mysterious Tim speaking in regular sentences was going to take some getting used to. It didn't feel right. I kept expecting bats to fly out of his mouth, or something.
”What are YOU doing here?” I asked him. ”I thought you had to stay behind at the VEI because you were sick.”
”I asked you first,” Tim said.
Ah. Shrewd.
I needed to forget for the moment that I was standing outside McDonald's chez Paris with Lindy Sloane and provide Tim with some information so I could get some out of him.
”I got on the Wrong Train,” I said. ”Before I realized what was happening, I was being whisked away, and Bonnie and Charlotte and Janet were still standing on the platform. Now I'm trying meet them at the Louvre before Madame Chavotte realizes I'm missing. Because if she finds out I got Separated from the Group, everybody's going to get in big trouble. But I have no idea how to get there. Your turn.”
Tim kind of glowered at me silently.
”Look, Tim, I've already seen you here, so I know you're playing hooky. If you get caught, we all get in trouble. I'm not going to tell on you, and I'm sure you have no intention of telling on me. But I told you my story.”
”Yeah, all right,” he said. ”I faked being sick.”
There was a long pause.
”And you are here because?” I prompted.
Tim gave a deep sigh and rubbed the top of his head. ”Because I needed to see my sister.”
I looked around. ”Did you find her?”
Tim looked at me like he'd just noticed the word stupid written across my forehead.
”This IS my sister,” he said, gesturing toward Lindy Sloane, who was applying lip gloss with a tube that appeared to have her picture on it.
Wait.
WHAT?.
It was bizarre, ridiculous, and highly improbable. n.o.body could keep a secret like THAT. But even as I was starting to roll my eyes, I took a closer look at Tim. And then I saw it. If you dyed Lindy's hair brown, removed the makeup, made her eat a few sandwiches, stuck her in a dark T-s.h.i.+rt, and removed some freckles...well, they weren't exactly twins, but I could see the family resemblance.
”But that's-that's-”
”Lindy Sloane,” said Lindy Sloane. ”Duh.”
”How? Why? How?” I demanded. ”Tim, this is simply unreal!”
”Slick, T,” Lindy said. ”You're going to have to change schools again.” She pulled off her big hat, shook her newly blond curls dramatically, and plopped the hat back onto her head. I tried not to look, but this was the closest I'd ever been to Hollywood glamour, and I didn't want to miss anything.
”Change schools?” I asked.
Tim sighed.