A Whirlwind Vacation

by Krulik, Nancy

  “I would like a fromage sandwich,” Katie told the waiter at the café. She smiled proudly as she used the French word for cheese. The waiter smiled back and wrote down her order.

  Then the waiter walked over to the next small table where Annabelle and her parents were sitting. The tables at the café were so small that they couldn’t all sit together. But they were close enough.

  “Ruff! Ruff!”

  Katie turned around. The woman at the next table was sitting with a small black poodle on her lap. In Paris, lots of restaurants allowed dogs to sit at the table.

  Pepper would love that, Katie thought to herself. She missed her cocker spaniel. He was back home in Cherrydale. Katie’s next-door neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Derkman, were taking care of him while the Carews were away. Katie hoped Mrs. Derkman was being nicer to Pepper than she had been to her third-grade class. When Mrs. Derkman had been Katie’s teacher, she’d been really strict.

  “Do you think Pepper’s okay?” Katie asked her mother.

  “I’m sure he’s fine, Katie,” Mrs. Carew answered. “He’s probably busy playing with Snowball in the yard right now.”

  Snowball was Mrs. Derkman’s dog. She was Pepper’s best friend ... other than Katie, of course.

  “I think I’ll send Pepper a postcard,” Katie told her mother. “I saw one with a picture of a French poodle on it back at the hotel.”

  Mrs. Carew smiled. “I think Pepper would like that.”

  Just then the waiter arrived with coffee for the adults and sodas for Annabelle and Katie.

  “Merci,” Katie said, proudly using the French word for thank you.

  As she sipped her soda, Katie looked out at the street. People were walking by. Mothers with strollers. Businesspeople with leather briefcases. A dog walker with six large dogs pulling her down the street.

  Vicki was right. It was fun to people-watch in Paris.

  Katie could see Notre Dame from her seat at the café. It didn’t look nearly as scary from here. In fact, it looked kind of pretty.

  A group of artists were seated across the street on small wooden folding chairs. Each artist had set up a small easel. Katie watched as their hands glided across their canvases. Some seemed to be using paint, while others were drawing with pencils. They were all looking up at Notre Dame as they worked.

  “They’re painting the cathedral,” Katie said. “It looks like fun. Daddy, do you have a pen?”

  Mr. Carew pulled a pen from his shirt pocket. “Here you go,” he told her.

  Katie took the pen and began to draw on her napkin. She looked up at the cathedral and tried to get the points in the tower just right. It was really hard to do.

  Annabelle looked over to see what Katie was doing. “Oh, I want to try that, too,” Annabelle said.

  Mrs. Bridgeman pulled a pen from her purse and handed it to her daughter. Before long, both girls were busy drawing.

  Katie loved everything about Paris. It was such fun sitting at an outdoor café, drawing one of the most famous buildings in the whole world. She was speaking French (okay, so maybe she only knew a couple of words, but still ...), and she was about to eat a fromage sandwich on real French bread.

  Katie grinned broadly. It didn’t get better than this!

  Chapter 8

  “Mmm. That was good,” Mr. Bridgeman said as he finished the last of his french fries. “Anyone for another cup of coffee?”

  “That sounds great,” Mrs. Carew agreed.

  Annabelle and Katie looked at each other and frowned. The girls were getting tired of sitting. Luckily, Annabelle had a better idea.

  “Can Katie and I go see what those artists are drawing?” Annabelle asked.

  “Well ...” Mrs. Bridgeman began slowly.

  “Come on, Mom. It’s just across the street,” Annabelle pleaded.

  “I guess it’s okay,” she said. Then she looked at Katie’s mother. “If it’s fine with you.”

  Mrs. Carew nodded. “Just be careful crossing the street. The people in Paris drive a lot faster than people in Cherrydale.”

  “Oh, I can help her,” Annabelle boasted. “These drivers are nothing compared to the cab drivers in Boston.”

  Katie scowled. She did not need any help crossing the street.

  “And stay where we can see you,” Mr. Carew said.

