Thirty-three
The hallway. The dirty cobwebby hallway. I sprinted down it and up the small set of stairs. Freedom was close. I whipped open the door leading into Les Pouffant’s. The maitre d’ stared at me from down his long, pointy nose. Angry French voices followed me, footsteps thumped. I slammed the door shut. I had to get out of there. As in last week.
The manager grabbed my arm. All the chefs turned and stared at me with their beady eyes. Their arms froze in position with frosting tubes in their hands. I must look like a total catacomb-zombie-freak, covered in drying dust and grime. They advanced toward me, so I did what any panicked girl caught spying on a famous French pastry chef would do. I kicked the guy in the shins. A girl’s toes are her best weapon! He let out a howl and in the process let go of my arm. I ran from kitchen, pushing waiters and chefs to my right and left.
“Zut alors!” and other French niceties got lost in the crashing of pans and dishes.
Cakes splattered against the wall. Cream-filled pastries smeared into perfectly manicured French mustaches. I left them behind and sprinted out the front door.
Young couples in love cast strange looks like I was a bit cuckoo. And maybe I was.
“Arrête!” Someone yelled behind me.
Of course, I had no plans of stopping. Darkness shadowed the tables and the streets. I ducked under the old-fashioned-looking lights with large bulbs strung across the outside of the shop. I tried not to bump tables and knock over the vases holding roses as I weaved between them. I fled the scene, wishing I’d run all those fivers and tenners Dad had asked me to do. My breath wheezed out like an old air-conditioner on its last life. I dodged and ducked tables and Parisians out for a stroll. The doorways of cute little boutiques blurred past me as I ran.
I leaped over miniature poodles. I tried my hardest not to look behind me. At this point, Jolie with his Santa belly wouldn’t be the one chasing me. Malcolm would be. Even though we’d kissed that didn’t mean squat in his world. He kept telling me he was spying on Jolie for me, but every word out of his mouth down in the basement of Jolie’s shop said otherwise. He was too convincing for a waiter.
Lies. Lies. And more lies. Everything about him was a lie. All the lies made me doubt anything he’d told me. Would he ever hurt me? I wasn’t sure anymore.
With every step, the muscles in my back sent shooting pain up my spine in anticipation of a hand about to clamp down on my neck. But it never came. At least half a mile away, I prayed I’d be safe, slowed down, and tried to hide behind a group of older woman out for a shopping trip. At a crosswalk, I strode between two businessmen until I was safely on the other side.
I had to stop and rest. My lungs burned, so I plopped down on a hard wooden bench.
Malcolm was nowhere in sight. I breathed a deep sigh of relief and let out a couple deep sobs. I’d made it out. Jolie wasn’t shoving me into his freezer. If I was lucky, Malcolm and Jolie didn’t even know who it was spying on them from the stairs.
I let my head fall back and stared up between the tree branches. I stifled a laugh. Everything I hated about being a spy I had become. I hated butting into other people’s business and living life like a trapeze artist, constantly afraid of falling and dying. I hated lying to people as much as I hated being lied to. I hated being sneaky. Except when I kinda liked it. Mom had never been honest with me. Like mother, like daughter. I guess.
Hands gripped my shoulder and I felt his breath against my ear before he whispered.
“Why hello there. What happened to you?”
A Spy Like Me Page 34