“Hey! Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
That was Michel. Shouting out the bus window.
Kristy rolled her eyes. “Are you sure you want to?”
Hmmm. I wasn’t expecting her to say that.
“Ahhh, so that’s the problem,” I said. “Despair not, fair Kristy. The man of your dreams shall return to your arms, loaded down with Goofy souvenirs.”
“Ha-ha, Abby, so funny,” Kristy said, grumping back into the hotel.
I followed her, because I hadn’t done my after-breakfast tooth-brushing. (I’m sure the sewers smelled bad enough without my morning monster mouth.)
Soon we were again outside with our little group of sewer seekers. Mr. D led us to the Métro, which we took to the Pont-de-l’Alma station.
It was a gorgeous day. I figured we’d be the only ones crazy enough to be in the sewers (or égouts, as the Parisians say). Well, guess what? The place was packed.
I couldn’t stop cracking up. The image of these nicely dressed, old tourists crawling around in the slimy pipes was too funny.
“Ssshh,” said Kristy the Grouch.
Well, it turns out these sewers are a major deal. In fact, before you take the tour, you have to see a movie about them. Fact: They are eighteen feet high by fourteen feet wide. Fact: There are over thirteen hundred miles of sewer in Paris! Fact: Boats used to go through them. Fact: Not anymore. We had to walk.
Shhhhhwwippp, went my sinuses as soon as we descended. Closed up tight.
Mold, I guess. Or rotten food. Or dust. I won’t go any further.
“I wish Ballory were here,” I said. “She could thick of all kides of good stories.”
“Some people don’t know what they’re missing,” Kristy muttered.
“AHHHHHHH-CHOOOOOOO!” I sneezed.
“A H H H H H H H - C H O O O O O O O ! CHOOOOOOO! CHOOOOOOO!” answered my sewer echo voice.
“Abby, ssshh!” Kristy said.
“It was a sdeeze! I could’t help it!”
Lots of kids started imitating me. The tunnel was resounding with sneezes, shouts, and giggles.
I thought it was pretty funny. Kristy looked as if she didn’t want to know me.
“What’s wrogg with you, Kristy?” I said. “This is supposed to be fud!”
“I’m fine,” Kristy snapped.
“I doe what’s botherigg you.” I dug out a spray decongestant from my pack and took a couple of inhalations. Right away my sinuses began to clear. “You’re pinigg away for your farflugg lover-boy.”
Okay, it was a stupid thing to say. But it was a joke.
Well, Kristy didn’t take it that way.
She recoiled from me like a slingshot. “You have to broadcast it to everyone, don’t you?”
“Huh? I was just —”
“As if I don’t need any privacy —”
“Privacy? In the sewer?”
“You know what I mean!”
“Kristy, look, I didn’t mean to start a fight.”
“Then why did you bring it up?”
“Bring what up?”
“I can’t help it, okay?”
“Wait. I’m lost here. Can we start this conversation over?”
“I didn’t mean to. I hated him! And then I didn’t. It just … happened.”
“Ahhh.”
I was beginning to understand.
Unfortunately, so was the entire Paris sewer system. Everyone was staring at us.
“Ahem,” said our guide. “Years ago, the sewers became an accessory to an infamous crime….”
“Are you serious, Kristy?” I whispered.
“That’s what I’ve been asking myself!” Kristy replied.
“Does he like you back?”
“I think so. Maybe not. I don’t know!”
“He seems to.”
“He just acts that way to annoy me.”
“So what’ll you do about this?”
“Nothing!”
“And stay miserable?”
“I’m not miserable!”
“Could have fooled me.”
“… The bank robbers used their knowledge of the underworld, so to speak,” the guide droned on, “and they made their getaway through these tunnels….”
“What else can I do?” Kristy said.
“Tell him, of course!”
“And make a fool of myself?”
“How else are you going to find out how he feels?”
“Okay. Say he does like me. So what? He goes home. I go home. End of story.”
“Canada’s not that far away from Connecticut. Look. At the party tonight, when everyone’s feeling good and loose, just go somewhere with him. A dark corner, whatever. Tell him how you feel, and see what happens. What have you got to lose?”
“No way.”
“You are so stubborn! Okay, Kristy. If you don’t talk to him, I will.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I shouldn’t have to.”
The tour had moved on, and Mr. D was calling us.
Kristy began walking toward him. “Okay, okay.”
“You will?” I asked.
“I was talking to Mr. D.”
“What about tonight?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Good!”
