“Probably,” I said, “Let’s go.”
Mr. Camponi’s granddaughter, Natalie; Beef; Henri; Brigitte; and I were given the full backstage tour before being escorted to our seats—all of us except Beef, who was asked to stay behind with the band.
Natalie oohed and aahed at everything. From the front row I saw Murielle duPluie in the wings, where she was reporting live.
Alec, Winston, and Glen took the stage. The audience cheered, “CLAY! CLAY!” After making us wait just long enough, Clay came onto the stage, and the four original members of the band, with Beef on the tambourine, launched into their most beloved song. The audience, including me, Henri, Brigitte, and Natalie, went nuts.
The set continued through Shock Value’s classic songs. They danced, and the audience sang along. Everything about the concert was perfect.
Then Clay stood at the mic and said, “It’s good to be back with my three bandmates and all of you here in Paris!”
The crowd screamed.
He continued, “Finding the courage to come back wasn’t easy. I had a little help, actually. You see, I met a stranger who inspired me.” The audience listened in silence. “This new friend also helped me find my way back to my love of writing music, and I think maybe I helped her discover something she didn’t know about herself.” Was he talking about me? “She had no idea that her voice rocked, because her older brothers . . .” He shaded his eyes from the spotlights and looked up into the mezzanine section. “They’re up there somewhere. Anyway, they told her she couldn’t sing.” He picked a guitar string. “Gwen, I want you to come up here and sing the song you wrote.”
No! Freakin’! Way!
Was he seriously doing this?
“If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be here right now.” He started playing the familiar chords. “Let’s rock.”
Glen tapped the security guards in front of the stage. “Her,” he told them, and pointed to me.
Two muscular security men lifted me onto the stage.
I tugged my skirt down and brushed a lock of hair over my ear.
The crowd cheered for me. For me! I thought I could hear JTC, but I couldn’t see anyone because the lights totally blinded me.
Clay continued plucking at the sequence of chords. I swung my hips to the familiar and catchy tune.
Glen came over and hung a mic on a wire over my ear. He looked me in the eye and said, “Deep breath.”
I took one.
Then he said, “You got this,” and he strummed his guitar. Alec boomed on the drums, and Winston pounded on the keyboard.
I was so into the beat that when Clay started the first words, I joined right in. He lowered his voice and let me take over the song. “I could go to Japan!” I sang the whole verse; then Clay joined in to harmonize the second time through. The rest of the band hummed in the background. Beef clanked the tambourine.
I danced and walked across the stage, finally belting out, “If only I could fly!” Both of my hands were in the air.
Clay yelled, “Yeah!” and gave me a big hug. He whispered, “Thank you,” in my ear. Then he announced, “Good night, Paris!”
The lights went out and I was escorted backstage. Natalie, Henri, and Brigitte were already in the greenroom. The band was right behind me.
Alec signed an autograph for Sylvie and one for Fifi, and Winston posed for countless pictures with Natalie. Even Beef was there. I listened to her live interview with Murielle duPluie.
Murielle duPluie asked, “So, how was it?”
“Well, you know, Murray—”
“Murielle,” Murielle duPluie corrected her.
“It’s like a nickname that I made for you,” Beef explained.
“I don’t like it, but how was it?”
“It was like I always imagined it would be. I can’t thank Shock Value enough for giving me my big break. Now I have a question for you, Murray. Where do you get your hair done? Because it is fab and I was thinking of getting a little trim.” She fluffed her very short waves.
Murielle duPluie’s mic-less hand went to her hair. “Why, thank you. I can give you some names.”
“Well, that would be appreciated,” Beef said. She was definitely a smooth talker. “And how about that little lady?” She indicated me with her thumb. “My new friend. Wasn’t she amazing?”
Murielle duPluie focused the mic on me, and Beef moved straight to a plate of shrimp cocktail.
“Hello, Gwen,” she said. “I’m live with Music News.Can I ask you a few questions?”
