The Road to Paris (7 page)

A few minutes later, Paris opened the front door. That was as far as she got. The screen door was wedged shut by two and a half feet of snow. The only way out of the house was through a window.

“Climb on out, then make your way to the backyard,” said Mrs. Lincoln. “There are shovels in the shed. David knows where we keep them.”

The boys climbed out first to show her there was nothing to it. “Stuff your pant legs all the way inside your boots,” David instructed. “That’ll make it easier for you to walk.”

Paris did as she was told, then hoisted herself through the living room window. She sank into a mound of cold, then stood a long while transfixed by the alien landscape.

The entire street was smothered in snow, right up to the doorways of each house. Gone were streets and sidewalks. Driveways were invisible. Telephone wires hung heavy, looking every bit like clotheslines draped with wet, white laundry. Mailboxes and telephone poles were skinny islands in a sea of powder. The house across the street looked like a gingerbread house with powdered sugar on the rooftop. She’d never seen anything like it in the city.

Does our house look like that, too?
Paris wondered. She
closed her eyes, smiling at the hushed sound of it all, rocking in the waves of white silence.

“Hurry up,” said David, bringing her back to the task at hand. “We have to get the shovels.”

Paris thought it was a shame to disturb all that perfection, but she planted her boots into the snow, one step after another, creating a trail of fat footsteps even the man in the moon could see, all the way to the back of the house. David had the shed open by the time she got there. He handed out shovels and work instructions like a foreman. The littlest shovel went to Jordan.

“Jordan, you help Jet clear a path around his doghouse. He’s already gotten started, so it shouldn’t be too bad. Paris, you’re with me. We gotta clear the porch.”

Paris nodded, grabbing the shovel he held out to her. She followed David back to the front of the house, surprised when he came to a halt a foot short of the porch steps.

“What?”

David looked down at the snow, then off into the distance. “I got an idea,” he said. “Help me.”

David walked to about where the end of the sidewalk should be, to the right of the house, facing the downward slope. He sank his shovel as deep as it would go, then
started shoveling. But instead of shoveling in a straight line, he worked in a semicircle.

Paris stood watching him. She had no idea what he was doing. “What about the stairs?” she asked.

“The stairs can wait. You gonna help me or not?”

Paris didn’t want to get in trouble, but David sure looked like he was having fun. He began to shape the snowdrifts into a wall, pressing the snow together to pack it tightly.

Paris finally jumped in to give him a hand. She pressed handfuls of snow together like rough bricks, and stacked them atop one another until her part of the wall was finished. Then she and David stepped back to admire their work.

“This’ll be the best snow fort ever!” said David. Now all they needed were a few more kids to play with, and their first snowball fight of the season was on!

“David Allen Lincoln,” said his mother, arms akimbo behind the screen door, “if you don’t clear the snow away from this door in the next five minutes, you won’t be able to sit down until summer. That goes for you, too, Paris.”

Paris and David looked at each other, biting their lips to keep from giggling. David gave Paris a wink.

“Yes, ma’am,” said David.

“Yes, ma’am,” echoed Paris.

Then the two of them got busy shoveling and salting down the front steps.

Threat or no, Paris liked having a new partner in crime. And if she did get a spanking, it would be for something she’d actually done, this time. And she wouldn’t be the only one getting whipped, either. That was a difference she could live with.

P
aris checked off the items on her bedroom desk. Scissors, glue, gold stars, red and white construction paper, white paper doilies, red ribbon, crayons, Red Hots, and newspaper.

She got busy making valentines for her teacher and for Ashley, the one close friend she’d made so far.

One friend’s better than none
, she told herself.

Paris cut a big heart out of newspaper print, then a smaller one of red paper to put on top of it, then a smaller one out of a white doily to put on top of that.

Paris fingered the newspaper and smiled, knowing Ashley would laugh when she saw her valentine. Ashley must have told Paris the same joke a million times:
“What’s black and white and red all over? A newspaper! Get it?”

To make the valentine even more special, Paris counted out seven Red Hots to glue around the edges. Red Hots were Ashley’s favorite candy.

