At Your Service (4 page)

Marie sits up a little straighter when she hears the word “duchess.” “Geeve eet 'ere.” She sticks out one plump hand, palm up to receive the book.

“Well, if you insist. Here, I have a pen if you need one.”

I fork over the slam book and hide my grin. This is too easy.

•   •   •

This is
not
too easy.

Pay and I retreat to our room to read Marie's answers (after sending the hotel driver, Bill, to the AMC Lincoln Square to negotiate some movie-theater butter).

Why didn't I think about how her favorites would all be French things? Favorite movie:
Astérix le Gaulois
. Favorite singer or group: Coeur de Pirate. What good is this going to
do me?
Of course
she lists her favorite color as “glitter.” Ugh! This doesn't give me much to go on.

We reach the last page, and I prepare to lose all hope.

Secret talent:
I love to kick. I can kick my leg over my head.

Well, this is interesting. It's not that I'm surprised she loves to kick, I just thought that first sentence would have ended with “people.” For another thing, her legs are so short, I would think she'd have difficulty lifting them at all.

Paisley looks at me. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

I clap my hands together. “Bet I am!”

We slam the notebook closed and race down the stairs to the lobby, not even bothering with the elevator. Dad is just finishing with a guest. I tap my foot as I wait for him to deliver his signature line.

“Of course, ma'am, I'm at your service.” When the guest moves on, I rush up to the concierge stand.

“Dad. I have the best idea ever. Can you help me?”

To his credit, Dad listens closely as I lay out my plan. He doesn't even seem to react when I tell him I “ran into” Marie on my way to get his permission.

“ . . . and then we could . . .” I continue to ramble as Dad's eyes get wide.

“But only if . . .”

Hey, I think he might be on board.

“And that's when I'd . . .”

By the time I finish, he's nodding his head along with me.

“I think that might work. It just might. It's getting late; I'd have to disturb some people at home. . . . You know what? It's worth it.”

Paisley and I pace the lobby, while Dad makes phone calls. Ten minutes later he gestures us over.

“Well, Capable Chloe strikes again. It's all set for tomorrow afternoon. There's just one catch. They're insisting someone from the hotel accompany her. I have to be at the concierge desk at two o'clock, so it would have to be . . . well, ah . . . you. You do have a half day, right?”

A whole afternoon in the presence of Miss Frenchy Fancy Pants? I'd have to be crazy.

Or really, really desperate to prove I'm one hundred thousand percent ready for my shot at a concierge desk. I thought I was going to have to wait until I was a lot older, but if I can launch my career now? I can be that much ahead of all my competition when I'm ready to work full-time. Why am I even thinking about this? Not even Marie LaFou can keep me from my shot at my dream. So bring it! I can totally handle a pint-sized brat for one measly afternoon.

“It's no problem, Dad. I'll head straight home after school lets out.”

“Great. Though you'll have to hurry a bit. Better yet, I'll send Bill with the car for you. Paisley, too, if she wants. Now, do you think Marie's still up, waiting on that popcorn? I say we pay a visit to
la petite princesse
's papa and fill him in together.”

I
. That's hotel speak. It just means all the rooms have been cleaned and are ready for new guests.

II
. Among other phrases and words I'm not allowed to utter in Mrs. Hathaway's presence: “We're sold out due to the clown convention,” “All airports are closed because of the blizzard,” and (the most evil word of all) . . . “bedbugs.”

W
hy yes, yes, that
is
a limousine waiting for me at the entrance to my school.

Bill has the car perfectly lined up with the front doors and is leaning against the black stretch in his la-di-da uniform.

“Chloe, you are seriously so lucky. In my next life, I want to come back as you.” My friend Camila rearranges the books in her arms as we walk down the steps. Our other friend Maddie grabs her by the elbow after smiling at me.

“It's walking time for us regular people. C'mon, Cam, we'll swing by the ice cream truck on our walk.” They wave and I skip down the rest of the steps and allow Bill to open the door for me.

So. Fun.