“I’d like that,” I said.
“I think the world is wondering, ‘Who is Gwen Russell and what’s her story?’”
“It’s a super-simple story, really,” I told Murielle duPluie. “I came to Paris and I made a wish on a lantern that I tossed off the cliff at la côte d’Albâtre.”
“What was your wish?”
Henri interrupted, “Do not tell her. It will not come true.”
“It’s okay,” I told Henri.
“Well?” Murielle duPluie asked.
“I wished for the best week ever in Paris.”
“And did you have it?” she asked me.
“I got to spend time with my old friend and surrogate sister, Brigitte, and her gang of pets. I won the Shock Value scavenger hunt. I not only met the band, but I returned their friend and bandmate to them—not many people can say they’ve done something like that. He convinced me to start singing, and it turns out I’m pretty good. And”—I took Henri’s hand—“I made a great new friend.”
“So your wish came true?”
“You bet it did,” I said. “Wait. Actually, don’t bet. Someone usually loses.”
The cameraman pushed in closer to Murielle duPluie. She stared straight into the camera, at her viewers, and said, “There you have it, music fans. A wish on a lantern ends in musical history. I’d say that’s a successful trip to Paris.”
28
The next day was my last in Paris. I couldn’t believe it.
I entered the cozy lobby and watched tour group D gather by the podium to be briefed by Beef. The tour group was considerably larger than mine had been. It seemed that Beef’s recent musical success attracted tourists. I noticed that in addition to her fanny pack and clipboard, she now also had her tambourine hanging from her belt.
Henri was leaning against a wall near the grand front door of the Hôtel de Paris. His hair was combed back and tied into a ponytail; his striped oxford was pressed and untucked. He had one hand shoved deep into a front pocket, and the other waved to me.
“Hi,” I said. “You aren’t working today?”
“No. Not today. Étienne gave me the day with no work.”
“Off.”
“Off what?”
“Off work. That’s what we call a day with no work, a day off.”
“Then off,” he said. “Allons-y.” Let’s go.
“Where?”
“You aren’t done with your great week in Paris.”
“I’m not?”
“No. There’s something you need to see.” He took my hand. “Come on.”
I went with him outside to the front of the hotel. I looked for Clay Bright, but he wasn’t there. Then I looked around for the petmobile, but I didn’t see it barking, squawking, or oinking nearby.
“Where is Brigitte?”
“She was picking up new rats for Sylvie.”
“Yuck,” I said.
“Yeah. Yuck.”
Henri stopped walking at a yellow Vespa scooter and handed me a helmet from the back.
I said, “I don’t think my mom—”
He put it on my head. “I already talked to her and JTC. The boys convinced her that you can go with me for an hour.”
“Really?”
He buckled the strap and tapped the
top of the helmet. “Really.” He kicked a leg over the scooter and fastened his own helmet. “Get on.”
I straddled the seat and wrapped my hands around Henri’s waist. He flicked a switch and something with his foot, and we cruised down the boulevard. We stopped near the edge of the Seine—right near the fleet of tour boats I had seen when I had first arrived.
“A river cruise?” I asked.
“Oui,” Henri said. He slid a plastic card out of his pocket. “A gift,” he said. “From Professor Camponi. For taking Natalie to the concert.” He waved me ahead of him onto the boat.
I stepped on and climbed up to the top deck, Henri following close behind.
The boat sailed down the river that flowed through the center of Paris. We went under what seemed like a million bridges. It was so cool to see the city we had been running around from the water—the Louvre, Notre Dame, and a bunch of other sights we hadn’t gotten to see. Henri pointed to buildings and told me what he could about each.
“Guess what?” he asked me.
“What?”
“Les Bleus won the World Cup.”
“So I guess that proves it,” I said. “Lantern wishes come true whether you tell them or not.”
He squeezed my hand and held it for the rest of the ride while we slowly sailed down the Seine.