“Paris,” called Mrs. Lincoln, “dinner.”

“In a minute!” said Paris. But one minute quickly became fifteen, because Paris was already lost in the sticky world of cut paper and Elmer’s glue.

•    •    •

“Good morning, class,” said Paris’ teacher the next day.

“Good morning, Miss Broadnax,” said the class.

“Who can tell me what today is?”

Brian rolled his eyes. He was always rolling his eyes.
One day
, thought Paris,
they’re gonna roll right out onto the floor. Then I can squish them good.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” someone answered.

“That’s right,” said Miss Broadnax. “Now, I know you all brought valentines for your friends, and you’ll have a chance to exchange those later. But today, we’re going to work on a special valentine for your mom.”

Which mom is that?
thought Paris.
The one in New York City? The one who didn’t love Malcolm and me enough to keep us together? The one who liked going out with strangers better than staying at home with her kids? Or the mom who comes to my room every night?

Paris sighed.
Last Valentine’s Day, me and Malcolm made valentines for each other. But this year—

Paris hated how easily sad thoughts could sneak up on her. One thing she was absolutely, positively not going to do was cry in front of everybody.

“What is it?” asked Ashley, next to her.

“Nothing,” said Paris.

“Okay,” said Miss Broadnax, “I need a helper to pass out materials. Paris, give me a hand, honey.”

Paris loved Miss Broadnax.

Thank you, thank you, thank you
, thought Paris. She was happy to be busy so she wouldn’t have to think so much. So she wouldn’t have to remember.

•    •    •

When the cards were finished, Miss Broadnax collected them all, including the cards students had brought from home. Using one manila envelope per student, she placed every valentine with his or her name on it inside. Later that morning, she called the students up one by one, and handed out the envelopes. That way, no one had to know how many, or how few, valentines everyone else received.

Paris eyed the size of each envelope. Most were a little pudgy, some were stuffed, and a few were fairly flat.
One was thin as a jelly sandwich. Paris figured that one was hers, and she was right.

It doesn’t matter
, Paris told herself.

At recess, David found her under a stairwell, clutching her manila envelope, her face dirty with tears. She wouldn’t tell him what the tears were for. She hardly knew herself.

•    •    •

That evening, when Paris went to her room after dinner, she found an envelope stuffed into her top dresser drawer. The envelope held a splashy red velvet heart, trimmed in silver. Inside were the words, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Paris.” Paris flipped the card over, hunting for a signature, but there was none. Even so, somehow Paris knew that the card had come from David. It was the same kind of thing Malcolm would have done.

Realizing that warmed Paris from the inside out.

T
wo sleds. Boys versus girls. Saturday mornings in winter were made for this. Paris was sure of it.

“You know we’re gonna beat your butts, right?” said Ashley. “My dad taught me to sled, and my dad is the fastest.”

“Talk is cheap,” said David. “And you’re all talk!”

“Let’s just go,” said Paris, anxious to get started.

Jordan clutched David’s waist, steadying himself for the ride. David gave the word.

“Ready. Set. Go!”

With Ashley steering, she and Paris took off first, getting a good three-foot jump on the boys. Paris felt her heart leap inside her as their sled picked up speed, careening down the steep hill.

“Hold on!” Ashley yelled into the wind, as if Paris needed a reminder. Ashley might well have a tough time peeling Paris off of her once the race was over.

“Whew!” Catching up, the boys came dangerously close to a parked car, then spun out into the intersection, full throttle. Paris looked up in time to see a Jeep bearing down on all of them. The driver swerved, missing both sleds by a hair. Both pairs of racers crashed into the curb and rolled before coming to a complete stop.

For several moments, there was silence. Then, one by one, Paris and the others jumped up, patting themselves to make sure no bones were broken.

Once Jordan knew he wasn’t going to die, he broke out laughing. Ashley joined him, then David, then Paris. The air was so cold, every breath they took was visible. Laughing together, the four of them kicked up quite a cloud.

