Read The Road to Paris Online

Authors: Nikki Grimes

The Road to Paris (6 page)

The house I’m in is nothing like a prison. They don’t beat me here, Malcolm. Not so far. Or lock me up in closets. You know what? The people here are preety nice, except for one aunt and one cousin. But they’re not worth talking about.

Mrs. Lincoln, the mom, is a big lady, but not jolly at all. She’s crusty as burnt toast on the outside, but inside, she’s all soft and sweet as pudding. Mr. Lincoln is quiet, mostly. I only
see him at breakfast and at night after work. But you always know when he’s in the house, cause the whole house calms down. Even Jet.

Jet’s the dog. Well, he’s practically a pony, he’s so big! He’s not scarey or anything. He’s like a big, fluffy kid who wants to play all the time. You would like him alot.

There are two boys, so I’ve still got brothers to pester me. (smile). David is the oldest, and Jordan is the baby. David is helping me so I don’t have to be afraid of the dark all the time. Jordan hangs onto me sometimes like I’m really his big sister. He’s cute. Did I used to hang onto you like that? I feel like I’m starting to forget. I’m sorry, Malcolm.

There’s a girl here called Earletta. But I don’t see her much. She’s real old like in high school and doesn’t want to hang around with a kid my age. Which I don’t mind. I like to stay to myself, anyway. I get to do that a lot cause—surprise!—I have my own room. Would you believe it? Its a teeny room, tho. I don’t want you thinking I’m in some palace. Still, I wish you were here to share it.

Where are you? I’m writing this stupid letter and I don’t even know where to send it. I had to talk to you, tho, even if its only on paper.

I better go. Its my turn to set the table. (I have chores now,
like you used to have at home before Mom—never mind. I don’t think about her anymore, or grandma who I’m still mad at.)

Oh! I almost forgot. I have a new friend. Her name is Ashley. She lives down the street.

Bye for now.

Paris.

Chapter 16
MARCHING TO ZION

P
aris decided it was time to try out the family church. Mrs. Lincoln didn’t make Paris go when she first got to Ossining. Paris was left to decide when she was ready. “God won’t force you to visit his house,” said Mrs. Lincoln, “and I won’t, either.” That was fine with Paris because there was already so much new to get used to.

One Sunday morning, Paris woke up feeling ready to go.

Star of Bethlehem Baptist Church was lovely inside, with its beautiful stained-glass windows and rich wood accents, but it felt like somebody had forgotten to turn the heat on. The wooden pews were cold against Paris’ thighs. She couldn’t understand for the life of her why she couldn’t wear pants to church. She didn’t see David and Jordan
freezing their legs off. Who made the rule that girls had to wear dresses to church, anyway?

Paris tried to express this point over breakfast, but Mrs. Lincoln stopped her with one of those deadpan stares, and said, “Paris Richmond, who told you life was fair?” And that was the end of the discussion.

Paris sat swinging her legs, pouting—until she heard the first chords of the organ. The sound sent an electric spark up one pew and down the next, and Paris forgot all about being cold. The melody flowed into her body like liquid sunshine, warming her as it traveled from the tips of her ears to the tips of her toes. Paris never knew that such a sound existed.

“Are you okay?” asked Mr. Lincoln. Paris, her lips slightly parted, nodded and went on listening. She didn’t know how to explain it, but as the music played, she felt herself waking up inside.

“All rise,” said a voice up front. The organist switched music and began to play “Marching to Zion.” The choir marched in from the back of the sanctuary, stepping in time to the music. When the choir loft was filled, the organist changed the melody once more. “Nothing but the Blood,” then “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” and “Give Me Jesus on the Line.” He played one song after another, and the choir rode the sturdy waves of the organ music, their
voices piercing the rafters and raising the temperature of everyone in the room.

The music was all Paris heard that first morning at Star of Bethlehem. The prayers and sermon in between were merely interruptions. It was the music that spoke to Paris, the music she couldn’t wait to hear next. Mr. Lincoln couldn’t help but notice.

At the end of the service, he leaned down to Paris. “You know,” he said, very casually, “we have a youth choir here. Think you might like to join it?”

Paris all but leapt off the pew seat in response.

“Could I?”

Mr. Lincoln smiled. “Of course. Brother Wilson?” he called to the choir director. “I need to see you for a moment. I’ve got a new choir member here for you.”