Acknowledgments
Ooh la la, so many fab people to thank:
A writer girl can’t do much without formidable critique partners and writing pals: Gale, Carolee, Josette, Jane, Chris, and Shannon, and the Northern Delaware Sisters in Crime group: John, KB, Jane, June, Chris, Janis, Susan, and Kathleen.
Special thanks to Chris Lally, the mastermind of plot, who always meets me when I’m in a panic. Many of the ideas incorporated herein came from her beautiful head.
Thanks to my friends, who are super supportive of this life and listen to me talk about fictitious people, places, and situations.
A thousand mercis to my literary dream team, who just “get” me: Mandy Hubbard, literary agent, and Alyson Heller, editor. Without them, none of this works.
As always, to my family: Ellie, Evan, Happy, Kevin, my parents, nieces and nephews, sister, sisters-in-law, brothers-in-law, and mother-in-law, thank you for your continued encouragement! Extra-special thanks to my daughter and Parisian travel-mate, Ellie, for sharing the City of Light with me. “We’ll always have Paris.”
To teachers, librarians, and most of all, my readers: I love getting your e-mails, letters, pictures, selfies, posts, and tweets. . . . Keep ’em coming! I hope you love Lost in Paris as much as Lucky Me, Lost in London, and Just Add Magic.
To all of you above, and those I’ve somehow forgotten (pardon!): Je vous souhaite santé et bonheur!
Here’s a sneak peek at another international adventure by Cindy Callaghan:
1
I’d been planning to be a counselor-in-training at Camp Hiawatha, but there was an issue with fleas, mice, lice, and snakes and the camp closing, leaving my summer wide open.
The only question was, what would I do with all my free time? Thankfully, my parents were able to make alternate plans.
“It’s all set,” my mom said.
“For real?” I asked.
“Totally for real,” Dad confirmed. “Your great-aunt Maria can’t wait to have you.”
My great-aunt Maria was my dad’s aunt, and she was more than great, she was my favorite relative in the adult category. She was sweet, nice, an amazing Italian cook, and she owned this insanely cute pizzeria. Plus, I always felt like she and I had some kind of special connection—like a bond or something. I can’t really explain it exactly.
Oh, and that pizzeria she owned? It just happened to be in Rome. Rome, Italy!
Basically, Aunt Maria is all that and a plate of rigatoni, if you know what I mean.
“When do we leave?” I asked.
“Tomorrow morning,” Mom said. “But this isn’t going to be two weeks of sightseeing and touristy stuff. I told her you wanted to work.”
“At the pizzeria?”
“Yeah,” Dad said. “She’s planning to teach you how to make her signature sauce.”
“The secret sauce?” I asked in awe.
“That’s the one,” he added. “I don’t even know how to make it.”
“That’s a major deal,” Mom said.
Just then a girl who looked a lot like me—long dark curly hair, light skin, brown eyes, except she was taller, prettier, older, and more stylish—walked into our parents’ room, where we were talking. A cell phone was glued to her ear.
“It’s on!” I said.
“For real?” she asked.
“For real!”
She pumped her fist in the air. “I’ll call you later. I’m going to Rome! Ciao!” She hung up the phone, looked at herself in the full-length mirror, fluffed her brown curly locks, and practiced, “Buongiorno!”
Maybe I should tell you who “she” is: My older sister, Gianna. She’s like my best friend. There’s no one I’d rather be with for two weeks in Rome. Next year she’ll be a junior in high school, where she is most often seen with a glitter pen and scrapbooking scissors.
Me . . . not so much. I’m more of a big-idea gal. Then she builds or glues or sews or staples my ideas into reality.
This fall she’ll start looking at colleges. She’s excited about it, but the idea of her leaving home makes my stomach feel like a lump of overcooked capellini. Maybe some sisters fight, but Gi and I are tight. (Okay, sometimes we fight like sisters.)
Mom said to Gianna, “I told Lucy that you girls are going to work at the pizzeria.”
