On the Brink of Paris Read Online Free

suitcase, without the neon-pink ribbon around it. This was disappointing. This was a new building. It was concrete, unadorned, unexceptional. How would I find any gems and nuggets for my Mental Pool staying in a building that looked like a plain paper bag?
    â€œRighteous,” said Bonnie, who had a deep appreciation for the humble and understated.
    Charlotte had her nose buried in the information packet and did not comment. Without looking up, she stepped sideways to avoid a ball Chaz had thrown to Bud.
    â€œShouldn’t there be a bellboy or something? Don’t they have those here?” Janet asked, squinting up at the building as the bus driver hurled our suitcases onto the sidewalk with the force of a world-class wrestler.
    â€œNow, now, Janet,” I said severely. “We are in Paree. Do you dare question les Français ?” Because it was one thing for me to question our accommodations. But another thing for Janet to do it.
    â€œIt’s Jah-nay,” she replied, trying not to scowl.
    Madame Chavotte was making a clucking noise, trying to gather us around her. The noise she was making seemed more likely to attract eight chickens than eight almost-ninth graders. Bud and Chaz were still playing catch, but Tim had materialized beside Madame Chavotte silently, like Death wielding his scythe. Lewis ambled over without looking up from his Sidekick. Charlotte took my arm and led me with determination to the group. Sometimes having Charlotte as my best friend is like having a bodyguard/personal manager with an exceptionally high IQ.
    â€œEcoutez, mes enfants,” Madame Chavotte said in her booming voice. It was physically impossible NOT to écoutez to Madame Chavotte when she spoke this loudly. My eardrums were convulsing with the trauma.
    â€œEet ees now”—and she briefly checked her watch—“twelve o’clock, Paree time. For you zees ees six in ze morning, New York time. We must dispense wiz ze jet lag immédiatement because starting tomorrow, our schedule ees very beezee. Ze concierge will direct boys to boys’ dormitory and girls to girls’ dormitory, and you will pliz nap or rest quietly until dinner.”
    Dormitory?
    DORMITORY?
    â€œDormitory?” I asked. “I need to be able to describe the life of quiet elegance, exquisite simplicity, and unquestionably good taste. How am I going to find that in a dormitory?”
    But Madame Chavotte was already sweeping throughthe door, waving at us to follow.
    I turned pleadingly to Charlotte as we walked inside.
    â€œDormitory?”
    Charlotte shrugged.
    â€œLily, this isn’t a Lizzie McGuire movie; it’s real life. We’re fourteen. We don’t get four-star accommodations.”
    â€œIt’s cool,” said Bonnie, staring up at the giant tan suitcase with her pale-blue eyes. “It’s like a youth hostel, man.”
    A youth hostile? That sounded to me like an angry, mean place to be avoided.
    The lobby, if that’s what you called it (Janet was temporarily without a Francophile contribution), was dark, especially after we’d been standing in the bright August sun. I could see a small man scurrying around, discharging rapid bursts of French in Madame Chavotte’s direction. Our luggage had already been whisked away by a slightly larger man.
    â€œPour les filles, deuxième étage; pour les garçons, troisième étage,” the concierge was saying.
    I was momentarily thunderstruck. I HAD UNDERSTOOD HIM!
    â€œGirls, second floor; boys, third floor!” I shrieked excitedly, as if I’d just answered the Daily Double on Jeopardy . “Girls, second floor; boys, third floor!”
    Our group was trooping dutifully up the staircase. Noone was responding with the astonishment I had expected following my remarkable translation of the concierge’s directions. But it didn’t matter. I was just grateful we were on the second floor. That meant only