  “I promise,” Katie agreed.

  “Come on,” Annabelle urged as she leaped up from the table and headed toward the crosswalk. “I want to see how good their paintings are.”

  Apparently, Annabelle did not think the paintings were very good at all. As she and Katie stood behind the artists, watching them work, Annabelle began to laugh.

  “My drawing was better than these,” she said. “These don’t even look like Notre Dame.”

  “Annabelle!” Katie exclaimed. “That’s not very nice.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. They don’t even know what we’re saying,” Annabelle assured Katie. “They speak French, not English, remember?”

  Katie sighed. That didn’t make a difference. “Well, anyway, I don’t think these are supposed to look exactly like the cathedral.”

  “They don’t look anything like it,” Annabelle insisted. “I did better art than this in kindergarten.”

  Katie was really glad the artists didn’t speak English. Their feelings would be hurt if they knew what Annabelle was actually saying.

  The girls moved behind the last artist in the row. He was covered in paint. There were colorful stains on his slacks, shirt, and even his shoes. At the moment he was busy drawing squares and triangles with a charcoal pencil. His hands moved quickly as he sketched.

  “See what I mean?” Annabelle asked her.

  Katie shrugged. “Well, I did draw a lot of shapes in kindergarten,” she agreed. “And some of my pictures looked a little like that.”

  Suddenly, the artist whipped around in his chair. “Do you think I cannot understand you?” he shouted in a thick French accent. “I speak English very well!”

  Katie gasped. Her cheeks turned as red as her hair. “I ... I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t ...”

  “You don’t know anything about art. You are just foolish children. Now go away! Scat, like little cats!” the artist shouted at them.

  Katie did as she was told. Without even waiting for Annabelle, she ran off into a nearby alleyway.

  The alley was filled with wooden vegetable crates. A few rotting cabbages littered the ground. They stunk really badly. They smelled as badly as Pepper did that time a skunk had sprayed him.

  Katie guessed she deserved to be in a stinky alleyway. After all, she and Annabelle had said some pretty mean things about the artist who had been drawing shapes on his canvas. This was sort of like her punishment.

  She sat down on a hard wooden crate. Maybe if she waited here long enough, the artist would leave. Then she could walk back out onto the sidewalk and go across the street to the cafe where her parents were sitting.

  But deep down Katie knew she was going to have to walk out there and see him again. If the artist yelled at her, she would just have to listen. And say she was sorry—again.

  Katie stood up and got ready to walk out of the alley. But before she could take even one step, a cool breeze began to blow.

  Within seconds the breeze grew stronger. Soon it felt more like a wind than a breeze. And not just any wind. This was the magic wind!

  Before Katie knew what was happening, the magic wind was circling wildly around her. Katie grabbed onto one of the crates and held on tight. The tornado was really wild this time. She shut her eyes tight, and tried not to cry.

  And then it stopped. Just like that.

  The magic wind was gone. And so was Katie Carew.

  Chapter 9

  Katie sniffed the air. She didn’t smell any rotten cabbages. Obviously, she wasn’t in the alley anymore.

  So where was she?

  Slowly, Katie opened her eyes and looked around. She could see her parents sitting at
the café across the street, happily enjoying their coffee. She breathed a sigh of relief. At least she hadn’t gone far. Katie didn’t know her way around Paris. It was good to know that her parents were nearby.

  Now Katie knew where she was. But she still didn’t know who she was. Slowly she looked down at her hands. They were large and kind of hairy. They were a man’s hands!

  Okay, she was a man. But what man?

  Maybe her clothes could give her a clue. She was wearing loose-fitting, blue cotton pants. They were stained with different colored paints. So was her white T-shirt. There were little spots of colored paints on her black leather shoes.

  Uh-oh. Katie had turned into a street artist. And not just any artist. Katie had become the artist she and Annabelle had been making fun of!

  She sat there for a minute, staring at the painting and wishing that the magic wind would return and change her back. But deep down she knew that was impossible. The magic wind only came when Katie was alone. Right now she was on a busy street.