“I love that place,” Gianna said. “I hope it’s exactly the same as I remember it.”
“Do you think she still has Meataball?” I asked. I had visited Aunt Maria and her pizzeria years ago, and I vaguely remembered her cat.
“The cat?” Dad asked. “He has to be dead by now, honey. But maybe she has another cat.”
“Gi, she’s gonna teach me how to make her sauce.”
“Just you?”
I shrugged. “Maybe she loves me more.”
Mom said, “No. She loves you both exactly the same.”
“Maybe,” I started, “she wants me to take over the pizzeria when she retires, and I’ll be the Sauce Master, the only one in the entire Rossi lineage who knows the ancient family signature sauce. Then, when I’m old, I’ll choose one of my great-nieces to carry on the family tradition. And—”
Mom interrupted. “Lucy?”
“What?”
“This isn’t one of your stories. Let’s bring it back to reality.”
“Right,” I said. “Reality.” But sometimes reality was so boring. Fiction—my fiction—was way better. I’m pretty sure I’m the best writer in my school, where I’m a soon-to-be eighth grader.
Gianna asked, “You’re totally gonna teach it to me, right?”
“It depends on if I have to take some kind of oath that could only be broken in the event of a zombie apocalypse,” I said.
Dad suggested, “And let’s try to cool it with apocalypse-related exaggerations, huh? Aunt Maria probably doesn’t ‘get’ zombies and their ilk.”
“Roger that, Dad,” I said.
“I’m going to pack,” Gianna said. “I can bring a glue gun, right? That’s okay on the plane, isn’t it?”
“I’m pretty sure they have glue guns in Italy. Or maybe you could refrain from hot-gluing things for two weeks,” Mom suggested.
“Ha! You’re funny, Mom,” Gianna said. “Don’t lose that sense of humor while the two of us are spending fourteen days in Italy!”
Gi and I looked at each other. “ITALY!” we both yelled at the same time.
We would’ve screamed way louder if we’d had any idea how much this trip would change the future—
mine, Gianna’s, Aunt Maria’s, Amore Pizzeria’s, and Rome’s.
2
STAMP!
The customs officer, who sat in a glass-enclosed booth, pounded his stamp onto Gianna’s passport.
I slid mine through a little hole in the glass, and he did the same.
New stamps in our passports!
“Yay!” Me and Gi high-fived.
A few moments later my eyes caught a paper sign that said LUCIA AND GIANNA ROSSI.
The lady holding it wasn’t Aunt Maria. She was as different as possible from our older Italian aunt. She was young, maybe twenty-three, and was all bright colors and peculiarities. Her head was wrapped in a dark purple scarf with a long tail hanging down her back. Her sunglasses were splotched with mismatched paint, and her pants were unlike any that I’d ever seen: one leg was striped and short and snug (maybe spandex), while the other leg was flowery, long, and flowing (possibly silk).
We made our way over to her and her sign.
“Are you Lucia and Gianna?” she asked without a trace of an Italian accent. She was as American as me.
We nodded.
“Buongiorno!” She hugged us just like Aunt Maria would have: tight, and extra long. “I am Jane Attilio and I’ve come to take you to Amore Pizzeria. Andiamo!”
Gi and I looked at each other, unfamiliar with the word. Maybe she didn’t know that we didn’t speak Italian.
“Let’s go!” Jane added with a big smile. With one hand she dragged my wheely suitcase. With the other she took Gianna’s hand and led us out of the airport. “We’re going to have an incredibly awesome two weeks.”
Jane Attilio effortlessly crammed our bags into her small European automobile (a Fiat) and whizzed us—and I do mean “whizzed”!—through the streets of Rome. While Jane’s driving was fast, it was no crazier than everyone else’s. I would’ve buckled up twice, if that was possible.
We passed ancient and crumbling buildings and statues, monuments and ruins. When traffic stopped, we were next to a big stone wall, where a very long line of people stood.
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