“Whatever. And Janine?”
“Yes?”
“You’re doing a fine job. Except when you yell at me.”
Janine gave me a wide smile. “I guess we can’t all be perfect.”
I raced out of the hotel. Mallory was right behind me. We both nearly tripped over suitcases. A few early birds were already waiting for our tour bus.
“Tanishaaaaa!” I screamed.
Tanisha threw her arms around me. “I’m so glad you’re still here!”
“What — why — ?” Behind her stood several members of the Dance NY company. Grinning at me.
Clarissa Jones was among them, her leg in a cast. So was Yolanda Gordon, her understudy.
And in the midst of them was David Brailsford.
“I called the hotel yesterday,” Tanisha said. “You were out, but the reception guy said you were all leaving for France, so we came to say good-bye!”
“And to give you this,” Mr. Brailsford said. He held up a pair of golden ballet shoes, mounted on a platform. “For services rendered above and beyond the call of duty.”
“For me?” My eyes misted up.
The hotel dining room was emptying. I guess people had seen us, because they started to come outside. I could see Abby, Kristy, Stacey, and Mal, all smiling proudly.
I’m not sure who started applauding. I think it was Kristy. But before long the whole group had joined in.
This felt as good as my curtain call at the Barbican.
Well, almost.
“Thanks, guys,” I said.
“Congratulations, Jessi!” shouted Ms. Post from the hotel door. “But let’s keep in mind that the bus arrives in ten minutes!”
Ten?
Kids were rushing inside. I should have gone with them. But I was bursting with questions. “How did the other performances go?”
“Yolanda was fine by the next day,” Tanisha replied. “And Clarissa should recover by September. Now go, before you miss the bus!”
“Okay! ‘Bye!” I shouted. “I’ll miss you!”
“Hope to see you soon!” Mr. Brailsford called out.
“Me too!” I replied.
I meant it. I hoped he did too.
I dashed to my room with Mallory. I threw the rest of my stuff into my suitcase, neatly tucking in my statuette.
Minutes later, Mallory and I were loading our luggage into the cargo area of the bus, along with Kristy, Abby, and Stacey.
“Is there room in here for mine?” asked Michel from behind us.
“No,” Kristy lied.
“Heyyyy, I can take a hint,” Michel said, turning away. “I just thought you might need a translator when we reach France. Suit yourself.”
“We’re not taking the bus to France,” Kristy said. “Just to Victoria Station. We’re catching a train that goes through the Chunnel.”
“For you and me, Kristy,” Michel said over his shoulder, “it will be the Chunnel of Love.”
“Oooooooh,” someone cried out.
Kids were giggling. Kristy’s face was bright red.
“Hmmmm, I guess we know how he really feels,” Stacey said.
“He’s doing that to embarrass me, and you know it!” Kristy retorted.
She climbed into the bus, and the rest of us followed. Except for Abby. She was by the newspaper machines, feeding in coins and pulling out papers.
Just then Ms. McGill came running out of the hotel. “Stacey, did you pack your medicine?”
Stacey peered out of the bus door. “Yes, Mom.”
“The outfits I lent you?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“The ashes?”
Stacey’s face flushed. “Mo-om! Do you have to say it so loud?”
“Stacey, please give me an answer. I have a lot to do. If I don’t find Mr. Dougherty right now, we’re not going anywhere!”
“Oh, groan,” Stacey said. “Not again.”
“He’s at Virginia Woolf’s house!” Mallory blurted out.
“What’s he doing there?” Boy, was Ms. McGill angry. “Virginia Woolf is dead!”
“At breakfast he told us it was the one literary place he missed,” Mal explained. “He said he’d be back by now.”
Muttering to herself, Ms. McGill stomped back into the hotel.
The two Berger chaperones were already on board.
Mr. LaVigne was standing near the bus driver. “We’ll give him fifteen minutes. If he doesn’t show, he’ll have to book passage himself.”
