Tyler had thought I would love this. And I did. But loving something when you can’t have it is really, really hard. Was I being selfish? I didn’t have to think very hard to figure out the answer to that—I was acting like a spoiled brat. Here I was in a hospital where kids had it a lot worse than me, and I was out in the hallway pouting because I could never have a dog and never do the things Tyler got to do.
Except, that wasn’t really true. When I turned eighteen, I could volunteer in a shelter with dogs. And when I was done with college and living on my own, I could take one of those shelter dogs with me and give him a good home. If I wanted to train him to be a therapy dog, I could do that. And I could volunteer at the butterfly garden every now and then, too, and teach people about metamorphosis, and how even butterflies have challenges.
It all seemed so far away.
But maybe right now I was like a caterpillar in a chrysalis. Maybe I had to drop pizza crusts and shake in my shoes on a Broadway stage and put the wrong flowers together in a vase because that’s what it took to grow wings someday. And I just had to trust that even with me, someone who couldn’t seem to figure out what she’s good at, Mother Nature knew what she was doing. That someday, one year or three years or five years or ten years from now, I’d get my wings. And I would fly.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. Startled, I jerked my head up to find Vivian standing there. “Lindy? I have a huge favor to ask you. We’ve just met a girl, Ariel, who is a couple of years older than you. As she cuddled with Odie, she told us she likes to draw pictures of dogs. And then Tyler told her you wrote stories about dogs. And she begged us to read her one. But we can’t do that because they’re your stories and not ours to tell. So I’m wondering, do you think you might come in and read her one of your stories? I really think it’d make her day.”
“I’m not sure it’s any good,” I said softly. “It’s not like the pizza place, where we can just eat someone else’s pizza if I ruin the one I’m making. If I read it and she doesn’t like it, that’s all we’ve got.”
“So you’re afraid?” she asked.
I nodded. And as I did, I remembered what Mom had said earlier, about fear. That sometimes it can be harmful because it keeps you from trying new things and doing what’s right.
“You have been so brave as we’ve gone around the city, trying new things,” Vivian said. “How do you think you’ve managed that even when you felt afraid sometimes?”
I thought about tossing the pizza crust up into the air. How I was scared to do it, but I did it anyway. Because I knew I would never know if I didn’t try.
“It’s like trying and fear were two students who were both working really hard to get their teacher’s attention,” I told her. “And the teacher was me. So I had to tell fear to sit down and be quiet because trying was the one who needed me most.”
She reached out and put her hand on my knee. “I love that, Lindy. Fear can be loud and obnoxious and annoying sometimes, and maybe you feel like it won’t listen to you today. So how about I take a turn at telling it to be quiet? Because I really think reading your story would be a good thing, for both you and Ariel.”
I took a deep breath. It wasn’t like she was asking me to share it with the entire hospital. She was asking me to share it with a couple of people. I could do that. And I realized that in a place like this, where so many people were sad and hurting, I should do that.
I gave Vivian a nod as I got up and grabbed my bag. Vivian led me into the room. A girl sat in a wheelchair with an IV in her arm that was attached to a bag of fluid hanging from the pole next to her. She was pale and skinny and her long blond hair, which probably used to be bouncy and shiny, was kind of flat and stringy.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Ariel.”
“I’m Lindy,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
She smiled, and in that moment, I knew I was exactly where I should be.
“So you write stories about dogs?”
“Well, I’ve written a couple. Yeah.”
“I can’t wait to hear one,” she said.
I pulled up a chair and sat down across from her. “Okay. If you’ll show me one of your drawings when we’re done.”
“Deal.”
Odie sat next to her with his head in her lap, and she continued to pet him as I opened my notebook. “This is called ‘The Little Enzo Who Did.’”
“Hey, is that like The Little Engine That Could?” Tyler asked.
“Yep,” I said, avoiding his eyes. I couldn’t think about him hearing this story or I might chicken out after all. I don’t know why but it seemed easier to share it with someone I didn’t know. I decided I couldn’t let my brain think at all. Couldn’t let fear stand up and start talking again. I just had to read it, straight through, from beginning to end. I wouldn’t look at any of them. I would just read and hope that when I was finished, they would be nice enough not to laugh if it wasn’t very good.
So I read about Enzo and the lost wedding ring. About how he picked up the box and carried it all the way to the church on the hill. How he ran up the hill but grew tired and had to stop and rest. And how he tried to get people to help him, but they didn’t understand what he was trying to say. And so he kept going, up and up and up that hill, until he made it to the church. How little Enzo tried and tried and tried, and never gave up and saved the wedding.
When I finished, I could feel my heart beating in my chest, and if I’d wanted to, I probably could have rapped a Hamilton song to that loud, fast beat. I closed my notebook, and before I had even looked up, Ariel was clapping her hands. Then Tyler joined in. And Vivian. They were all clapping, and they kept doing it for what seemed like a really long time. I felt my cheeks grow warm.
When they finally stopped, Ariel said, “Wow. I wish I could write like that. Your school essays must be killer.”
It made us all laugh. “I don’t know about that.”
