On the Brink of Paris (4 page)

“Your Mental Pool?” asked Lewis. He still looked a bit worried about bubonic contagion.

“It's a writer thing.” I said.

“Uh-huh,” Lewis said.

“And one of the people I constantly update in my Mental Pool is Lindy Sloane. In case I ever want to write a novel satirizing Hollywood.” Because she certainly wasn't going to make it into my Great Parisian Novel. Lindy Sloane and Paris went together like oil and water. Like chocolate and mayonnaise. Like Not at All.

Lewis stared at me for a while, like he was still trying to decide if helping someone who admittedly had a Mental Pool was ethical or dangerous. After about a minute he hit a few keys on his Sidekick and read from the screen.

“She's gone platinum,” he said.

“Her CD!” I cried, stunned.

“Her hair,” Lewis said. “Platinum blond. They say she
might have also added some extensions.”

Now Lindy Sloane as a platinum blonde was just wrong, wrong, wrong. She had been a redhead forever.

But I waited for Lewis to continue.

“She's missed a few days of work filming
Space Teen
. Her publicist said she had the flu and got dehydrated, but a source close to the film crew says she just ran off without telling anybody.”

I nodded shrewdly, as any person does when a publicist says a star “got the flu.”

“The publicist says she's on location but needs to recover from exhaustion.”

I nodded again.

“That's about all,” Lewis said. “There are some quotes from the
Space Teen
cast saying the usual things: Lindy is the hardest-working girl in Hollywood, she does eat, and she isn't too skinny, she just photographs that way—that kind of stuff.”

“Thanks, Lewis,” I said sincerely. “I guess I came down too hard on your Sidekick.”

I have to say, seeing Lewis in the summer Paris light, outlined with leaves and the elegant buildings of the Place des Vosges in the background, I realized that he looked…even smaller and younger than I'd always thought. He probably wouldn't be a bad-looking guy, in twenty years or so, especially to women of the five-foot-three-and-
under set. But right now he just looked like a very small guy whose eyes and nose were too big for his face. Still, he was trying to be nice to me. And he'd given me the Lindy Sloane update. I wouldn't forget that.

Suddenly Charlotte appeared out of nowhere, looking distraught and out of sorts.

“What's wrong?” I asked quickly. Had she been robbed? Insulted? Had Charlotte been arrested?

“I've checked every shop here, and I can't find
one
that has the latest edition of
The Economist
!” she cried.

“So you'll find it tomorrow,” I said.

Charlotte appeared, at this moment, to turn legitimately white with rage.

“The issue is published TODAY,” she said. “I need to read it TODAY. While the news is still FRESH and CURRENT.”

“There might be an online version,” Lewis said. “Maybe I can access it.”

Charlotte looked at Lewis as if he had just pulled a family of puppies from a burning building. After just a few taps he turned the screen toward Charlotte. From where I was sitting, I could see the red rectangular logo of
The Economist
on the screen.

Charlotte gave a little shriek of delight and instantly began to read.

Paris really has brought out the best in Lewis.

I
have stated More Than Once that I am no Simple Tourist. So you can imagine the shock, the DISMAY I felt when I learned what was on the board for the day. I found out by asking Charlotte, the Information Pack Commando, as we ate our Very Not French breakfast that morning.

“Don't you have your schedule, Lily?” Charlotte asked. “Where's your information pack?”

“I left it in the thingy,” I said casually.

“What thingy?”

“Charlotte, you have yours IN YOUR HAND. It's just a simple question! What are we doing today?”

Charlotte was taking longer than usual to be mollified.

“You should already know,” she said.

Arghhh.

“I did know, Charlotte. But I've FORGOTTEN.”

“Lily, you must become more detail oriented!” Charlotte said, waving her rolled-up copy of the schedule around like a broadsword.

I never could understand why Charlotte, who knew me better than anyone, had never grasped the simple fact that writers are the ONE group of people on earth who should not have to be bothered with things like DETAILS. Had I not just the past year had a job as an Assistant to a Real Writer, dealing with little irritants like crumbs and Post-its? Did this not prove that Real Writers could not deal with these little things themselves? Did Charles Dickens concern himself with printed itineraries and street maps while writing
Oliver Twist
? I think not.