Mal and I found seats near the front, just as Abby bustled in. She held a newspaper open in front of her. “Look! I was right there!”
She showed us a photograph — several stiff-looking people in stiff-looking clothes, smiling stiffly at the camera.
“That’s the royal family,” Mallory said. “Where are you?”
“There.” Abby pointed to a spot in the middle of a column of newsprint to the right of the photo. “Just out of sight.”
“Where’s the shot of you attacking the Prince?” Stacey asked.
“I’ll get it somehow,” Abby said. “You’ll see.”
The next few minutes were wild. First Mr. Dougherty came huffing and puffing onto the bus, apologizing like crazy. Then Stacey ran off the bus to find her mom. Then Ms. McGill came back, and Kristy had to go find Stacey.
We managed to pull away with everyone. But we cut it very close at the train station.
Ms. Post and Mr. LaVigne were freaking out. They thought we’d forfeit our tickets. You never saw a group of kids rush through a station and board a train so fast.
And what a train — a high-speed special that travels straight from London to Paris in three hours. Mal and I found seats together, directly in front of two Berger girls.
“You’re the girl David Brailsford was fussing about?” one of them asked.
“You knew that was David Brailsford?” I said. That was impressive. Not too many kids would recognize him.
“I take dance class,” said one of the girls, who had dark brown hair and a friendly smile. “My name’s Katheryn Giberson.”
“Jessica Ramsey.”
“How do you know him? Why did he give you that award?”
Got an hour? I wanted to ask.
I could see that Mallory was already busy writing her story, in a world of her own. Across the aisle, Abby was leafing through the newspapers, and Stacey was reading her World War II book. Kristy was staring out the window, looking glum. Robert was sitting near the back of the train, sharing a laugh with Pete Black. Mrs. McGill and Mr. Dougherty were in a deep, heated discussion.
I turned to face Katheryn. She looked so eager.
Oh, well. It was going to be a long trip, my friends were busy, and I had lots to tell.
“Let’s see,” I said. “It started last December….”
“You must be Stacey. Am I ever glad to see you.”
He was standing in the doorway of Mom’s hotel room. He was old — white-haired and wrinkled — but tall and strong-looking.
Mom grabbed the doorknob and opened the door all the way. “Come in, Mr. Anderson. I’m Maureen McGill. We’re so sorry you had to go through this trip without your suitcase!”
“Well, I needed to buy some new clothes anyway,” Mr. Anderson said with a chuckle. “Haven’t done any shopping since my wife passed away.”
It was Sunday. Mom had not taken the Concorde home. In fact, she had the day off from official chaperone duties. (Yup. She’d made Mr. Dougherty feel so guilty on the train, he had insisted on it.) This put her in a good mood for the first time since the trip began.
I was fresh and well-rested too. I adored Paris. We hadn’t seen much of it — just a walk along the River Seine, dinner at a bistro, and an early night at the hotel — but I was totally, totally in love. Our hotel was brand-new, and every room had a balcony with a view of the Eiffel Tower.
I was looking forward to our meeting with Mr. Anderson. I wanted to ask him a million questions about World War II.
Wel
l, maybe a dozen. Frankly, I couldn’t wait to hand over those ashes and go sightseeing.
Mom’s hotel room was a suite with a bedroom, a sitting room, and a small kitchen. Mom was busily setting out tea and pastries, which room service had sent up. I followed Mr. Anderson into the sitting room.
I noticed that he limped.
“I’ll get your suitcase,” Mom said.
I beat her to it.
Mr. Anderson opened the suitcase and lifted out the container of ashes. “Thought you’d lose me, eh, old buddy?” he said with a smile.
He was talking to the can. Très weird.
“You must be relieved,” Mom said. “I know how important this is to you.”
“I wasn’t worried,” Mr. Anderson said confidently. “If Dennis and I could make it through D-Day at Omaha Beach, we could survive a little luggage mix-up.”
I thought about the pictures I had seen of D-Day. The men trudging through the sea with full battle gear. Warships rocking on the water, planes buzzing overhead.
