The Road to Paris (9 page)

“Paris—”

“Go on.”

“Okay. Now what?”

“Pretend that God is there. See? You stick your hand in your pocket, and remind yourself that God’s always close by, and you can talk to him whenever you need to,” said Paris.

Malcolm nodded. “I get it. Keep God in your pocket. Cool,” he said. “I’ll give that a try. Thanks, little sister.”

“You’re welcome,” said Paris. “But I’m not so little anymore.”

Malcolm threw his head back and laughed. “You got that right!”

“What’s so funny?” asked Viola, joining them at last. “Nothing,” they said in unison.

“You two can’t fool me. You’ve got that look, like you’ve been sharing deep, dark secrets. I’ve seen that look before. You’re up to something.”

Paris and Malcolm grinned at each other. They liked being up to something good.

P
aris tried her best not to let on how excited she was about Easter, but when the day rolled around, she used up every drop of hot water in the house to take a shower that went on forever. She even washed behind her ears, twice, without being told. When she was sure God himself could not have found a speck of dirt on her, she toweled off and hurried to her bedroom to dress.

She’d chosen the right dress, no doubt about it. But Paris frowned at her reflection in the mirror. She’d have to do something with her hair. Maybe Mrs. Lincoln could help. Paris went down to the master bedroom and knocked on the door.

“Hold on,” said Mr. Lincoln. A few seconds later, he opened the door a crack.

“Morning, Paris. Oh! I see you’re dressed already. I’m moving kind of slow, myself.”

“I need to see Mom,” Paris blurted out.

“I think she left early, dear. She said something about helping to set the doughnuts out, and getting the coffee started. You can check—” Paris never heard the rest.

Not ready to give up, she ran to Earletta’s room and knocked.

“Is Mom in there?” she called through the door.

“No, Mom is not in here!” snapped Earletta, clearly annoyed.

After a long pause, Paris asked, “Are you sure?”

Earletta stuck her head out the door and studied Paris carefully. The girl looked miserable.

“Why’re you looking for Mom?”

Paris grabbed a hank of hair and held it away from her scalp. “This,” she said. “I don’t know what to do with it.”

Most days, Paris simply pulled her hair back in a pony-tail. But today was special, and she wanted her hair to be special, too.

Earletta sighed, opening her door wider. “Come in and sit down,” she said. “Not on my bed! On the chair.”

Paris did as she was told, awed by the invitation into Earletta’s private world. Earletta never let anyone in there.

“Are you tender-headed?” asked Earletta.

Paris shook her head no.

“All right, then. Sit still.”

Earletta ran a comb through Paris’ hair first, pulling out the tangles. Then she brushed it front to back, in a slow, easy rhythm that almost put Paris to sleep.

“Just as well you came to me, anyway,” said Earletta. “Mom’s no good at hair, in case you haven’t figured that out already. She’s used to boys. I should know. I was the first girl in this house. They had four foster kids before me—all boys.”

No wonder
, thought Paris.
That’s why Mom lets me do my own hair. She doesn’t know how.

“Be right back,” said Earletta, handing the brush to Paris. She left the room and came back a minute later holding a length of sea-foam green ribbon, the same color as Paris’ dress.

What’s she going to do with that?
Paris wondered.

“Okay. Hold your head still,” said Earletta.

Paris braced herself against the back of the chair until Earletta was done. When she was finished, Earletta gave Paris a hand mirror. “Go look in the full-length mirror on the back of my door,” she said. “That way, you can see how your hair looks in the back.”

What Paris saw was a perfect French braid, every single hair tucked in place, with the length of ribbon woven
through it. Paris squealed, dropped the mirror on the bed, and threw her arms around Earletta’s waist.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!” said Paris.

“Get off me, girl,” said Earletta, pushing Paris away. But Paris noticed that Earletta’s voice was softer than her words. “I’ve got to get ready for church, too, you know.”

Paris backed away, smiling, and left the room feeling ready for her big day.

•    •    •

Mr. Lincoln finished dressing, then drove them all to church. Paris stood on the front steps awhile, turning her head this way and that to make sure everyone noticed her French braid. Then she realized Mrs. Lincoln hadn’t seen her all dressed up, so Paris hurried to the church dining room in the basement to find her. Mrs. Lincoln wasn’t one to ooh and ahh, but when she saw Paris, she gave a nod of approval and said, “Nice. Very nice.” Paris stood there preening until she heard the organ music, which reminded her that it was time to join the choir lining up outside of the sanctuary, preparing to march in.