Bill is just about back to the driver's seat by the time Paisley comes flying out the double doors, her uniform shirt half-untucked and a hole just starting in her tights. Typical Pay. She'd never cut it in the hotel world, but as best friends go, she's five diamonds
^I
all the way.

She stumbles on the last step and basically spills into the car. Once she's settled in her seat, she yanks her backpack strap out of the now-closed car door.

“I'm here. I'm ready. Let me at this French poodle!”

I laugh. “Unfortunately, we basically have to kiss her butt all afternoon. Trust me, having you around will keep me sane, but in front of her we have to be perfect representatives of the Saint Michèle. My reputation, er, I mean
the hotel's
reputation, is on the line.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. No worries.”

But I do worry, a little. This is my shot to prove I can handle grown-up jobs as well as any grown-up can, and no way am I going to mess it up.

The minute we pull up to the hotel, Pay and I race to my room, where I nix the blouse she had smooshed into a wrinkled mess in the depths of her backpack. I hand her a perfectly pressed one from my closet, change my outfit too, then steer us back to the lobby.

Where we come to a screeching halt.

Mr. Whilpers is there, deep in conversation with Dad. He's turnip colored again, and Dad has the little pinch line he gets on the top of his nose when he's stressed. This doesn't look good.

Dad gestures me over. “We were just talking about you.”

“Oh?” I attempt a casual pose against the podium.

“Mr. Whilpers is concerned that you'll be representing the hotel in an official capacity, when you aren't technically an employee.” Dad is usually Mr. Take Charge when it comes to anything related to Mr. Whilpers or his job, but I know he's already worried that he might be throwing me to the wolves by putting Marie in my care. Right now it sounds like all it'll take is one nudge in the other direction, and he'll flip faster than an Olympic diver.

This really isn't good.

“Well, Dad, I can see your point, but I've been helping you out for years and years and
years
, and I think you know you can trust me.” I stand perfectly straight and proper.

“Well, yes, of course. You're my Capable Chloe.” He turns to Mr. Whilpers and shrugs. “She
is
capable. . . .”

Next to me, Pay nods really hard until I poke her in the side.

Mr. Whilpers opens his droopy walrus mouth. “Of course, I'm sure she's fine behind the scenes. But running errands for you is not the same thing as interacting with a guest on her own.”

Dad's smile wavers. Before he can say anything else, I shove my cell phone in his face. I have the screen open to a picture from last week's wedding ceremony/ritual thingy. I'm standing with my arm around the bride, posing with the wooden pipe she's just thrown me.

Yeah, that sounds weird. But here's the thing:

A. Apparently other cultures have the traditional bouquet toss, just with other items. Like wooden pipes.

B. Also apparently, other cultures don't find it strange to toss the bouquet, er, pipe to nearly-thirteen-year-olds.

C. Yeah, still no C.

Anyway, it seems to do the trick with Dad.

He nods his head in a snappy way, which means he's
made up his mind. Mr. Whilpers makes a harrumphing noise and says, “Well, I really do think I'm going to have to take this to Mr. Buttercup.”

Of course he'd run off and tattle to the hotel owner. I'm surprised he isn't stuffing his fingers in his ears and waggling them nanny-nanny-boo-boo style. I wait till Dad's head is turned and stick out my tongue at Mr. Wimpy. Two can play this game. His mustache twitches as he glares back at me. Then he pivots and marches across the lobby to his office.

Great. I've got to get us all into that limo before the Whilps gets hold of Mr. Buttercup. With no time to lose I abandon Pay with Dad and race to Marie's suite. I practically drag her out, not paying any attention to her little French protests about my hand on her arm. Her mother barely looks up from her
Vogue
magazine as she blows fake kisses and ta-tas her fingers.

In the elevator Marie crosses her arms and refuses to acknowledge me. Granted, this is no way to start the most important day of my hotel career (so far, of course), but desperate times call for desperate measures. I can suck up to Marie plenty as soon as we pull away from the curb.

Besides, her parents wanted us to keep the specifics of the
outing a surprise, so I'm fully prepared for Marie's mind to be blown, and then all our troubles will be over.