“So … you were in that?” I asked.
“Hard to believe this feeble old guy could invade France, eh?” Mr. Anderson burst out laughing.
Open mouth, insert foot.
I felt myself turning red. “I meant, it must have been awful. Were you hurt?”
“Nahh, not too bad,” Mr. Anderson said. “Dennis and I were lucky. Some of our pals weren’t. The invasion didn’t go as well as planned, you know. Terrible weather, choppy and treacherous water. Thousands of us had to jump off the troopships in water up to our necks, loaded down with weapons and supplies. The Germans had planted mines. There were craters underwater, from bombs that had fallen. If you stepped in one of those, down you went. For good. Tanks and trucks and jeeps were sticking out of the water, half sunk, their crews trapped inside.”
“Thank goodness you made it to shore,” Mom said.
“It wasn’t much better there,” Mr. Anderson said softly. “Gunners were shooting at us from the beach. And if you survived that, well, then all you had to do was sweep across a continent and win a war on enemy territory.”
He gave a weary, hollow laugh.
I tried to imagine what he had looked like back then. As a young man in a uniform. Dodging enemy fire.
It was impossible.
But he was here to revisit Normandy. Surely he must have brought some mementos.
“Mr. Anderson,” I said, “do you have pictures? Of you and your friend, from the war?”
Mr. Anderson reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black-and-white photo, worn and yellowed at the edges.
It was a faded image of two men — one blond, with a wide grin; the other dark-haired and movie-star handsome. The blond guy was holding hands with a young woman who looked elated.
“The good-looking guy is Dennis,” Mr. Anderson said with a sad smile. “But I’m the one with the beautiful young woman. We were married for fifty-three years before she passed away.”
“She’s lovely,” Mom said.
“This picture was taken at the liberation of Paris, eighty days after Normandy,” Mr. Anderson went on. “You know, a lot of the city looks just the same now as it did then.”
“In all these years, you haven’t come back?” I asked.
“Dennis and I always said we’d make it back to the beach someday,” Mr. Anderson said, putting the photo away. “I guess we’re finally doing it. I never thought it would be like this, though.”
An awkward silence filled the room.
Finally Mr. Anderson stood up. “I don’t want to delay your plans, and I have a long trip ahead of me. Don’t know how long it takes to get to Normandy these days. I imagine three hours or so.”
“Can I come along?”
The words just jumped out of my mouth. I hadn’t even been thinking about that.
Mom looked at me as if she were afraid I’d lost my mind.
Mr. Anderson seemed pretty surprised too. “Well, I sure wouldn’t mind the company.”
“Anastasia McGill,” Mom said, raising a skeptical eyebrow, “you want to give up a day of Paris in order to go to Normandy?”
“I’ll have plenty of time in Paris. This is important!” It really was. I’d never been so sure of myself.
Mr. Anderson was smiling at Mom. “Of course, I hope that Ms. McGill would come too.”
Oh, sure.
Fat chance.
I was kissing the trip good-bye.
Mom took a deep breath. “I’ll call Mr. Dougherty,” she said. “If he knows I won’t be around, he’ll definitely live up to his promise.”
* * *
The ride in Mr. Anderson’s rented car took exactly three hours. We knew we were close when signs pointed to “The D-Day Beaches at Normandy: Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno, and Sword.” Each beach seemed to have its own monument and museum.
And cars and buses were clogging the access road.
My heart sank. Was this a tourist trap?
But Mr. Anderson followed another sign, to the American cemetery outside Omaha Beach. We stopped to walk inside.
The breath caught in my throat. Nine thousand graves stretched almost to the horizon in perfect lines.
“So many young men,” Mom said softly.
“This is less than half of the American deaths during the invasion,” Mr. Anderson whispered.
We passed silently among the graves. Mr. Anderson’s eyes scanned the names, as if he were looking for friends. He clutched the canister of ashes tightly.