“Can you just tell me where we're going, Charlotte?” I asked meekly.

Charlotte produced one of her vintage sighs.

“Disneyland,” she replied.

“Very funny,” I said. “Where are we going today?”

Charlotte stared at me evenly.

“Disneyland,” she repeated.

It was even less funny the second time.

“Fine. I apologize for not being detail oriented enough and vow to do better in the future. There, I've said it. Okay? Now where are we going?”

“Disneyland Paris.”

O Hammer of Thor! She was SERIOUS! You can't expect a writer to visit Disneyland while in Paris. That was like expecting Mozart to compose while listening to Snoop Doggy Dogg. That was like asking van Gogh to paint under a strobe light. Like wanting the Dalai Lama to meditate while bungee jumping. THERE WOULD BE NO GEMS AND NUGGETS FOR MY MENTAL POOL IN DISNEYLAND PARIS!

“Okay, wait,” I said. “Charlotte, it has to be a mistake. You and I both know our parents didn't cough up the Benjamins for this trip so we could go to Disneyland. This is supposed to be educational.”

“Remember the orientation meeting for this trip?” Charlotte asked.

I feared I was being lured into a trap, but I nodded. I did remember.

“Remember whose dad made the trip possible by getting our group the fifty-eight-percent discount on plane fare?”

“Yeah, it was Bud's dad. Or Chaz's dad. One of them.”

“That's right. And what company does Bud's dad have the special work connection with, that he told us all about?”

Crapstick. I had tried to jettison this information into a Memory Abyss, but now it was bubbling back to the surface.

“Walt Disney,” I mumbled.

“And what did Bud's dad really,
really
want us to do in Paris since we were flying on his discount?”

“Visit Disneyland Paris,” I muttered.

“As his complimentary guests.”

“As his complimentary guests,” I repeated. Okay, in a dog-eat-dog world it made sense. When offered hugely discounted plane tickets, Madame Chavotte and our parents could not very well look a gift horse in the mouth and refuse the additional “offer” of free admission to Disneyland Paris. But surely there would be some kind of loud, unarmed rebellion? Certainly we did not intend to go quietly into that good fright?

“Bonnie? Do you realize we have to go to Disneyland today?” I asked.

Bonnie was gazing dreamily into her mug of green tea.

“Yeah, man, of course! I've always wanted to see Sleeping Beauty's Castle.”

Bonnie, Goddess of the New Age, Channeler of Universal Intent, Communicator with Angels, had always wanted to get closer to…Sleeping Beauty's personal residence?

“Janet?” I asked. She looked up from the Paris guidebook she was immersed in.

“
J'aime bien le
Teacup Ride!” she squealed. “Is it time to go?”

I was outnumbered. I was defeated. Unless I developed a sudden case of appendicitis, à la Madeline, I was going to Disneyland Paris. The Land of the Wee and the Home of the Knave. Realm of the Simple Tourist.

Oh. The Humanity.

 

EVERYTHING YOU EVER WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT
DISNEYLAND PARIS BUT WERE AFRAID TO ASK,
ACCORDING TO LILY M. BLENNERHASSETT:

I dozed off once or twice during the train ride back to Paris. Jet lag, it turns out, has absolutely NOTHING on Disney lag. For someone who'd allegedly spent the entire day in recreational activities, I felt like a swimmer who'd just doggy-paddled across the English Channel. My overfed stomach was pooching out against the waistband of my jeans like I'd swallowed a beach ball. At least Jake wasn't around to see that. My feet throbbed. My eardrums hurt. And I seem to have left my sense of balance back on Space Mountain, because every time I closed my eyes, I felt my head spin.

But I will admit in secret, Dear Readers, that I kind of enjoyed myself.

