by Jen Malone
Here we goooooooo. . . .
“Meetch-ell, my good man. ’Ow have you bean?” His French accent always cracks me up. He doesn’t wait for Dad to answer before blustering on. “Sorry for zee short no-teece.” (Yeah, right.) “It eez Mademoiselle Marie’s ninezzz bearzday zees monzzz—can you beleeve eet?—and we ’ave already ’ad parties een Pariz and a zleepover for ’er zeventy-two cloze-eest friendz on zee yacht in zee South of Franz. But, when I ask ma petite princesse what she wantz her next prezent to be, do you know what she ask for? Do you?”
Hmm . . . a pink chimpanzee with a diamond collar to fetch her bonbons and café au laits?
Once again he continues talking before my father’s lips have even had time to part. “Well, Meetch-ell, I shall tell you. She zaid, ‘Papa, I want zee bezt bearzday week ever . . . in New York Zity.’ Of course, we hopped right on our plane and ’ere we are.”
Did he just say WEEK??!!!
Dad swallows visibly. He fixes his smile into place and says, “Of course, sir. I’m at your service.”
Oh, this is gonna be interesting.
* * *
I. Speaking of Eloise, she might have thought the Plaza was the only hotel in New York City that let you have a turtle, but she was so, so wrong. We’ve totally had turtles here. And dogs, cats, ferrets, hamsters, teapot pigs, goats (once), and chinchillas. Pretty much the only New York City animal you will not ever find in the St. Michèle is a rat.
Chapter Three
It’s Day Three of the French Invasion and things are not looking up.
Way late last night I overheard Dad on the phone in his bedroom, trying to assure Monsieur LaFou that he would do everything in his power to please young Marie, but could they at least agree that a unicorn would be quite impossible to track down, given the fact that unicorns DO NOT ACTUALLY EXIST.
Like I said before, if it exists, Dad can get it.
Poor Dad. He so doesn’t deserve this. He should get a special award at the next Les Clefs d’Or conference. They’re this super-elite organization for concierges, and you have to be the best of the best to wear their golden-key membership pin. Some day . . .
Anyway, I’ve been trying to help by staying out of Dad’s way as much as possible, which really isn’t so much a problem for me. It’s not hard to stay entertained at the St. Michèle.
After school I toss my backpack on my bed and swap out my school uniform for a black (hello, I’m a New Yorker, and black is practically a residency requirement) peasant blouse and black (native New Yorker here) trouser pants. I straighten my glasses, then add a black fine-tip pen to my purse, which I sling across my chest so it rests flat against my hip. Professional, yet ready for any task, exactly like a hotel staffer should look.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I head immediately down to the loading docks, where there’s bound to be some action. Right away I spot Mercy from Housekeeping. She’s busy stacking case upon case of Coke cans onto a rolling luggage cart.
“What’s all this?” I ask.
“We’ve got a whole slew of Coca-Cola people staying here tomorrow for their annual sales meeting. I’m going to swap out all the Pepsi cans in the minibars of their rooms with these Coke cans. Wanna help?”
Voilà! Afternoon solved. Mercy wears a little radio clipped to her waistband, and whenever she’s not in earshot of any guests, she cranks it up and we sing along. Really, really badly. I double adore hanging with Mercy.
Everything is perfect until, in the middle of us taking advantage of a deserted hallway to add in some choreographed dance moves, Mr. Whilpers rounds the corner. Mr. Whilpers is my evil nemesis, a.k.a. the hotel manager, a.k.a. the boss of everyone in the hotel (except for the owner). He has a handlebar mustache (yes, for real) that he spends all day smoothing and combing. Although he should be paying more attention to his eyebrows, because they’re fuzzier than the roller on the shoe-shine machine in our lobby. His face is usually all puffy with importance and blotchy red, but when he spots me, he turns an even deeper shade, like a turnip.
This is because he hates me. Not just me, but all kids. Well, but most especially me, because my dad’s super-duper negotiating skills scored us the apartment that should have gone to Mr. Whilpers, and now he has to take the subway home to Queens every night.
“Chloe Turner! What have I told you about disturbing the staff during work hours?”
