On the Brink of Paris Read Online Free Page A

one flight of stairs. Because to be brutally honest (which is what writers must be), I could possibly stand to get in a little better shape. I could, perhaps, benefit from some close personal interaction with a treadmill. You get my drift.
    So imagine my horror when we reached the first landing and the concierge KEPT GOING.
    â€œ Deuxième étage for the girls, deuxième étage !” I said, pointing frantically.
    â€œOui, mademoiselle, deuxième étage,” the concierge agreed cheerfully, trudging up the next flight of stairs.
    â€œHe’s taking” (breath) “us past” (breath) “our floor” (breath), I gasped.
    Through half-closed eyes, I saw something whiz through the air. It was Janet’s ponytail as she whirled around to face me.
    â€œIn France the street level is called the rez-de-chaussée ,” she said primly. “The next level up is the premier étage . And so on.”
    Which makes deuxième the THIRD floor! Ye gads!
    Ahead, Bud and Chaz were tripping up the stairs lightly while carrying on a nonstop conversation about the start of football season, in which neither one pausedto listen to the other. Even Lewis, who as a Computer Geek should by all rights have the muscular and aerobic capacity of an earthworm, had enough surplus energy to enable him to continue web surfing while stair climbing.
    Perhaps it was not too late for me to catch the bus back to the airport.
    â€œVoilà! Deuxième étage!” said the concierge.
    â€œ Allez, girls, come wiz me. Monsieur Bellhomme will show ze boys upstairs.”
    Never had the voice of Madame Chavotte sounded more appealing. I staggered through the door, gasping and clutching at my chest theatrically.
    â€œDon’t bury yourself in the part,” Charlotte remarked.
    Madame Chavotte led us to a large room at the end of the hall. Shortly after ordering us to unpack before napping, she disappeared. I have no idea where she went. It occurred to me she might have stepped through a wardrobe and ended up in a French version of Narnia.
    Our dormitory looked like the one in Miss Clavel’s school, proving once again that everything you need to know about Paris can be found in the Madeline books. There were eight beds, in two rows of four. Next to each bed was a little wardrobe. I took the bed closest to the door, not because I felt it had any particular advantage over the others, but because it required the fewest steps toreach. Bonnie and Charlotte took the next two beds. Janet, for some reason probably related to French customs, took a bed in the facing row, off in the corner.
    I plunged facedown on the bed and lay still, practicing what one of my favorite writers calls prone yoga. I could hear Charlotte unpacking with ruthless efficiency, hanging and folding clothes with military precision.
    â€œYou should unpack right now,” Charlotte said, “so the wrinkles come out of your clothes. You should always unpack first thing when arriving in a new place. It’s one of those rules for how to be a more efficient person.”
    Without removing my face from where it was pressed into the pillow, I made a small noise that sounded like a lamb bleating through many layers of gauze wrapping.
    â€œAnd what about your journal? If you don’t write things while they’re fresh in your mind, you may forget important details,” Charlotte continued.
    Ye gads! She was right. I had an OFFICIAL DUTY to perform. Madame Chavotte wanted me to publish my Parisian journal in our school paper, in installments, for the edification and amusement of the unlucky masses who had not accompanied us. For this I would receive a coveted Extra Credit for French class. My Parisian journal would be read only by the school, but it would pave the way for my Great Parisian Novel, which would naturally be read by the World.
    I lifted my head, which now felt more like a bowling ball, and struggled to a sitting