I looked over at Tyler and he had a huge grin on his face. “Lindy! Are you kidding me? You don’t think you’re good at anything? I feel like I’m friends with a future New York Times bestseller!”
“But I just do it for fun. For myself.”
“Yes,” Vivian said. “And that’s what lots of artists do for a while, as they learn and grow and practice, until one day, they finally feel comfortable sharing.”
“An artist?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “As in someone who creates art. You create stories, Lindy. You are an artist. A weaver of words.”
It was strange to think of myself that way—a type of artist. But maybe … could it be?
There were so many things I wished I could do. Dance. Sing. Train a dog. Go to Paris. Make amazing crêpes. Spin a pizza crust in the air. But if I couldn’t do those things, for whatever reasons, maybe writing and reading about them was the next best thing.
Maybe it was my thing.
“Oh my gosh,” I said. “I’ve found it. I’ve found something I’m good at and that I love to do!” I grinned. “Am I glowing?” I teased.
“Totally,” Tyler said.
“Absolutely,” Vivian said.
“Okay, enough about me. Ariel, can I see your drawings now?”
“Sure,” she said. “Can you get me that sketch pad next to my bed?”
“I’ll get it,” Tyler said.
While everyone’s eyes were on Tyler and the sketch pad, I did a little happy dance in my chair.
Shimmy, shimmy, shake.
Thanks, Enzo, you awesome little dog, you.
A pencil is a funny thing;
it’s really just a stick.
But when you put it on a page,
it’s like a magic trick.
The paper’s blank, then suddenly
there are circles, lines, and dots.
Words turn into sentences
and POOF—
the page is filled with thoughts.
It was a beautiful August day. In five days, I’d be thirteen years old. To celebrate, Mom had
let me bring Talia and Nora with us for a weekend on the Cape. My parents had rented a house near the shore, and now the three of us lay on a plaid blanket, sunning ourselves while flipping through magazines. Well, they were flipping through magazines. I was writing a poem in my notebook.
The salt-filled air, the clear blue sky, the sound of the ocean waves in the background—it was one of those moments when I wished I could magically make time stop.
Nora closed her magazine, rolled over, and sat up. “Have you guys finished your posters yet?”
“I did mine weeks ago,” Talia said as she turned around and sat up, too.
“What’d you write or draw on it?” Nora asked. “I still need to do mine, and I’m trying to figure out how to combine a cello and Paris.”
“You could draw a picture of you playing a cello at a sidewalk café with the Eiffel Tower in the background,” I suggested.
Nora laughed. “You make it sound so easy. I think I need something a little simpler than that.”
“I drew a big black top hat and cut out pictures of dancers from magazines,” Talia said. “It’s supposed to look like they’re dancing out of the hat. What about you, Lindy?”
“Mine’s almost finished. It’s a big concrete poem in the shape of a tree, with the leaves of the tree written in green ink, and the trunk of the poem written in brown ink. Underneath the tree are flowers with butterflies fluttering around them. And I want to try to draw a dog sitting there, too.”
“Wow,” Nora said. “That sounds amazing.” She sighed. “Okay, I think I’m going to run in the ocean and cool off. Anyone want to come?”
“I will,” I said. “But let me finish this poem or I’ll never remember what I was going to write.”
“Hey, don’t forget you wanted to get a postcard today and send it to Tyler,” Talia said as she brushed some sand off the back of my legs for me. “Maybe later we can go get some ice cream and find a little postcard shop?”
I kept scribbling. “Yeah. Good idea.”
“How’s he doing anyway?” Nora said.
They both knew Tyler and I had stayed in touch after he left. We texted each other a couple of times a week.
“Good,” I said. I finished writing the last line and twisted myself up and around so we were all sitting side by side. “His parents are still going to counseling. And everything seems to be going okay. He said it’s still tense sometimes. It’s not like everything is miraculously perfect, you know? But it’s a lot better.”
“Nothing is ever perfect,” Nora said. “Even if we want it to be.”
I thought of my parents and the troubles they’d had earlier in the summer. Things had gotten better at the B&B. This weekend, they’d closed the place for some deep cleaning and so we could get away for a mini vacation. The rest of August there were a bunch of reservations, which made them both really happy.
Once I turned thirteen, not only could I ride the subway, but I could also offer my dog-walking services to our guests for a small fee. Dad had made me take a couple of classes on handling dogs before he’d agreed to let me try it. I couldn’t wait for next week. It seemed like I was about to enter a whole new world.
“Hey, next week, on my birthday,” I said, “how about I come to Brooklyn and we go out for salted Nutella cookies at Buttermilk Bakeshop?”
“Yummmm,” Talia said.
“Is that a yes?” I asked, nudging her with my elbow.
“Lindy, you should write a poem about how delicious those cookies are,” Nora said.
“I could never in a million years describe how amazing they are,” I said. “Like, there are no words, really. None. So I’ll just stick to writing about dogs and princesses and my friends at the beach.”
Talia turned and looked at me. “You wrote about us?”
I stood up and pulled on her hand. “Maybe. Come on. Let’s go run in the ocean!”