“Um, not to do it?” I offer.
“Precisely. And yet, you somehow manage to get underfoot everywhere I look. Care to explain?”
“Well, Mr. Whimpers—er, Whilpers—um, sir . . . I was assisting Mercy with her workload, and because of my help she managed to finish so far ahead of schedule we determined she had a few spare minutes to work in a bit of exercise. Knowing how important the physical health of your employees is to you, of course, sir, I never imagined this would be something you could possibly object to.”
Mr. Whilpers closes his eyes while he takes a very, very deep breath (which gives Mercy the opportunity to fist-bump me). Then he exhales so forcefully his mustache blows up from the breeze.
“I would encourage my staff to address their workout sessions in private spaces and, preferably, on their own time. As for you, Chloe, I think you could find somewhere else to be, yes?”
I salute him (mostly because I know he HATES when I do that) and wave a cheery good-bye to Mercy.
It’s fine. I’m starting to lose my voice from the singing, and, after staring at all that candy in the minibars, my stomach is rumbling. I head to the employee cafeteria and wolf down an early dinner of lasagna, join a quick game of gin rummy with two doormen on a break, and then swing by the lobby. I don’t want to bother Dad, but I do want to check in, in case maybe he needs my help after all.
Dad is frowning at the phone and saying a whole lot of “Yes, sir.” And “I understand perfectly, sir.” And “I do apologize, sir.”
Three guesses who Dad is talking to.
“Monsieur LaFooey?” I ask when Dad hangs up.
“Don’t ever let Monsieur LaFou hear you call him that! But . . . yes.” Dad’s shoulders slump underneath his fancy suit.
“Lemme guess. Pool too cold? Too hot? Shower pressure too high? Too low? Bed too hard? Too soft? Room too loud? Too drafty? Too blue? Not blue enough?”
“Yes, to all of those things. But this time it was about Marie. She’s still not happy with her birthday week activities. And the thing is, I’ve exhausted most of my contacts getting her the best tables for lunch and dinner at the finest restaurants, the swankiest tickets to the opera, and even a tour of MoMA led by the in-house restoration artist. Nothing pleases that girl.”
“No offense, Dad, but kids aren’t just miniature adults. She’d probably rather admire Kit or MacKenzie or one of the other American Girls instead of a Warhol at MoMA.”
“I always see kids at the Museum of Modern Art!”
“Well, yeah, but do they look happy . . . or tortured? I mean, I’m sure some kids love the art museum. I actually didn’t mind it that much on our last school field trip. But Marie seems like she’d be a little more wrapped up in shopping. What about Nintendo World in Rockefeller Center? There’s a LEGO store there too.”
“I didn’t start this gig yesterday, Chlo. I’ve sent her to those spots already. I know she’s a LaFou, but I’m not so sure she likes to shop. Her parents own the biggest department store in Paris, so maybe she gets to do enough of that at home? I never thought I’d say this, but this girl just may have bested me. I’m at the end of my rope here.”
Huh. Dad at the end of his rope? I didn’t think his particular rope had an end. Then again . . . My brain begins to whir. Maybe this could be exactly the opening I’ve been looking for to take my own concierge dreams to the next level.
“Um, Daddy?” I give him my sweetest, dimpled smile. “What if I gave it a try?”
“Hmm?” Dad is only half listening, drumming his fingers on the podium.
“What if I came up with an itinerary fo
r Marie?”
Dad looks up, his eyebrows high. “Sweets, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. It’s not that I don’t trust you to handle yourself professionally. Everything you did with that wedding last weekend sure proved it. In all honestly, if it were anyone other than the LaFous . . .”
“Please, Dad, I know I could do it.” I bounce a little on my toes and pull my glasses down the bridge of my nose, so he can see the longing, er, the sincerity in my eyes.
“I . . .”
“Oh, Dad, pleeeeeeeeeease?”
“How about this? Why don’t you come up with some ideas and we’ll go from there, okay? But just ideas, nothing more. Hear me?”
“Thank you, Daddy. Thankyouthankyouthankyou! You won’t be sorry!”