  The other artists certainly were painting very quickly. Once in a while they would glance up at the sky and frown.

  Katie followed their glances. The sky was getting pretty dark, and it looked like it was about to rain.

  Uh-oh, Katie thought again.

  The artist sitting beside Katie reached over and took a tube of paint from the box of art supplies beside her easel.

  “Okay, Pierre?” the artist asked Katie in a heavy French accent.

  Well, at least she knew his name. Katie Carew was now Pierre. Unfortunately that was all she knew. She had absolutely no idea how to finish the painting in front of her.

  But if she didn’t finish it, Pierre wouldn’t be able to sell his painting. That was how he made a living. Katie had to try. She owed him at least that much.

  Katie figured Pierre probably had been trying to paint Notre Dame. After all, he’d been staring at the cathedral as he worked. But to Katie, his canvas just looked like a mess of charcoal-pencil triangles, rectangles, and squares.

  Katie decided to begin painting in the shapes. She was pretty sure she could do that. Katie was very good at staying in the lines when she painted. She’d been doing that since first grade.

  She picked up a paintbrush, and looked down at the tubes of paint Pierre had arranged so neatly beside his drawing. Hmmm. Which one should she start with? Finally, she picked up a tube of red paint and squirted a little bit into the center of one of the squares.

  Wow! That was a really bright red. Katie liked it a lot. She began to move the paint around with the brush, filling in the square perfectly.

  Then she picked up another paintbrush and squirted a blob of yellow paint onto the big triangle at the top of the canvas.

  Katie began to relax. Painting was a lot of fun. And as long as her parents and the Bridgemans stayed across the street drinking coffee, Katie didn’t have to worry about being lost or alone in Paris.

  As she colored in a blue square, Katie noticed Annabelle peering out from behind a nearby pole. She obviously didn’t want the artists to see her. She must have felt badly about making fun of Pierre’s painting, just like Katie had.

  The artist sitting next to Katie turned to take a peek at what she was doing on her canvas. Katie leaned back to give him a good look.

  Katie thought her painting was nice. Maybe even better than the ones the real artists had done. Their canvases all were covered with gloomy gray, brown, and black paint. They all looked pretty much the same.

  But Katie’s painting was bright and cheerful—all reds, yellows, greens, and blues. She thought it would make people smile.

  And she was right. The other artists did all smile ... and then they started to laugh. They were making fun of her!

  Katie was really angry. She threw down her paintbrush and jumped up from her chair.

  “You guys are so mean!” she exclaimed.

  The artists all looked at her strangely. They didn’t understand what she was saying. But Annabelle did.

  “You don’t have to get so mad,” she said as she peeked her head out from behind the pole.

  Katie scowled. Annabelle was wrong. She did have a right to be mad. Nobody liked being made fun of.

  But Katie didn’t feel like explaining that to Annabelle right then. All she wanted to do was get out of there. She really needed to be alone.

  Katie stormed off toward the alleyway where she’d hidden before. It smelled just awful. But as far as Katie was concerned, being around stinky cabbages was better than being with Annabelle and the artists!

  Chapter 10

  Katie plopped down on a wooden crate and wiped a tear from her cheek. She had a lot to feel awful about. She’d hurt Pierre’s feelings. And the other artists had laughed at her painting. But worst of all, her parents would soon be finished with lunch. They were going to come looking for her any minute.

  Katie was going to be in big trouble. Her parents had told her to stay where they could see her. But now, when they looked for Katie, all they’d see was an artist with paint-stained shoes.

  And Annabelle was probably wondering where she was, too. After all, Katie had just run off without her.

  Katie really wanted to be herself again. Where was the magic wind when she needed it?

  Just then, Katie felt a familiar breeze blowing on the back of her neck. It grew stronger and stronger, blowing all around Katie like a tornado.

  And then it stopped.

  Katie looked down at her feet. The paint-stained shoes had been replaced by Katie’s red high-top sneakers. And she was back in her own purple cargo pants and pink T-shirt.

