Lost in Paris

by Cindy Callaghan

  If it was so perfect, why did I feel bad? One word: Beef.

  “The only thing that could be better is if Clay Bright was there,” Brigitte said.

  “Too true,” I said.

  Henri said, “I wonder why he vanished and ran away.”

  “Maybe it was all too much, the pressure,” I said. “And he just wanted to leave . . . to leave and . . .”

  “What?” Henri asked. “Leave what?”

  “His worries behind,” I said. “And fly away.” I get quiet, allowing my thoughts to race around the inside of my head.

  Henri and Brigitte didn’t notice my silence and kept talking. Brigitte said, “I guess we’ll never know what happened to him.”

  I didn’t respond right away. “We could ask him,” I said.

  “Ask who what?” Brigitte asked.

  “We could ask Clay Bright why he disappeared,” I said. “I know where to find him.”

  25

  We went back to the Hôtel de Paris and walked up the boulevard to my friendly neighborhood guitarist.

  “You’re him,” I said to Knit Cap.

  “Who?”

  “You’re him!” I said again.

  “Who?”

  “Clay Bright,” I said.

  Henri studied him closely. “And you are not missing.”

  “It took you long enough to figure it out,” he said. “I thought you were, like, a huge Shock Value fan.”

  “I am! But look at you. You’re hanging out on the street. AND I thought you were missing!” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  “This is my life now. It’s all about music. That’s what I was born to do.”

  “Being in the world’s most popular band wasn’t doing that for you?” I asked.

  “It wasn’t about the music anymore. It was photo shoots and perfume and T-shirts. Heck, I started buying music instead of writing my own. That was the last straw for me.”

  “So you just hang out here every day?”

  “Yup. You know, I’ve been playing here for a year and Beef never recognized me.”

  “The costume is très bien,” Henri said.

  “Thank you. My mom made me the cap. You know, no one actually told me I was good or had real talent before you came along. It was always ‘how many ­arenas can you sell out’ or ‘make sure you don’t cut your hair before our next photo shoot.’ It was never about the actual music. And you helped me get past my writing block.” He strummed a few chords and began singing the most beautiful lyrics about making friends with strangers and being found.

  “That’s amazing,” I said. “You’re better than ever!”

  “I don’t know how I can thank you.”

  “I do,” I said.

  “Just ask,” Clay said. “What can I do?”

  “Get me another ticket to tonight’s concert.”

  “Another?”

  “Oh, yeah, we kinda won the contest!” I said.

  “That’s great! That’s exactly what you wanted.”

  “It totally is.”

  “You are going to have an awesome night.” He paused and crinkled his brow like he was thinking deeply. “Man, I miss those guys.”

  “You might have the chance to see them sooner than you think.”

  “Why?”

  “I’d like you to help me get Beef in front of Shock Value,” I said. “To give her the opportunity for a break.”

  “How will I do that?”

  “By asking Alec, Winston, and Glen,” I said.

  “You mean, you want me to come out of hiding?” Clay asked.

  “You’re ready,” I said. “Don’t you think?”

  Before he could answer, Brigitte asked, “Can you do a commercial for Boutique Brigitte—Pour les Petits Animaux? I mean, after you come out of hiding, of course.”

  “Sure,” he told Brigitte. “But can it wait until next week?”

  “That would be okay,” she said.

  “So, you’ll do it?” I asked.

  “It’s time for me to fly back,” he said. “Home to my boys. Let’s go tell them.”

  “Tell the boys? As in Alec, Winston, and Glen?” I asked. I couldn’t believe I was going to get to meet them, like, today.

  Clay nodded. “We’ll have to swing by my house first so I can change my clothes.”

  “Then allons-y to your house,” Brigitte said. “I’ll drive.”

  “Seriously?” Clay asked. “In the pet van?”

  He was going to need a limo or something. He was Clay Bright. He was used to traveling in style.

  “I’ve always wanted to ride in that thing,” he said. “Is the snake in it?”

