Lily B. On The Brink Of Paris Part 1

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.

"Establishing 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.

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 fashion.

"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 ship 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.