Paisley meets us at the elevator doors. I tug (without making it obvious to anyone watching) Marie across the lobby and use my free arm to catch Pay every time she slips in her borrowed shoes. We're just cramming into the revolving door when I hear my name echo across the lobby.

“Chloe!” Mr. Whilpers is by the elevators and he sounds serious.

Ignoring him, I spin us toward fresh air.

Six steps to the limo. Five. Four. Three. Two.

I shove Marie in. The bellhop opens the hotel door for a guest in a wheelchair, and Mr. Whilpers's voice reaches outside.

“Miss Turner!”

I push Paisley after Marie.

“Hold up, missy!”

I jump in, land in Pay's lap, and reach across Marie to click the lock into place right as Mr. Whilpers appears on the sidewalk.

“Who eeez zat purple-faced man?”

I also ignore Marie. I hit the intercom to talk to Bill, just sliding into the driver's seat.

“Go, Bill, go!”

Paisley and I wave merrily at Mr. Whilpers as the limo screeches from the curb. Like actually screeches. It's possible Bill hates Mr. Wimpy as much as I do.

Marie's head snaps up when I tell Bill, “Radio City Music Hall, please.”

“Are we going to zee show? I don't feel like seeeeting all day.” Her arms are crossed again. I wonder if they just go there by muscle memory.

“Not exactly,” I reply, “You'll see. It's a surprise.”

I
. Five diamonds is the highest AAA rating hotels can get. It's super hard to score, and fewer than one hundred hotels anywhere have it. Of course we're one of them. But you should see the way the staff goes crazy when they suspect one of the secret raters is checked in. It's best to just leave town on those days, in case it's possible to die from exposure to extreme sucking up.

A
few minutes later Bill pulls alongside a nondescript building on Fifty-First Street and deposits us in front of a plain metal door. Marie looks up and down the streetscape, trying to piece together where we've taken her.

“Zees eez not Radio City.” Gee thanks, Captain Obvious. Little does she know . . .

“Follow me,” I instruct. I'm so excited to see her reaction that I almost can't contain myself. Pay and I exchange a smile as we usher Marie through the door. Inside is every bit as bland as the exterior, with no hint as to what the building holds.

Dad forwarded me his contact's e-mail with very explicit directions, so I know just where to turn in the hallway to land
us at the elevator. Marie is still muttering away in French. Even in another language I can tell they probably aren't words a nine-year-old should be using.

When we exit on the seventh floor, we still have to go up two flights of stairs. Here's where we get the first glimpse that this is anything but a typical NYC office building. At the top of the first flight is an open door. Hanging floor to ceiling are rows and rows of matching costumes.

Matching
Rockettes
costumes.

There are the toy-soldier white pants with the red stripe down the sides. Ooh, and the red velvet Santa dresses with the furry snow-white trim. And the brown jackets they wear to dress as reindeer!

“We are zeeing zee Rockettez? You zaid we were not going to zee show.”

I smile serenely, like a parent handing a toddler a wrapped present. It's going to be so fun to see her face. “We're not. We're going to a rehearsal. A
Rockettes
rehearsal. A
private
Rockettes rehearsal.”

Marie shrugs.

SHRUGS!

Okay, hold up. Look, kid, the freaking Rockettes are letting
you
into their rehearsal so you can watch them high-kick,
which is something you claim to love doing yourself, and all you can do is shrug? ERGH!

Paisley grabs my arm and gives me a “forget her” look and a giant smile as I turn us toward another, smaller staircase. At least
she's
excited. And so am I. Granted, musicals are a little more our thing, but the Rockettes are ah-mazing.

The next landing has the hat shop. All the toy-soldier hats hang upside down with their feather plumes waving.

So. Cool.

We follow my e-mail instructions down the long hallway to the rehearsal space. Marie makes the caboose for our little procession. Even before we get there, we can hear “If it feels good, it's probably wrong, girls. Okay, toe the line. Bevel. Now, strut kicks, five, six, seven, eight . . .”