At Your Service

by Jen Malone

  “A parrot,” I call up to Sophie.

  The little girl blushes and rushes back to hide behind her mother’s leg. Sophie smiles and nods once, then closes her eyes and lets loose with a string of whistles that sounds exactly like a parrot. I think. I don’t really know what a parrot sounds like since I’m pretty sure we don’t have those on the Upper West Side, but people are clapping, so it must sound right.

  Holy wow.

  I really thought Walt Disney made all that stuff up when he drew Snow White bustling around the dwarves’ kitchen whistling to the forest animals. But no. Apparently this is some secret princess superpower. What else is true, then? Can she whip up a ball gown from a few scraps of ribbon? Spin straw into gold? Although if that were the case, I guess we wouldn’t need to rely on birdcalls to earn our ferry tickets. We could just set her up with a spinning wheel and stage a raid on the stalls of the horses the policemen ride around Central Park.

  I get a little lost in my fairy-tale fantasies and don’t notice that our hat is filling up with crisp ones. There’s even a five-dollar bill in there! Sophie rocks. Meanwhile, she’s all lit up like the crystal ball that drops in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. She’s actually having fun. Little Miss Perfect has dropped her stiff posture and all her decorum, and she’s having a blast puffing her cheeks in and out and pointing to audience members with requests.

  How weird. But cool. I like this version of Sophie. She catches my eye and winks.

  Winks!

  In about ten minutes our hat is full, and the three of us are giggling like we just met the mayor. Even Lady Liberty steps down off her box and transfers three dollars from her hat to ours. “Well done, ladies.” Before we can answer her, she’s back up and still as a lamppost. For some reason, this makes us giggle even harder.

  I count up the bills. “Twenty-three dollars!”

  Sophie smiles. “Girls, I think we have a ferry to catch.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I force Pay and Sophie to run ahead and grab a spot in the ticket line. It’s already 4:20, and I know what the lines to get on the ferry can be like this time of year. It’s going to take crazy luck to get on the five o’clock boat and, quite frankly, we haven’t had a whole lot of that on our side today. When I catch up to the girls, there are only three groups ahead of us. Sophie looks upset, though.

  “What’s up? Did they close?” I ask, hobbling in next to them.

  “No. But Paisley isn’t coming.”

  I look at Pay and make question marks out of my eyebrows. She just shrugs.

  “I was thinking. I know you have your gut feeling and all, but we need to be practical. Ingrid could be headed back here by now. Your boats could all pass right by each other and then we’d be totally out of leads.”

  She’s completely right. It should have been me insisting on this. Yet another concierge fail on my part.

  The line moves forward by one.

  “I’ll stay,” I offer. Partly because I think I should be the responsible one since it’s kind of my fault we’re in this mess and partly because, even though Sophie and I have been acting fine toward each other the last half hour, we haven’t actually acknowledged any of the words we exchanged on the subway, and I’m afraid if we’re all alone, she’ll go back to being the Ice Princess. Or worse. She might yell at me some more.

  But Pay is shaking her head. “No, it should be me. Sophie, Ingrid’s your sister and chances are good she’ll still be on the island. You should be there for that. And Chloe, you’re in charge of these guys, so you should probably have at least one of them with you at all times.”

  The family in front of us steps up to the ticket window.

  Hmm. She’s right again. As much as I don’t want it to just be me and Sophie without Pay as a buffer, I have to admit, her plan makes the most sense. For the thousandth time today, I wish we had our cell phones on us so we could coordinate these things. Right now I could just call up Alex and ask him if he has Ingrid and, presto bingo, problem solved. Seriously, how did people exist before the digital age?

  The family moves away, and I make a quick decision on behalf of all of us. “Pay’s right. She should stay. We’ll go. C’mon.”

  Sophie gives a miserable shrug, and the three of us step forward to the window. We don’t see anyone inside, but then I realize the person has just bent over. He straightens and catches my eye.

  “Two kids’ tickets, please,” I say.