  “No. But we can get her,” Brigitte said. “She is such a pretty snake.”

  “Too true,” Clay added. He secured his guitar in the case and clicked it shut.

  On the way to the van Henri asked him, “Your mom has seen you since you have disappeared?”

  “It would be pretty weird if she made me a sandwich every day but couldn’t see me.”

  “Who else knows?”

  “Just my mom. And, now, you guys.”

  He helped Brigitte with Norman’s ramp, then got in.

  “After my house, we’ll go find the boys,” Clay said. “They’re the ones who can get you the ticket you need.”

  “You know where they are?” I asked. “You haven’t talked to them in a year.”

  “I know all of their habits.”

  “So where are they?”

  “Uncle Alphonse’s garage. He lives in Essonne.”

  “You know who is on the way to Essonne?” Brigitte asked.

  Clay nodded, then asked, “Is Fifi here?”

  “No, but we can get her too. And we’ll have to bring the birds!”

  “Oh, yes. Please,” Clay said. “Let’s get them all.”

  Seconds later, Sylvie was in the van, hanging around Norman’s neck like a scarf. Before I knew it, Fifi was sitting in Henri’s lap, licking his face. She wasn’t snug in her car seat because Clay Bright was in that space.

  We left the animals in the car and went into a brick row home, where we found Clay’s mother in the living room, sitting at a drum set. “Hi, honey,” she said.

  He gave her a kiss. “Hi, Ma. This is Henri, Gwen, and Brigitte. They just won the Shock Value contest. They need an extra ticket for some lady named Beef so she can play for the boys and maybe get her big break into musical stardom.”

  “Sounds good, honey.” She pulled headphones over her ears. “I made tuna sandwiches.” She jammed on the drums. Terribly and loudly.

  Clay said, “Just give me a sec.” He really was only gone for a sec, and when he returned, the only thing he’d changed was his cap. He took sandwiches out of the refrigerator and put them into a brown paper bag.

  Clay lifted one of her earphones. “Wanna come?” he asked his mom.

  “You’re going to see the boys?”

  He nodded.

  “And not hide anymore?”

  He nodded again.

  “Sounds like a hoot.” She put her drumsticks down and unplugged the earphones without taking them off. On the way out the front door she grabbed a white ­button-up sweater that looked like a librarian’s. It didn’t go with her cheetah-print leggings and spiky heels.

  “Nice ride,” she said when she saw the petmobile. She stuck her hand out, waiting for someone to put something in it. When no one did, she looked at us. “Keys?”

  “It is my pet van,” Brigitte said.

  “Cool. I like it. But I’ll drive. I always drive,” she said.

  Clay confirmed, “She always drives.”

  Brigitte took out the keys, but before she could give them to Mrs. Bright, the woman snatched them and got in the van. As we were still pili
ng in, she peeled out. I fell into the seat with Henri, and Norman squealed.

  Mrs. Bright yelled back, “Buckle up, amigos!” And floored it.

  Finally, someone who could drive!

  Mrs. Bright whizzed around corners, changed lanes, and honked the oinker generously. She appeared to know exactly where she was going. We left the city of Paris for the first time and traveled along the hilly French countryside. The grass was dark green, and slender fir trees lined both sides of the narrow road for miles. We all managed to crack our windows to let fresh air in and stale pig smell out. The animals were quiet and sniffed at the new scents in the air; even Sylvie gently swayed her head from side to side over Norman’s shoulder. The pet van followed a sign with an arrow pointing toward Essonne.

  Essonne was a picturesque village with many gardens, small rivers, and bridges. There were more bicycles than cars on the gravel streets, but that didn’t slow down Mrs. Bright, who took tight turns and kicked dirt out from under the van’s tires.

  Brigitte held on to a hanging hook near the car window with one hand and braced herself on the dashboard with the other for the entire ride. I was sure she wanted to say something, but except for a few whimpers, nothing left her mouth.