“So, who won?” asked David, wiping tears from his eyes.

Paris and Ashley shrugged. Once that car was coming at them, they’d lost all focus.

“All right,” said David. “We’ll call it a draw. There’s still the park, though. Let’s see who’s fastest there.”

He and Jordan righted their sled and lugged it the few
feet into the park. David picked a strapping maple to mark their new starting point. Paris and Ashley joined the boys there, ready for the next challenge.

They raced down the slope, dragged their sleds uphill, and raced down again too many times to count. They finally stopped when their fannies were sore and the cold drove them to daydreams of hot chocolate.

Frozen as her arms and legs were, Paris had never felt happier.

My friend
, she thought, rolling the words around in her mind.
My brothers.

Paris smiled as the foursome trudged up the hill.

“We’re back!” David announced, as the four filed in. Mrs. Lincoln came to the door. “Hello, Ashley,” she said.

“Hi, Mrs. Lincoln.”

“Paris,” said Mrs. Lincoln, “can I see you for a minute?”

Paris followed her into the dining room.

“While you were out, your mother called. She wants you to visit her in New York next weekend. She’s already made the arrangements.”

Paris sank into the nearest chair, the winter chill suddenly melting in the heat of her anger.

Ashley came into the room. “Paris?” she said, sensing a change in her friend. “What happened?”

Paris looked up at the girl and shook her head.

You’d never understand
, thought Paris.
Not in a million years.

P
aris stepped down from the train at Penn Station and slowly made her way to the terminal. Why hurry? It wasn’t as if she wanted to be there.

She is your mother
, thought Paris, feeling guilty.

So what? I still don’t want to see her.

Paris rode the escalator up to the main hall, already longing for the return trip the following day. As soon as she reached the top, she heard her name.

“Paris! Over here,” said Viola. “Hi, baby.”

Viola bent low to give her daughter a hug. Paris recoiled at her mother’s touch, but feeling another wave of guilt, she allowed herself to be held for a moment before wriggling out of her mother’s arms.

Viola pretended not to notice. Instead, she grabbed Paris’ overnight bag and said, “Let’s go home.”

Paris coughed, choking on the word.

Home? What is she talking about? She must mean
her
home. I don’t have a home here anymore
, thought Paris.
Especially not with her.

Paris kept tight-lipped, following the familiar stranger onto one subway train, then another, and finally up the steps that led to a third-floor walkup on 147th Street and Convent Avenue.

The apartment was clean enough, with no bottles of brandy in sight, but Paris knew they could be hiding in cabinets or dresser drawers. She’d even found one behind the hamper, once.

Give me a few minutes
, thought Paris.
If there’s a bottle here, I’ll find it.

Viola noticed Paris giving the place the once-over. “I know it’s small,” she said, misunderstanding.

“Where’s my brother?” asked Paris, before she even knew the question was on the tip of her tongue.

Caught off guard, Viola said, “Well, honey, I don’t think now is the time to—”

“Where is he?” Paris almost shouted.

“In a group home. At St. Christopher’s, in Dobbs Ferry,” said Viola.

Dobbs Ferry. Dobbs Ferry. Paris remembered those words. She’d seen them. Where?

“It’s a few train stops before Ossining.”

“I want to see him,” said Paris.

Viola sighed. “All right. I’ll make arrangements for sometime soon. But you can’t see him today. Now, let me show you around.”

Paris nodded stiffly, then dutifully followed her mother around the one-bedroom, railroad-style apartment. A narrow hall ran the length of it, doors on the right and left opening onto a living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bath. Paris looked but didn’t really see anything. All her thoughts were on Malcolm.

•    •    •

The day marched by in a most unusual fashion. Viola took Paris out for a lunch of burgers, took her shopping for new boots and sweaters, then made her a dinner of spaghetti and meatballs—her favorite. The food was delicious, and Paris liked her new clothes, but she couldn’t help thinking that her mother was trying to make up for missing Christmas, or maybe even trying to buy her love.

It won’t work
, thought Paris.
I don’t love you anymore.