Afterward we walked to the beach itself. The sand was full of tourists, snapping photos and chatting.
Mr. Anderson moved ahead of us, always looking out to sea.
“Stacey.” My mom touched my arm.
We both stopped walking.
Mr. Anderson was heading for a section of the beach diagonally to our right. I don’t know if he had recognized the place where he and Dennis had landed, or if it was just a quiet, fairly private spot.
Whatever the reason, he stood there a long time without moving.
Then he carefully took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pants, and walked into the water.
He must have walked a hundred yards, but when he stopped, the water was only up to his knees.
At that distance, I couldn’t see what he was doing.
But when he trudged back, the canister was open.
And empty.
“What do you mean, small potatoes?” Michel whined. “It is the largest art museum in the world!”
I hated his accent. I hated the way he always contradicted me. I hated his clothes and his cologne.
But most of all I hated the fact that he would not leave me alone. I couldn’t even enjoy the Louvre museum without him tagging along.
“Hey, Stacey has taken me to the Met in New York,” I said. “I just happen to think it’s a cooler place. Okay?”
“You are impossible!” Michel said. “We have seen the Mona Lisa —”
“Boring face, bad colors —”
“The Venus de Milo —”
“No arms! What a gyp.”
“And all that incredible Etruscan pottery —”
“What’s an Etrusc, anyway?”
The truth? The Louvre was great. Unbelievably awesome. But I couldn’t admit that to Michel the Pest.
“I am leaving,” Michel declared. “You are hopeless.”
“Good riddance!”
He went to the left. I went to the right.
I saw a crowd in front of me. But not one familiar face. I walked farther and looked around the next corner.
Nothing.
I ran back to where I’d left Michel. Michel was wandering around, looking lost.
“Where’s everybody else?” I asked.
“I was hoping you’d know,” Michel said.
“Great, Michel. Just great. We’re lost.”
Michel glanced at his watch. “Let’s go outside and wait for them.”
“Which entrance? This place is humongous!” I tho
ught for a moment. “I know! We came here by subway — Métro — whatever they call it. They’ll have to go back to the station. We can wait there.”
“Fine.”
We ran out the nearest exit. The station was easy to find. It looks like a miniature museum itself.
We must have waited for an hour — way past the time the group was supposed to leave. Michel kept trying to make jokes, but I didn’t say a word to him. I didn’t even look at him.
Then I heard horrible screeching noises. I thought a cat was being tortured nearby.
I turned to see Michel playing his harmonica.
“What are you doing?” I said.
Clink! went a coin that someone had thrown to him.
Michel grinned. “If we stay here long enough, we can earn our own plane fare back.”
“You think this is funny, don’t you?” I said. “We are lost in a foreign city, Michel! Mr. D is probably calling the police. He’s going to have to stop the tour. See what you’ve done? You’ve ruined this vacation for everyone!”
“Are you saying this is my fault?”
“Yes! If you hadn’t distracted me in the museum, this wouldn’t have happened!”
“You were provoking me!”
“I was not!”
“You were too!”
“Look,” I said. “We’re wasting time here. We have to do something.”
Michel shrugged. “Wasn’t there a Plan B, in case we got lost?”
I thought back to a little speech our chaperones had given us at the hotel. “Right,” I said to Michel, “in case we separate from the group, we should meet at the Eiffel Tower at five o’clock. But that’s four hours from now!”
Michel was marching straight for a pay phone. Before I could say anything, he was madly tapping out a number and speaking French to someone at the other end.
Then a second number and more French. “C’est tout!” he announced as he finally hung up. “I found out the number of the hotel. Then I called the hotel and left a message that you and I were going to follow Plan B.”
“And what are we supposed to do until five o’clock?”
Michel grinned. “A beautiful day. Paris. Four hours of freedom. You. Me. We’ll think of something.”
* * *
Trapped. Tricked.
I couldn’t go off by myself. I’m not stupid.
Baby-Sitters' European Vacation Page 9
