Part 8 (1/2)
”Where have you been?” she demanded. ”Lewis keeps saying he just saw you, but I haven't laid eyes on you since we got separated at le metro.”
”Where else would I be? I've been right here,” I said.
Janet regarded me suspiciously. I gave a little carefree laugh.
”What, you don't believe me?” I asked. ”You need, like, proof? We rendezvoused at the gla.s.s pyramid. Upstairs, where that big security guard with the tiny mustache was, I almost fell over a stroller pus.h.i.+ng triplets. Right by that big group of German kids. And you...you've been speaking in French since the moment we got here!”
Janet looked genuinely puzzled to be confronted by these truths, so I took the opportunity to flounce away. I flounced right into Charlotte. My soaring spirits were immediately dampened by the severely outraged look on Charlotte's face. She glanced around to make sure no one was listening, then tugged me by the s.h.i.+rtsleeve until my ear was just inches from her mouth.
”Do. You. Have. Any. Idea. How. Worried. I've. Been?”
The words came out like a machine-gun blast. She opened her mouth to continue, but I was way ahead of her. I pulled her aside, by my own s.h.i.+rtsleeve.
”Charlotte, I am a DISGRACE!”
Charlotte opened her mouth to disagree with me, registered what I'd said, and closed her mouth.
”I've come to Paris completely unprepared! I've relied on you for all my knowledge and allowed myself to remain ignorant! The only French words I can remember are ones I can't use in conversation! I haven't so much as glanced at a map! I LOST my information packet before we even left America! And I don't know the address of the VEI!”
Charlotte's eyebrows shot up at that last part. I rapidly left the Admission of Wrongdoing portion of my speech behind and proceeded to my Humble Request for Forgiveness.
”I am CONSTANTLY taking advantage of your superb organization, your intelligence, and your sense of responsibility, Charlotte. You are right about me not being detail oriented. I am detail DISoriented. And it's going to stop RIGHT NOW!”
Charlotte scowled at me for a good five or ten seconds before shaking her head in disgust and perhaps a wee portion of affection.
”Honestly, Lily, you're going to turn me into a nut job,” she said.
I shook my head in disbelief at my own level of moronification and turned both my palms toward the ceiling in an expression of self-disappointment.
”Where's Bonnie?” I asked, in a shameless bid for an Abrupt Subject Change.
Charlotte jerked her thumb in the direction of the crowd.
”Getting an up-close look,” she replied. Then she leaned in and whispered, ”We think she may have recognized somebody from one of the portraits back in Flemish Seventeenth-century Oils and Watercolors. How did you find us, anyway? This place is gargantuan.”
”Oh my G.o.d! Lewis! He text messaged me all the way up from reception!”
I looked around for Lewis, but I couldn't pick him out of the Mona Lisaadmiring crowd.
”Text messaged you?” asked Charlotte, incredulous. She was well aware of the technical backwardness of the entire Blennerha.s.sett clan.
I glanced over my shoulder and spotted Lewis standing by the window, peering at his Sidekick.
”Be right back,” I said to Charlotte. Then I quickly made my way over to Lewis.
”Lewis Pilsky, you are a G.o.d among men,” I said dramatically.
Lewis looked up at me, and his face turned a remarkable shade of crimson.
”Oh, well...you know.”
”You SAVED me,” I said, waggling my eyebrows for emphasis.
”Oh, well,” he repeated. ”How did you end up finding your way to the museum?”
I won't tell you I wasn't tempted. Every cell in my body-every single strand of DNA-was silently screaming ”LINDY SLOANE SHOWED ME THE WAY!” Instead of replying, though, I let a few heartbeats pa.s.s while I thought of a technically honest yet completely discreet response.
”You know, I ended up just asking somebody,” I said. ”And they turned out to be American and basically gave me door-to-door service.”
Lewis nodded and continued to look embarra.s.sed.
”I have COMPLETELY REVISED my feelings on portable communications technology,” I said earnestly. Before Lewis could nod or say ”oh, well” again, I sensed a looming presence. I felt like a chipmunk that has just noticed a hawk circling overhead.
”Leelee!” said Madame Chavotte. ”Are you also seek wees ze stomak big?”
WHAT? Was Madame Chavotte accusing me of being FAT?
”Ze stomak big? Like Teem? Always, your frenz say you are running to ze ba.s.sroom. Every time I am looking for you, again, you are in ze ba.s.sroom. I am afraid we will all catch zis terrible stomak big.”
”Oh, yeah,” I said, rubbing my stomach ruefully. ”You know, Madame Chavotte, I think the trouble has, um, pa.s.sed. I'm feeling much better now.”
Madame Chavotte scrutinized me for a moment, her mon.o.brow furrowed. For a moment I was gripped with the fear that the game was up. That Madame Chavotte knew the Truth and was about to bust me. She took a step toward me, and I thought it was entirely possible she was about to put me in handcuffs. Instead, she reached out and pushed my hair out of my face, like my mother sometimes does.
”Zees ees good, zen,” she said. ”A young girl's first treep to Paree should be full of wonder and amus.e.m.e.nt. It ees sumsing she should remember 'er whole life, non? No one should 'ave ze stomak big in Paree. I am glad you are en bonne sante, ma pet.i.te poulette.”
Wow! Every native of France seemed to recognize my innate Little Chickenness.
”What was that all about?” whispered Charlotte after Madame Chavotte moved out of earshot.
”She was just-she was just making sure I was feeling okay,” I said.
”That's because Lewis and I kept telling her that you were in the ladies' room during the head count,” Charlotte said, giving me a stern look.
”I've TOTALLY learned my lesson,” I declared.
”I've heard that before,” Charlotte said, and she linked her arm through mine.
”Allons-y, mes enfants,” Madame Chavotte was calling. ”We go now to eejeepcheyan antiquites.”
Whatever eejeepcheyan on tee kee tay turned out to be, I didn't care. As long as I didn't have to find them by myself, I was happy as a lark.
FROM THE PARISIAN DIARY OF.