  “Sorry, girls,” he says into a small microphone clipped to the cash register, as his right hand tucks a small CLOSED sign into the bottom half of the window. Now I can only see him from the nose up. But he can still see my mouth clearly and it is saying:

  A. No.

  B. No, no, no, no, no.

  C. If I was any less polite, there would be a C, and it would be: Are. You. KIDDING. Me?

  This is like walking to school in February and having to go down a half block from the crosswalk to avoid the puddles of slushy, sooty, melting ice puddles and then stepping off the curb only to land in the dog poop someone didn’t scoop and getting sprayed by a taxi driving too close to the side of the road. It’s too much at once. I’m done.

  Tears well in my eyes even as I let loose with a hysterical-sounding giggle.

  I hope this ticket seller is a New Yorker and therefore prepared for anything, because something is going down. Possibly me. I falter on my ankle and grab on to the ledge of the ticket window for balance. This puts me eye to eye with the surprised ticket seller.

  “Please, mister. You have no idea, no idea, what kind of a day we’re having. We have to get on that ferry.”

  He looks so sympathetic that for a second I think he’s going to open his register back up and print us off some tickets. But then he just says, “Look, kid, I’m sorry. We’re sold out.”

  “You’re telling me you can’t find space on one of those ferries for two girls? We’re small. We’ll squeeze. She can sit on my lap.”

  “It’s not that. We’re closed.”

  I sneak a look back at Sophie and Pay, who are watching with defeated looks on their faces. I must look the same, but it hits me how wrong that is. If I really want to make it as a concierge, I need to be better than this. I need to hear no and bounce right back up, already looking for a new angle. Those two might be resigned, but I am Chloe Turner, Junior Concierge, and it’s time to start acting like it.

  I may not have been able to beg money off passersby, I may not have been able to keep my guests in my possession at all times, I may not have even been able to step foot off a subway car with any degree of grace and coordination, but I’ll move to New Jersey before I let a person at a ticket counter keep my guest from doing something she wants to do.

  I swipe the tears from my cheeks before turning back to the window. I square my shoulders and stand as tall as I can on my one good leg. Then I take a deep, calming breath like those people doing tai chi in the park before work, and I look the man directly in the eye.

  “Sir, I recognize you have orders to follow, and I can appreciate that, but I would like a moment of your time. If I had my wallet on me, I would be able to show you my business card and prove to you that I am the junior concierge at the Hotel St. Michèle. Are you familiar with our hotel, sir?”

  The guy looks kind of baffled, but he halfway nods his head.

  “Well, in my capacity as junior concierge I often have the opportunity to escort young guests of the hotel on excursions to the Statue of Liberty. In fact, I’ve been giving some thought to putting together a ‘best of’ tour we could offer as part of our package deals to bring new guests to the hotel. Now, I would be quite happy to include your cruise line in that package, but in order to do so, I need to know you would be able to accommodate my guests under any and all reasonable circumstances. You understand that, right?”

  Another very confused half nod.

  “This could be a lucrative deal for both of us. Our guests have discerning tastes, and I see a real opportunity t
o align our two brands. Of course, in doing so, I’d make sure that you were given substantial credit for helping to bring about this partnership. What is your name?”

  He looks a bit dazzled by all my concierge-speak, which is exactly the goal. “Uh, Richard.”

  “Richard. Very good. So, Richard. What do you say we start off our long and fruitful relationship with a little . . .” I search my brain for the term Alex used earlier with Pay. Got it! “. . . quid pro quo?”

  Richard looks impressed I’m speaking Latin. I have to remember to thank Alex. A fancy way to say “you give me something, and I’ll give you something” is going to come in handy A LOT during life as a concierge.

  Now Richard has an amused smile. “I see. What did you have in mind?” he asks.

  “Well, I was thinking you could sell my friend and me two tickets to the ferry, and I could invite you and a guest to be my guest for a meal at the hotel. Our dinners for two are usually valued at one hundred fifty dollars, so I think you’ll be making out much better in this exchange, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Richard smiles. “Look, kid, I don’t know if you’re feeding me a line right now or not. I can’t really imagine anyone under thirteen working as a concierge, but you know what? You got chutzpah and I like that. I’m gonna sell you those tickets just for ending my day with a chuckle. That’ll be nineteen dollars and sixty cents with tax.”