  Mrs. Bright skidded into the unpaved driveway of a small stone cottage with white shutters and beautiful window boxes filled with colorful wildflowers. There was a trellis adorned with grapevines, underneath which sat a wrought-iron table and chairs. Sitting in the chairs were Winston, Glen, and Alec!

  They saw Mrs. Bright and hopped up to greet her. Then they saw three strangers get out of a van, and last, they saw Clay. Their eyes widened in shock.

  “No way!” Alec yelled, and ran into Clay’s arms.

  “Incroyable!” Winston ran his hands through his hair over and over.

  “I should kick your butt right here, right now, man,” Glen said. “But I’m just so glad to see you, I’ll do it later.”

  “It’s a date,” Clay said, and he hugged his friend. “Look, guys, I know you probably have a lot of questions, and I’ll tell you everything, but I need a favor.”

  “Now?” Alec asked.

  “I guess it doesn’t have to be right now, but since I’m here . . .”

  “It’s just that Murielle duPluie is on her way here to do an interview. You know, a sit-down thing before the concert,” Glen said. I loved that Glen talked like a New Yorker. If I wasn’t at a beautiful cottage in a village outside of Paris with the most popular band in the world, I might have been a little homesick.

  “An interview?” Clay asked. “That sounds perfect.”

  “For what?”

  “A public reappearance?”

  26

  The petmobile was hidden.

  Norman roamed and nibbled the grass with Sylvie on his neck. The two had become fast friends.

  Winston’s uncle Alphonse spoke to the birds who were still in the van in French and let them sit on top of the trellis to enjoy the sun.

  Fifi had little interest in the country, and stayed glued to Henri’s lap in the cottage kitchen, where we drank cappuccino. Uncle Alphonse didn’t talk much, but rather busied himself around the kitchen, wiping, straightening, and refilling our cups. He pulled up a paint-chipped stool and motioned for Clay to sit on it. Then he took a razor from a drawer, wiped it on his pants, and went to work on Clay’s beard.

  When we heard Murielle duPluie’s news van on the gravel, we spied out the window: She shook hands with the three current members of Shock Value and explained, “This is going to be live.”

  “That’s right, man. Just like a good concert,” Glen said.

  Murielle duPluie looked at the cameraman. “Are we ready, Kevin?”

  “Ready. And . . . action!”

  “This is Murielle duPluie, and I’m coming to you live from Shock Value’s secret practice location.” She sat between the three handsome musicians under the trellis. “Are you guys excited about tomorrow’s big show?” She put the mic in front of Glen, who seemed like the leader.

  Glen said, “That’s an understatement. This is going to be truly epic.”

  DuPluie asked, “More than usual? How come?”

  Alec moved the mic in front of his own mouth. “I guess the best thing we could do is show you,” he said. “You’re gonna love this.”

  “Yes. We’ll show you.” Winston stood. “Come out, mon ami,” he called to Clay.

  Clay Bright walked out of Uncle Alphonse’s cottage. His hair had been cut and his beard shaved, he wore a clean shirt tucked in, and a guitar hung on his back. He looked like a totally different person. The Clay Bright everyone knew and loved.

  Murielle duPluie stared at Clay. Her lips didn’t move. Shock? Amazement? Awe? It was anybody’s guess, but the famous Murielle duPluie froze once she saw Clay Bright.

  “He’s returning for the concert,” Glen said, helping her out.

  Alec asked, “You’re back, buddy. So great to see you. Where the heck have you been?”

  “Sorry, but I needed to run away for a while, to find the music again. It’s hard to explain, but I’d lost it,” he said. “But I’m back now, and I missed you guys. And I missed the fans.”

  “So did you find it? Have you been writing?” Glen asked.

  “I did,” Clay said. “And yes, I have been writing quite a lot. Want to hear something new?”

  “Would we?” Glen looked at Murielle duPluie. “What do you think? Would your viewers like to hear a new Shock Value song from Clay Bright, who has just returned to his band?”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, still in her frozen smile.