Um, I’m pretty sure.
Chapter Four
I leave before Dad has time to reconsider, and settle myself into the wooden-benched phone booth outside of the ladies’ lounge. Barely anyone uses a pay phone these days, so it’s the perfect thinking spot.
Okay. Ideas.
Ideas, ideas, ideas.
How do I find out what Marie likes without Dad getting upset that I’m meddling?
I scroll through my mental images of Marie from past visits. There was the time she was six, when they came for Christmas. That was the year she crashed into Patrick from Room Service as he was making his way down the hallway with a glass of red wine he was delivering. When they collided, the wine spilled all over Marie’s white poufy dress, and she screamed so loudly that more than one guest called 911 from his room. Then her parents threatened to sue the hotel for serving their underage daughter alcohol, since some wine inadvertently landed in her mouth as she screeched. Even three years later the hotel puts Patrick on paid leave the minute the LaFous check in.
So, nothing with any potential spill factor involved.
There was the time she was seven and insisted she could only sleep in a loft, and the hotel had to send Terrence from Maintenance to construct a temporary bunk six feet off the ground.
That was special.
Last year, when she was eight, she requested a dolphin be flown in to swim with her in the hotel pool. But we eventually got out of that one because the Board of Health wouldn’t permit it.
Okay, she likes screeching, sleeping up high, and swimming with marine animals. This isn’t exactly giving me much to go on. What I need is a little recon. How can I get Marie to give me the goods without letting her in on my plans and making Dad upset that I started working the job without his okay?
I need a more comfortable thinking spot, so I take the elevator up to the third floor and head back to my apartment.
You know that expression “Home is where the heart is”? Well, in my case, it actually is. Like, literally. Any part of the hotel that guests don’t see is called the heart of the house. I live in the manager’s quarters, just behind the sales offices. It might not be as sparkly as the guests’ rooms, but it’s way, way cozier.
Our apartment is really three hotel rooms linked together. One is our living room, with a kitchenette. We eat most of our meals in the employee cafeteria, so we don’t need much in the way of cooking gear. Then Dad has one bedroom and I have the other. Dad’s is still decorated with the same boring boat paintings and silk drapes as every other room in this place, but he let me get a little more creative with mine. He even traded Rolling Stones concert tickets a guest changed his mind about to Terrence in exchange for him painting my room lamplight yellow.
I sprawl out on my patchwork quilt and push play on my iPod. Mom got me hooked on coffeehouse acoustic covers when I was little, and even though it’s fun to listen to the more upbeat stuff with my friends (and Mercy), I hardly ever listen to anything else when I’m alone now. It makes me feel like Mom’s still around, when really all I have left of her is—
Wait a minute!
I jump down and drop to my knees. Sticking my head under the dust ruffle, I stretch my arm out and grab a box from underneath my bed. I flip the top off and rifle through it until I find what I’m looking for. Voilà: Mom’s slam book.
When Mom was my age, she and her friends had a notebook they passed around. Along the top of every page was a question: How old are you? What’s your favorite color? What’s your favorite movie? Have you ever kissed a boy? And then under each question on each page was a list of numbers.
How it worked was that you gave it to your friends and assigned them a number. Then the whole way through the book, they answered every question on the number line they were assigned. In her book, Mom was number one (duh, since it was her book). By flipping the pages and reading all the answers under the number one, I can tell you that twelve-year-old Mom loved the color red but hated beets. Her favorite movie was Grease 2, and her favorite book was Anne of Green Gables. Her favorite song was Rob Base and DJ E-Z Rock’s “It Takes Two.” And, unlike me, she’d already kissed one boy: Scott Bell. But then she must have been embarrassed about it, because she crossed out his name a bunch of times, so it was really hard to read.
This could be the perfect way to learn everything I need to about Marie without her getting suspicious. Like a survey, only better.
Now for some supplies and major backup, in the form of my best friend, Paisley.
I send her a quick text, wait for the reply, then race down to the lobby. I force myself to slow once I come into sight of the concierge podium.
I’m casual. I’m breezy. Nothing special going on here.