  My eyes go all wide. I did it. I did it! I remembered who I really am—Capable Chloe, Concierge Extraordinaire—and I at least solved this one problem. Finally, a mini-success.

  I grin and stick my hand behind me. Paisley presses twenty one-dollar bills into my palm. Richard looks a little less jolly at having to count out the money, but he lifts the CLOSED sign out of the way to slide two tickets under the glass.

  “Have fun, kid.”

  I know he doesn’t think I’m telling the truth, but just wait until he gets his voucher for a comped meal at our Michelin-rated restaurantI. He won’t be chuckling then. He’ll be too busy chewing.

  We step away from the ticket window, and I accept Paisley’s high fives and Sophie’s shy thank you. I insist that Paisley take the rest of our money to buy a soft pretzel and a soda while she waits, and then Sophie and I turn and make our way to the security checkpoint.

  The atmosphere changes as soon as Pay is gone, but I can’t tell if it’s hostile or just awkward, and Sophie isn’t giving me any clues. We don’t speak the entire time we’re in line. She does help me navigate the metal detector and hop up the small step onto the ferry. We stake out a spot along the back railing, so we can wave good-bye to Pay as we pull away from the dock.

  After a few quiet minutes of watching Battery Park get smaller and smaller, I can’t take it anymore. Whatever this silence is, I’m determined to make peace. After all, I have my concierge mojo back, she’s my guest, and I owe it to the St. Michèle to make sure she has a pleasant visit, other events of today aside. And, um, if I’m being totally honest about it, Sophie might not have been entirely wrong with the stuff she said about me. Which kills me to admit.

  “So, that birdcall thing was really cool,” I say.

  Sophie hangs over the railing a little to study the wake. Or to avoid looking at me, more likely. “Thanks.”

  She’s quiet again, and for a few seconds I figure that’s all I’m going to get out of her. Until she says, “To be honest, though, I was rather jealous of your and Paisley’s thing.”

  Okay, now she’s just being polite. Polite is better than yelling, but c’mon now. Jealous?

  “But we were terrible.” I know, I know. I wasn’t admitting it before, but I can face facts. It’s pretty doubtful either Pay or I will end up with our names on a Broadway marquee.

  Sophie laughs. “Totally. But you had so much fun doing it together. Well, maybe not today, but I bet you did when you were in the talent show.”

  We had. We’d laughed nonstop the entire time. Hey, maybe that’s why we got fourth place.

  Sophie sighs. “I don’t have any best friends like that. We travel so much with Mother and Father that I have to be homeschooled by a governess, and most of the time it’s just me and Alex and Ingrid together. In the summers I usually stay with my cousins, the countesses, and they’re sort of close to my age, but . . . mostly I’m around grown-ups all day.”

  I definitely feel that. I spend a lot of time in the hotel surrounded by adults. Except I also get to see my friends at school, and a lot of the time I’m doing fun stuff with the guests I’m “concierging,” who are sometimes even my age. And, of course, I have Pay.

  This is crazy. Am I actually feeling sorry for a real-life princess?

  I steal a sideways look at her. “Well, you can hang with Pay and me anytime.”

  She smiles as she rolls and unrolls her ferry ticket. The wind tugs at her hair, and she doesn’t even make any effort to fix it.

  “That would be cool. Maybe we could keep in touch or something.”

  She wants to keep in touch with me? A few hours ago she couldn’t stand the sight of me.

  “Um, I’m sorry I was kind of a pain earlier.” I figure I owe her that. Granted, I had only been trying to be respectful, but I should have picked up on the fact they just wanted to be treated like regular kids.

  “It’s fine. Paisley explained to me about your job responsibilities, and I hadn’t really thought about it like that. You didn’t know any better.”