  “Great!” Clay played a short section of the song about running away. “I’ll be playing that one tonight,” he said to Glen.

  Murielle duPluie finally cleared her throat and looked into the camera. “There you have it. Musical history. Clay Bright is back and will rejoin Shock Value tonight,” she said. “Follow me, Murielle duPluie, on Music News live throughout the evening. Remember, you heard it here first.” She didn’t move her stare from Clay.

  Kevin, her cameraman, said, “And . . . cut.”

  27

  The petmobile was loaded with me, Brigitte, Henri, and Natalie—Professor Camponi’s granddaughter. We gave her one of the extra front-row tickets that we’d gotten for opening all the boxes. We gave Beef the fifth and final VIP ticket. For this event Brigitte had agreed, reluctantly, to leave any nonhuman friends behind. “Fifi will be so sad to miss it,” Brigitte had said.

  “We’ll tell her all about it,” I’d said. She didn’t feel good about it until Henri suggested that we record parts of the concert and play it back for Fifi later.

  I recognized the arena, the Palais Omnisports de Paris-Bercy (the locals called it POPB), from my tour books. It had a unique pyramidal shape and really cool walls that were actually covered with sloping lawns.

  Brigitte navigated the van into the crowded parking lot and rolled down the window to pay the attendant for parking.

  “Bonjour, Brigitte,” said the parking attendant.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur d’Argent. How is the little angel?”

  “Ah, très bien. He is getting big.” He handed her a bright red VIP parking sticker. “Put this on your window and you can park anywhere.”

  “Merci, but you see, I have two more buses behind me. One is from the Hôtel de Paris, and the other one carries a very noisy lacrosse team.”

  He stretched his neck around the petmobile and looked at the two buses behind us. “Ah! I see. Shock Value told me about them. They will have to sit with the maintenance crew in the mezzanine section. The view is obstructed, but it’s the best we could do with the whole place sold out. We forgot that they would need to park.” He scratched his bald head. “But for Brigitte, it is no problem.” He took out two more red stickers. “I will give them these.” He winked at her.
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  “Merci, Monsieur d’Argent. Thank you so much.”

  “For the girl who cleans Antonio’s teeth, anything.”

  We drove on.

  “Antonio?” I asked.

  “Baby alligator,” she said. “So cute and cuddly.”

  “Right,” I agreed, “a cuddly alligator.”

  We flashed our backstage passes to every agent. Each one seemed like they were expecting us and the huge crowd of people who trailed along behind us. Of course, they couldn’t all sit in the front row or go backstage. So Étienne and the apartment doormen who had driven in the hotel van were led to the balcony, while the lacrosse team and their families were directed to a long empty row up high in the nosebleed seats.

  As we parted ways, I heard one of the lacrosse players say to Josh, “Your sister rocks.”

  Another player said, “She’s cute, too.”

  Topher said, “Dude, gross.”

  I guess my new outfit, which Étienne had helped me select from the hotel store, looked good. It was a denim miniskirt and scoop-neck Shock Value T-shirt. A few days without contact sports and my legs were practically bruise-free. I’d taken some extra time to blow-dry my hair. It had never looked so good. It was amazing what some spray and a few rhinestone clips could do.

  The last of our crowd of guests to walk away were Jean-Luc, Sabine, and Robert. That’s right: I asked Shock Value for tickets for them, too. And they gave them to me because they were so appreciative that I’d convinced Clay to come back.

  Sabine said, “I like your hair jewelry.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Enjoy the show.”

  Jean-Luc said, “You are okay, Henri, to get us these tickets.”

  “It does not mean that I will not beat you in the next game,” he said.

  “No, you won’t,” Jean-Luc said. “That will never happen again.”

  “Maybe we should bet—” Henri said.

  I interrupted, “No. Let’s not. Someone usually loses when you bet.” I tugged Henri toward the front row. “Are you glad now that you invited them?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “They are going to get mad again when I score the next goal.”