Janet was chattering away to Bonnie, who was listening with what appeared to me to be a Profound Level of Tolerance. Charlotte had somehow acquired a copy of
The Wall Street Journal
, but she seemed to be finished reading it. At least I assumed that was the reason she was holding the paper on her lap and staring at me for great lengths of time.

“What?” I asked her. “Did I fall asleep again? Oh, God, was I drooling?”

“No drool,” Charlotte replied.

Yay!

“So what's on the books for tomorrow? No wax museums or Hard Rock Cafe, I hope. I can't handle any more
of the Simple Tourist Life. My stomach is about to explode!”

“I worry about you, Lily,” Charlotte said.

There is little worse in life than when your best friend starts channeling your mother.

“Is this about the chili dog and the lollipop? Because I'm really fine now. Honest.”

“I'm serious,” Charlotte said.

Of course she was. Charlotte was always serious.

“Why would you be worried about me?” I asked.

“Because, Lily Blennerhasset, you're scatterbrained. You aren't always going to have a personal assistant to fill you in on what's happening. Your life isn't always going to have easy-to-read instructions printed on the side of the box. Take a little control over the details of your life. You'll need them when you've become a Great Writer.”

“Is that all? Jeez, Charlotte, you scared me for a minute. I thought maybe I had a new nose growing out of the back of my head, or something.”

“It's never too soon to start, Lily. Read a map. Reference a guidebook. Locate your information pack.”

I gave Charlotte my brightest smile. “When I could never possibly improve upon the organizational skills of my best friend, the keen and coolly brilliant Charlotte McGrath, Future Corporate Executive and World Leader, who is always at my side?”

Charlotte just shook her head.

“But that's the thing, Lily. I
won't
always be at your side.”

“Are we talking about college? Because that's YEARS away,” I said. “Besides which, I still think we stand a very good chance of finding a college that offers both a world-class corporate education AND an outstanding creative writing program. We'll be roommates!”

Charlotte smiled.

“That would be cool, Lily. But what if we're not? You have to stop relying on me so much. I don't mean to hurt your feelings, but you
flounder
when I'm not around. Or worse. Remember when I went away to Young Executive Camp last summer? You were on your own for what, three weeks? And what happened?”

Oh, come on. It wasn't THAT bad. There was that little problem with hotel security, true. There was at some point police involvement. And, okay, there was the lawsuit, and the depositions, and the attorneys. Some trouble with inappropriate credit card use. Oh yeah, and a brush with Blennerhasset Bankruptcy and Ruination. But then everything got fixed. Around the time…around the time that Charlotte came home.

It was obviously time for an Abrupt Subject Change.

“I totally forgot to ask how your Unilever stock was doing!” I exclaimed.

Charlotte had purchased some stock with her own money and passionately followed its ups and downs in the newspaper. It was a subject we both knew perfectly well she could not resist discussing. And technically it was a Detail. I had Oriented a Detail.

“Well, actually, I was just reading about that,” Charlotte said, rattling her
Wall Street Journal
for emphasis. “The effect of corn growth on the world market just boggles the mind.”

I listened with enthusiasm, though Charlotte's animated discussion of the impact of rainfall on long-term interest rates was something we both knew I could never even vaguely understand. Instead, I just enjoyed watching Charlotte in her element. I didn't need to be able to understand the stock market to know how smart Charlotte was. I didn't need to know what a pork belly future was to see that Charlotte already knew what she wanted to do in life, that she was going to be aces at it, and that her work would make her happy.

How I admire Charlotte McGrath.

Through the window I could see French things speeding by in a blur. The sun was low in the sky. I realized once again how thoroughly exhausted I was. And absolutely no closer to beginning the Great Parisian Novel. Maybe tomorrow I would find some gems and nuggets. I realized Charlotte hadn't answered my questions about
our upcoming agenda, so I still had no idea where we were going tomorrow. But I certainly wasn't going to ask Charlotte again. She was positively glowing after her analysis of the effect of corn products on Unilever's stock price. Tomorrow would just have to be a surprise. I'd follow everybody like I always do, and when we got where we were going, I'd know where we were.

Really, what could be simpler?