Paris couldn’t stop grinning. The idea of singing in the choir put a sparkle in her eyes that lasted for days.

Chapter 17
JINGLE BELLS

C
hristmas, Christmas, Christmas. That was all anybody talked about at school. Paris couldn’t even get away from it during lunch. Take this afternoon, for instance.

When Paris and her classmates filed into the cafeteria, they found the walls plastered with paper snowflakes, drawings of Christmas trees, and pictures of Santa with a beard made from cotton balls.

“I can’t wait till Christmas break,” said a boy named Warren.

“Me neither,” said Ashley.

“You guys are lucky,” said Warren’s buddy, Brad. “You get to stay home for Christmas. My dad is dragging us to California to visit our cousins so we can have a Christmas barbecue on the beach! How lame is that?”

“Sounds like fun!” said Ashley.

“You gotta be kiddin’!” said Brad. “Who ever heard of Christmas without snow?”

“People in Hawaii,” said Lee Young. “And parts of Africa.”

“All I’m sayin’ is, Christmas is not the same without snow,” Brad continued to argue.

“Forget the snow,” said Brian. “I can’t wait to see what presents I get.”

“I love putting up the tree,” said Ashley. “And driving around town to see all the lights on people’s houses.”

“And the Nativity scenes,” said a girl named Lori.

“Yeah!” said Ashley.

“Last year,” said Warren, “my church had a living Nativity and my baby sister was Jesus.”

“Stop lying!” said Brian. “How they gonna use a girl baby to play Jesus?”

“At that age, it don’t make much difference,” said Warren. “Wrap them up in a blanket, and all babies look the same.”

Their lunch trays full, the group split off to find seats with their friends. Paris and Ashley found two free spaces and sat together.

“What’s the matter?” Ashley asked Paris.

“Nothing,” said Paris, pasting a smile on her face.

“You’re awfully quiet,” said Ashley. “Is something wrong?”

“No. I’m fine,” said Paris.

Except I miss Malcolm more than ever.

For Paris, the best thing about Christmas was being with her brother. And this Christmas, she didn’t even know where he was.

•    •    •

Paris ate her lunch in silence, nodding occasionally as Ashley chattered on about the holiday.

Christmas might as well be just another day, as far as Paris was concerned. Viola certainly didn’t seem to notice it. Either that or she didn’t care. Every afternoon, Paris ran to check the mail hoping to find a package, or at least a card from her mother. Every evening, Paris waited for the phone to ring, hoping to find her mother on the other end. But every afternoon and evening ended in disappointment.

It doesn’t matter
, Paris would tell herself. Then she’d put Viola out of her mind for a while, because thinking about her hurt too much.

All the Lincolns were extra nice to Paris, making sure to include her in their family traditions. Like dragging her to the Christmas tree farm.

Paris didn’t want to go, but she didn’t want to make
Mrs. Lincoln feel bad. Once she got there, out in the crisp pine-washed air, it wasn’t half bad. And the trees were worth seeing, taller and fatter than any Paris had ever seen at storefronts in New York City.

“Aren’t they great?” said David, grinning.

“They’re okay,” said Paris.

“Okay? Are you blind?”

David shook his head and ran down the rows of evergreens, Jordan fast on his heels. Paris could hear Jordan’s squeals of excitement as he and David ran from tree to tree, trying to decide which was the best. It seemed to take forever before they chose one.

Back home, everyone pitched in, decorating the tree while Paris watched from the sidelines. The one thing she seemed to enjoy was the Christmas music playing on the stereo. As long as that was on, she sat in the living room with the rest of the family, humming along with the record.

•    •    •

On Christmas morning, Paris found a few presents under the tree with her name on them, marked “From Santa.” Santa was as boring as her grandmother: he’d given her socks, pink earmuffs (Paris hated pink), and mittens. Paris said thank you to the Lincolns, wishing she had more than a card for them.

“The card is beautiful,” said Mrs. Lincoln. “But you know what else I want for Christmas that you can give me? A song.”

Paris didn’t think that was much of a present, but she sang anyway. “Jingle Bells” was the first song she could think of, so that was what she sang. There wasn’t much joy in her voice, though.

The one highlight that first Christmas was trading gifts with Ashley, who’d come over that afternoon for a little while.