  But I should have. If I want to be a great concierge, I need to learn to read people. I misjudged Sophie, I didn’t pay enough attention to Ingrid to know how serious she was about the pennies, and I thought Alex was cocky just because he flips his hair a lot. Basically, without my slam books telling me everything I need to know about a guest, I’m not so hot at figuring out what people want. I guess I need to work on that.

  But really, the way I feel now has nothing to do with my wanting to be a great concierge. I want to be nice to Sophie just because I like her and I think she’ll be a fun friend. Plus, you never know when you’ll need help summoning a carrier pigeon.

  “Friends?” I ask, holding out my free hand.

  She grins. “Friends.” But instead of shaking my hand, she throws her arms around me in a giant, very unprincess-like hug.

  * * *

  I. I bet Richard has never tried duck confit. Or sweetbreads. Dad almost got me to try those once because the name made them sound so delicious. Then Chef spilled the beans that sweetbreads are actually an animal’s pancreas. PANCREAS. No. Just no. But maybe Richard will be a fan.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Fifteen minutes later we’re jockeying for exit position as the ferry ties up on Liberty Island.

  You hear stories about how immigrants felt when their boats came into view of the Statue of Liberty and how they got down and kissed the ground when they landed because they knew their dreams could all come true here in America.

  I am totally fine with kissing the ground if we find Ingrid here. That’s the only American dream I have at the moment. I can tell Sophie is feeling the same way, because she’s resumed shredding her ferry ticket and she can’t stop bouncing. Seeing as how I’m holding on to her for balance, it’s not the most comfortable thing.

  “Well, this is it,” I say, and she grimaces in reply. She rises up on tiptoes to try to catch a glimpse onto the island, but the boat is low in the water and there’s a covered dock that is blocking most everything on land from sight.

  We step off the ferry and, I swear, if Sophie were strong enough to carry me, I know she would have tried. I feel like I have a Doberman on a leash, and I’m trying to keep her from racing off without me. What happened to the composed, regal princess from this morning?

  “Do you want to run ahead?” I ask.

  She looks genuinely ashamed. “No, sorry. I’m just really edgy. I’ll slow down.”

  She offers me her arm again, and I use it to help me hop along. We reach the end and step onto a paved pathway. The statue is all majestic-looki
ng off to our right, but we’re both focused on the path to the visitors’ center ahead. A guy on the ferry told us the penny machine is in a big, tented gift shop behind the visitors’ center, and we make a beeline for it.

  I scan left to right the whole way, searching for signs of Alex or Ingrid, but it’s just random tourists. That’s okay. They’re at the penny machine. Just get to the penny machine. I have to believe this. After everything we’ve gone through to get here, it will be too cruel if she isn’t there.

  The white tent comes into view, and Sophie makes a little sound in her throat. I try to hop faster. We enter the gift shop and look around. Right away I spot the machine in the back corner of the shop and point it out to Sophie. I try not to notice there are no kids, royal or otherwise, crowded around it. But I can’t keep a giant lump from forming in my throat. We reach the machine and stop.

  Neither of us makes eye contact with the other, because then we’d have to acknowledge the truth.

  No Alex. No Ingrid.

  I stare at the floor.

  “Looking for someone?”

  I turn so fast that I forget my ankle, and a surge of pain shoots up my leg.

  “Dad?”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chloe. Got anything you’d like to share about your day?”

  Okay, so you know how thirteen-year-olds are way too mature to run crying into their dads’ arms? Well . . . not this one. Granted, I don’t run, because my ankle is throbbing like the injury is brand-new again, so I more like crumple, but I’m only a little embarrassed to say I use his jacket as an oversize tissue. Sophie stands off to the side, watching quietly.

  Dad peels me off his chest and says, “Let me put you girls out of your misery. Princess Ingrid is fine. She and the king are getting a closer peek at the statue right now.”

  Sophie stiffens beside me. “My . . . my father?”

  Dad nods. “We took a helicopter out here about twenty minutes ago. We were just landing when Prince Alex found Princess Ingrid.”