I didn’t believe her for a minute.
I lied.
Sort of.
I did try to go to sleep. But it didn’t work. (Anyway, I was lying in bed fully clothed.)
Each time I closed my eyes, I’d see a coop full of chickens, running around and clucking.
That’s what I felt like. A chicken.
Michel was a boy.
And even though he was hateful, I sort of liked him.
That’s all.
I mean, I’ve had boy friends and a boyfriend. No big whoop.
So why was I making this into such a big deal? All I had to do was talk to him. I’m good at talking.
Maybe I needed practice.
I turned the light on and looked in the mirror. I pushed my hair out of my face.
“Hi, Michel,” I said. “Remember the Eiffel Tower? That was cool, wasn’t it?”
Dumb.
“You know, you’re not as creepy as I thought.”
No way.
“Yo, DuMoulin. Want to have a …”
A what? A relationship? I hate that word.
This was ridiculous.
I had to do it. Just go down there and do it.
If he laughed at me, I could always pitch a stuffed mushroom at him.
I tucked in my T-shirt. I straightened my Mets cap. And I yanked open my door.
I came face-to-face with a clenched fist.
“Oh! Sorry! I was just about to knock!” Michel said, quickly letting his arm drop.
“What are you doing up here?” I asked.
“What are you doing up here? Everyone’s at the party.”
“I was about to go.”
He smiled. “But I’m here.”
“Good. I’ll go. You stay.”
Michel strolled inside. “You trust me alone in a room full of Mets souvenirs and an open window?”
“Even you wouldn’t be low enough to do that,” I said, closing the door behind us.
Michel was sliding open my glass door, stepping onto the balcony. “Nice night,” he said.
We leaned over the railing. The night air had a faint flowery smell mixed with the pollution. The streetlights threaded their way through the city below, disappearing behind darkened office buildings. To our left, the Eiffel Tower glowed brightly.
“You can see it from just about anywhere in Paris,” Michel remarked.
“Yeah,” I said. “It almost looks like it was constructed out of light, not steel.”
I leaned against him.
He put his arm around my shoulders.
His face was near mine. I mean, really close.
He seemed to have finished talking. And I knew I had nothing else to say.
; So I kissed him.
It was no big deal. No violins and fireworks.
It seemed like the logical thing to do.
We stood there for a long time, looking over Paris. Neither of us said much. I never did what Abby wanted me to do. I never told him how I felt.
But that was okay.
I didn’t have to.
He knew.
* * *
I was up early the next morning. Abby was still snoring when I left the room.
The Berger kids had to leave earlier than we did. The first one I saw was Darcy Boynton. I told her that Abby was conked out, but that I’d force her to write.
I almost didn’t see Michel, stepping onto the bus.
“Yo! DuMoulin!” I called out.
He smiled and hopped off the bus. “Thomas! Hey. Well, time to go, eh?”
“Yeah.”
I wasn’t going to make a big mushy scene in front of everybody. That’s not my style.
But he hugged me, so I hugged him back.
“Keep in touch,” he said. “And come to Toronto some time.”
“You come to Stoneybrook too,” I suggested. “Hey, do you baby-sit?”
“Do I what?”
“Never mind.”
I let him kiss me. On the cheek.
He climbed onto the bus again.
I stood there while the others boarded.
When the bus pulled away, I waved.
I think Michel waved back. The windows were tinted, so it was hard to tell.
I felt this heaviness in my chest as I went back to my room. My eyes were watery.
Weird.
I never feel that way so early in the morning.
I must have been really, really tired.
Or something.
About the Author
ANN MATTHEWS MARTIN was born on August 12, 1955. She grew up in Princeton, New Jersey, with her parents and her younger sister, Jane.
There are currently over 176 million copies of The Baby-sitters Club in print. (If you stacked all of these books up, the pile would be 21,245 miles high.)In addition to The Baby-sitters Club, Ann is the author of two other series, Main Street and Family Tree. Her novels include Belle Teal, A Corner of the Universe (a Newbery Honor book), Here Today, A Dog’s Life, On Christmas Eve, Everything for a Dog, Ten Rules for Living with My Sister, and Ten Good and Bad Things About My Life (So Far). She is also the coauthor, with Laura Godwin, of the Doll People series.
Ann lives in upstate New York with her dog and her cats.
Copyright © 1998 by Ann M. Martin.
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC, THE BABY-SITTERS CLUB, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
First edition, July 1998
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
e-ISBN 978-0-545-69057-7
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