  Woohoo! She was Katie Carew!

  Now her parents wouldn’t be angry with her for disappearing. Her big problem was solved!

  That was more than Pierre could say. As Katie peered out from the alleyway, she could see him sitting in his chair. He was staring at the red, green, blue, and yellow canvas. He looked kind of confused ... and very upset.

  Katie felt really bad for him. She really wanted to cheer him up.

  “Oh, I like that,” Katie said, walking over toward Pierre.

  “You, again!” he shouted. “Didn’t I tell you to go away?”

  “But I like your painting,” Katie assured him.

  “It’s not my painting,” he told her.

  “Yes, it is. I saw you working on it,” Annabelle called out from her hiding place behind the pole.

  “I didn’t paint ...” Pierre sighed and shook his head. “Or maybe I did. I don’t know. I can’t really remember.”

  “It’s really different from everyone else’s paintings,” Katie told him.

  “It’s a mess,” Pierre replied. “I don’t know what made me use these colors.”

  “If you don’t like it, why don’t you just get a new canvas and start over?” Annabelle asked him.

  “Canvases are expensive,” Pierre told her. “I have to sell this painting before I can buy the paints and canvas. I will need to do another one.” He sighed. “But I don’t see how I’m going to sell this.”

  His friends obviously didn’t think he would sell it either. They were all pointing at his artwork and laughing.

  Katie really wished she could help him. But how?

  Then, suddenly, she remembered something Ms. Barnes, her art teacher at school, had taught her.

  “Maybe you could add some white or black to a few of the shapes,” she suggested. “Then you’ll have different shades of the colors.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Pierre asked her. “I’m an artist. I know how to change colors. But these are not colors I would want at all. I’m painting Notre Dame. It should be gray and black.”

  “It doesn’t look like Notre Dame,” Annabelle said. “It looks like squares and triangles.”

  Pierre rolled his eyes. “Foolish child. This is abstract art. It’s not supposed to look like Notre Dame. But it is supposed to be dark and gloomy.”

  “Why?” Katie asked him. “Everyone doe
s it that way. I think it’s great that you did something different. Sometimes change can be good.”

  Pierre shrugged. “I suppose,” he said slowly. “It’s worth a try. Maybe I can save this after all.” He put a dab of white paint in the middle of a blue square and began to swirl it around with his paintbrush.

  “Oh, that’s pretty,” Katie said as she watched the bright blue become lighter. It looked just like the color of the sky.

  “It’s not bad,” Pierre agreed. He added a touch of gray paint to Katie’s red triangle. “Not bad at all.”

  Chapter 11

  Katie and Annabelle watched as Pierre finished the painting. He worked quickly, changing the shades of several of the colors. He sketched in a few more shapes and painted them in.

  As Pierre put the finishing strokes on his canvas, the girls’ parents walked across the street.

  “Did you have a good time?” Mr. Carew asked as he came up beside Katie.

  She nodded. “We’re watching Pierre finish his painting of Notre Dame.”

  Pierre looked at her strangely. “How do you know my name?”

  Katie gulped. How was she going to explain this one?

  “It says Pierre right there, on your paint box,” Annabelle pointed out.

  Katie breathed a sigh of relief. Phew. That had been close.

  Mr. Bridgeman looked at the artists’ easels. Most of the men leaned back to give him a better view of their work. Pierre leaned forward. He didn’t want anyone seeing this painting.

  But it was Pierre’s artwork that Mr. Bridgeman focused on the longest. “This is very interesting,” he said. “I haven’t seen anything like it.”

  “Well, it’s not my best work ...” Pierre began.

  “I think it’s fantastic,” Mrs. Bridgeman interrupted him. “It’s just what I was looking for. I need a cheerful painting like this for my new house in Houston.”

  “You use wonderful colors,” Mr. Bridgeman told Pierre. “They’re so bright.”

  “It’s a change for me,” Pierre told the Bridgemans. “And change can be good.” He winked at Katie. Katie winked back.