“Hi, Dad. So . . . you know how tomorrow’s a half day at school?”
“Hmm? Oh, okay. I have to work at two o’clock tomorrow, sweets. Sorry.”
“No problem. But I was just thinking. Yes, tonight’s a school night, but not technically a school night since nothing critical ever happens on a half day. So it’s like a quasi school night, ya know?”
Dad nods his head at a guest walking by. “Enjoy your afternoon, sir.” He continues to keep eagle eyes out for guests as he rests his hands on his podium. “Where are you going with this, Chlo?”
“Can Paisley spend the night? Pleeeeeease, Dad? I have a great idea for this thing with Marie and I really need Pay’s help.”
Dad sighs. I know him well enough; sighs like that equal S-U-C-C-E-S-S. “Thank you, Daddy!”
I bounce away from him and head straight to the check-in desk. There aren’t any guests waiting, so I step up to the counter and prop my elbows on it.
“Hey, Annalise. Have the rooms been flippedI yet?”
“Hey, Chloe. What’s shaking? We’re all flipped except for the ones we’re leaving dropped tonight,” she answers. This is exactly what I was hoping she’d say. When hotels aren’t sold out, they sometimes skip (or drop) cleaning rooms so they can have fewer maids on a shift.
“Can I have one?” I ask.
“Sleepover time?” Annalise knows me well. I nod.
“Need adjoining rooms? How many girls are you having this time?” I’m pretty famous at school for my sleepovers, and I’ve hosted some epic ones for my friends. When we had a cancellation last summer, Dad even let us use the penthouse so we could have an outdoor sleepover on the ginormous balcony, and he sent the piano player from our lounge to serenade us on the baby grand up there.
“Just one. A room with a king bed will be perfect.”
Annalise types away on her computer, then hands me a stack of key cards. “These rooms are all empty. Check ’em out, see which one is cleanest, and let me know which one you pick, okay?”
I squeal my thanks and zoom back to the elevators. I’ve spent a ton of time helping Mercy and my other friends in Housekeeping turn rooms, and I can flip a suite in no time flat. I veto the first one because it smells like pizza, but the next one I check looks like it was barely slept in the night before. I bump into Mercy in the housekeeping closet, and with her help the bed is changed, the towels swapped out, and the room vacuumed in less than fifteen minutes. She even volunteers to do the toilet and the bathtub since I’d helped her with the
Coke cans.
I return to the lobby, hand the rest of the key cards back to Annalise, and let Dad know I’m headed out to the Duane Reade drugstore on the corner to buy a new composition notebook and more colored pens. Then I return to my apartment, grab my pj’s and toiletries bag, and text Paisley our room number.
Ten minutes later I meet her in our own private hotel room.
“Unless there’s something really awesome on the in-room movie selection this time, I brought entertainment.”
She holds up a stack of DVDs, all musicals. Pay and I are total Broadway-baby wannabes, even though neither of us can sing a note on key.
“Movie marathon!” I squeal. “I totally have a project for us later, but should we hot tub first or sauna?”
Sleepovers are the best. Sleepovers when you live in a hotel? Best of the best.
We hit the hot tub and sauna in the spa, then head back to our room, put on the giant fluffy robes, and order room service dinner. Chef surprises us by sending up a make-your-own-ice-cream-sundae cart for dessert. When we finally settle down on the edge of the giant Jacuzzi bathtub, with our feet in gurgling water, we’re ready to get started on my slam book idea.
“I love this! We should totally do one for school, too. Don’t you think it would be fun to see everyone’s answers?” Pay asks. “I’m dying to know who Lily is crushing on. Everyone says Tyler, but I swear she likes Miles.”
“One step ahead of you. I bought two notebooks.” I hold up the spare and Pay smiles.
“Always prepared, Chlo.”
I smile back. “That’s sort of my thing, right?”
We spend the next half hour switching up pen colors and trying to alter our handwriting so we can create an authentic-looking fake slam book for Marie. When we finish, it’s a masterpiece, if we do say so ourselves.
“This is perfect. It has to work,” Pay says.
“I know. I’m so excited I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep. Do you think we should try to do it tonight?”