She laughed and got to her feet, looking so cute in her fuchsia-pink bathing suit. “But I want to see what you wrote.”
“Later,” I said. “And only if you’ll dance for us.”
“Okay,” she said as she ran out onto the sand and did a beautiful split leap right there.
Nora stood up and said, “Oh, come on. That’s so easy. Look, I can do it, too.”
She ran and leaped into the air. Except her toes weren’t pointed and her legs weren’t straight, and she landed far to one side and fell to the ground in a fit of giggles. We all knew she’d been joking when she said it was easy.
“Your turn, Lindy,” Talia said, motioning for me to come toward them. “Come on, you can do it!”
I straightened out my black-and-blue suit, stood up straight and tall, and took a deep breath. My split leap wouldn’t be perfect. In fact, it would be pretty awful. But these were my friends. And it was a beautiful summer day that I wanted to remember forever. So, like I’d done lots of times that summer, I told fear to sit down and be quiet.
And then I ran.
And I leaped.
And for one brief moment, it felt a little bit like I was flying.
Someday
I’ll look back at this day,
with the sun on our cheeks
and the wind at our backs,
and I’ll think, “That was a great day.”
But it’s not the ocean
or the sky or the sand
I’ll remember most.
It’s how you made me feel.
Happy.
Safe.
Loved.
Have you been to Paris? Keep reading for a sample of My Secret Guide to Paris, also by Lisa Schroeder!
When you go to Paris,” Grandma Sylvia said to me, “you must ask for a baguette de tradition. That’s the good kind. The crust is thin, with just the right amount of crunch, while the interior is light and fluffy.” She continued, and by the twinkle in her eyes, I knew what was coming next. “Just imagine it, Nora. As you turn the cobblestoned street corner, the scent of freshly baked bread greets you, and it’s as warm and welcoming as an old friend. You follow the scent to the bakery, because resistance is futile, and you peer into the window at all of the lovely pastries. There are little apricot tarts and—”
I couldn’t stand it any longer. “But, Grandma, when are we going? I’ve been waiting my whole life!”
Grandma Sylvia chuckled as she set down her mug on the table, the rim now red from her lipstick. “You have been waiting an awfully long time, haven’t you?”
I thought back to the first time Grandma Sylvia read the story Madeline to me, when I was three or four years old. We curled up on the sofa with the pretty picture book, and together we studied the front cover. A bunch of little girls wearing yellow coats and hats stood in front of the Eiffel Tower, and Grandma explained to me that it’s one of the most famous and most beautiful structures in the whole wide world.
“Someday, Nora,” she’d said, “we will go to Paris and you’ll stand under the amazing Eiffel Tower, just like Madeline and the other girls from her school. Right now, it’s just a dream, but dreams come true every day. The secret is to make sure you always have at least one tucked into your pocket, so when it’s your turn, you are ready!”
I’d never forgotten that.
“Let me ask you a question, my dear,” Grandma said now, her pretty blue-gray eyes searching mine. “Why, exactly, do you want to go to Paris?”
More memories popped into my head.
When I was eight years old, Grandma Sylvia gave me a jar of buttons and told me some were old and some were new, but every single one came from Paris. I loved the gift so much, I chose one every day to take with me. It was a way to carry the dream of Paris with me wherever I went, and to feel close to my grandma all at the same time.
When I was nine years old, and Grandma and I started our monthly tradition of a sleepover at her house on the first Saturday of every month, I learned more about Paris than I ever dreamed of. My mother would ride the subway with me into Manhattan, go as far as the nearest corn
er, then let me walk the rest of the way to the place I was meeting my grandma. It worked out well for us to meet in the city, because it’s halfway between Brooklyn, where I live, and Grandma’s home in Connecticut. We’d do something fun like visit a museum, go shopping, or have lunch before taking the train back to Grandma’s apartment. There, we spent our time playing cards, reading books, and talking about Paris. Grandma Sylvia shared stories and photos with me as if the city was part of her family. She loved her job working as an assistant designer for a famous fashion company, which took her to Paris once or twice a year.
The way she’d talked about it through the years, I was convinced there was no place more magical than the city of Paris.
So there we were, on the first Saturday in December, sipping our large mugs of hot chocolate at a cute little chocolate shop called La Maison du Chocolat on Madison Avenue in New York City. And Grandma wanted me to tell her why I wanted to go to Paris.
It seemed like I had lots of reasons, but I didn’t think she wanted a long list for an answer. I finally decided to tell her in the most honest way I could.
After I wiped my mouth with the fancy cloth napkin, I said, “Since I was a little girl, you’ve told me about the delicious food and the cool, historical buildings and the artwork and the fashion. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but it’s a little bit like if you brought me to this chocolate shop and got yourself something wonderful and only let me have a glass of water. I want to see everything you’ve told me about for myself!”
I’ll never forget what happened next. Grandma sat back in her chair and started laughing. She was quiet at first, but pretty soon she was laughing so hard she had tears running down her cheeks. It was kind of embarrassing, because a few people looked over at our table and gave us funny looks. But Grandma didn’t seem to care.
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