Paris was in her room, finishing a letter to Malcolm, when the doorbell rang.

“Paris!” called Mrs. Lincoln. “Ashley’s here.”

By the time Paris put down her pen and paper, a beaming Ashley lit up her doorway, a shopping bag dangling from one hand.

“Merry Christmas!” said Ashley.

“Merry Christmas.”

“I’d have come over sooner, but my mom made me wait. ‘Folks like to start their Christmas mornings off slow and easy,’ she said. I swear, I don’t know
where
she gets these ideas.”

Paris grinned. Ashley could always put a smile on her face.

“Anyway,” said Ashley, plopping down on Paris’ bed, “here I am.”

Ashley pulled a long, narrow box from her shopping bag. The box was wrapped in silver foil.

“This is for you,” she said, holding the box out toward Paris, looking as if she were about to burst. “Go on! Open it!”

“Wait,” Paris said. She went to her desk and pulled a small, flat package from the drawer.

“You first,” she said, a little anxious. Since Paris didn’t have any money, she’d made a gift for her friend. “I hope you like it,” she said.

Ashley tore the wrapping paper and ripped off the lid of the box. Paris held her breath.

“Oh, wow!” said Ashley, staring down at a square of denim.

“It’s a book cover,” said Paris, explaining in a tumble of words. “I made it from an old pair of jeans, Earletta helped me stitch the edges, I sewed the buttons on the front myself.”

“I love it!” said Ashley. She turned the cover over in her hands, feeling the smooth edges and tracing the metal buttons with a fingertip.

“The buttons are the best part,” she said. Paris beamed.

“Okay. Now it’s your turn,” said Ashley.

Paris picked up the narrow package, held it to her ear, and shook it, hoping for a clue to its contents.

“Open it! Open it!” said Ashley, bouncing up and down on the bed.

Slowly and delicately, Paris unwrapped the package, folding back each corner of the wrapping paper with great care.

“You’re killing me!” said Ashley, groaning.

Paris had never gotten that many presents at Christmas, so she wanted to make the most of every one. When she finally folded back the tissue paper, her heart skipped a beat. Nestled inside the box was a small wooden flute.

“I know how much you like music,” said Ashley. “So, hurry up and figure out how this thing works so you can play me something.”

Paris was speechless.

“Well, I gotta go now,” said Ashley in a soft voice. “I’m glad you like your present. I’ll see you later.”

Paris clutched the flute in her hand, gave her friend a long, hard hug, then walked her to the door.

Chapter 18
FORT FRIENDLY

T
he next day at church, Paris belted out the Christmas hymns with a secret joy. Singing in the choir was sweeter than hot chocolate with swirls of whipped cream. All too soon, the service was over and it was time to leave.

The drive home was treacherous. While Paris was in church, it was as if God had sunk his shovel into a mountain of snow and scattered it over the whole earth.

Snow continued to fall all day and through the night. When Paris woke up the next morning, the little house on the hill was an island surrounded by a silent sea of white.

Wow
, thought Paris.

She had never seen so much snow.

Her bedroom door flew open, and David stuck his head inside.

“Snow day!” he said, grinning. “I’ll bet you anything!” Then he took off down the stairs.

Paris threw on her robe, jumped into her slippers, and went to investigate. She found the family sitting around the breakfast table, craning toward the kitchen radio, which was up full volume. Mr. Lincoln would have turned it down, had he been there. But he’d headed out the night before for a late shift at Con Edison. A short walk up the steep hill got him there, so his car was still in the driveway. The overnight snowfall had completely covered his tracks.

The radio crackled, catching Paris’ attention.
“Ignatious Elementary: closed. McKinley Elementary: closed. Claremont Elementary: closed.”

“Wahoo!” sang David and Jordan in chorus. Mrs. Lincoln groaned. So did Earletta. Her school was also closed, and the thought of spending a day at home with her pesky little brothers wasn’t her idea of fun.

“All right, boys,” said Mrs. Lincoln. “Get your clothes on. You, too, Paris. I need you to clear the snow from the doorway, and clear a path down the front steps. Then you can play.”

“How come Earletta isn’t helping?” asked Paris.

“I am
not
climbing through anybody’s window,” said Earletta.

Paris was puzzled. “Window?”

•    •    •

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