The youth choir marched in first, their faces gleaming like star-shine. The congregation was on its feet, a swaying rainbow of yellow and hot pink, turquoise and royal blue, peach and purple, and, here and there, a shot of orange. Then there were the flowers! There were as many
on hat bands, it seemed, as there were lilies adorning the altar.

Once in place, the combined choirs opened with “Were You There?” then moved on to “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today.” All the voices of the congregation rose, too. Easter arrived at Star of Bethlehem with a shout.

The pastor came forward and led the church in prayer. Then the Scripture was read, and the pastor announced the title of his sermon: The flip side of the Crucifixion.

That was about all Paris heard. After that, her mind was busy running over the lines of her song, her first-ever solo. The last thing she wanted was to mess it up. If that happened, Paris knew she would absolutely die!

Before Paris knew it, the adult choir director was nodding toward her. She looked back at him, confused, until he waved her forward, motioning toward the microphone. In that very moment, Paris went blank.

Her feet were rooted to the floor. She couldn’t move.

Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no!
thought Paris. Her heart beat wildly against her rib cage. Every particle of air left the room. Paris thought she would faint.

Then she heard a voice whisper,
It’s all right, Paris. Calm down.

Malcolm?
thought Paris. She couldn’t be sure. But she felt her heartbeat slow. She took a deep breath and felt a
little stronger. She smoothed the skirt of her dress, feeling for a pocket that wasn’t there. Paris started to panic again, but then she remembered.
It’s pretend
, she told herself. And she closed her eyes, slipped her hand into her pretend pocket, and reminded herself that God was near, as close as her hand in her pocket.

Paris looked up at the congregation and walked calmly to the microphone. She stood straight, opened her mouth, and found the words of the song there, waiting for her. Paris sang.

The next thing she knew, the congregation was on its feet, applauding.

After the service, people kept coming up to her and saying things like, “Child, the Lord sure did bless you with a voice!” and “You keep on singing, baby. God bless you!” Even Earletta came up to Paris and whispered in her ear, “You were the best one up there.”

The whole while, David stuck close, slinging his arm across her shoulders.

“She sure can sing, can’t she?” said David. “And you know why? Because talent runs in the family. I told you she’s my sister, right?”

“Mine, too!” piped up Jordan.

Paris couldn’t stop grinning.

E
aster break was over, and it was back to school for Paris.

One afternoon, when she had finished her homework, she padded downstairs to see what everyone else was up to. Mrs. Lincoln was in her easy chair with a photo album spread open across her ample lap. A bottle of glue and stacks of snapshots sat on a table tray nearby.

“Oh! Perfect! You’re here,” said Mrs. Lincoln, when Paris entered the room. “You can help me out with these,” she said, handing Paris an envelope of photographs. “Look through these and pick out your favorite.”

“Huh?” said Paris, turning the envelope over in her hand.

“Pick out your favorite picture so that I can make sure
to add it to the album. I’ve already picked a few. Now it’s your turn.”

“Okay,” said Paris, perplexed. She couldn’t figure out why her opinion of the photographs mattered. It wasn’t like they were
her
photographs, right?

Paris had seen very few pictures of herself. Ever. There’d been a couple of baby pictures, but that was about it. Viola wasn’t much into taking pictures, and the Boones never bothered taking any of her. They’d concentrated on taking pictures of their own kids.

Paris slipped the black-and-white prints out of the envelope and flipped through them quickly. A smile of surprise and gratitude inched its way across her face. The photographs were of Easter Sunday, and every one of them included Paris. They were all candid shots, and Paris had never known they were being taken.

Paris turned to Mrs. Lincoln and opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out. Mrs. Lincoln coughed and looked away, as she often did when she was uncomfortable with emotion.

“Well, go on,” she said, in a gruff voice. “Pick out the one you like best and give it here.”

Paris turned back to the small stack of photos and studied them closely, now. One was of her at the front of the
church, belting out her solo. Another was of her and David. He had his arm slung across her shoulders, and he was beaming proudly. Paris grinned.
That’s when he told everybody I was his sister
, she remembered. There were a few shots with Earletta in the background, by herself or standing with her high school friends. There were other photos of Paris singing with the choir, one of her straightening Jordan’s tie, and another of her smoothing the skirt of her brand-new dress when she thought nobody was looking. Then there was a shot of the three of them, David and Paris and Jordan, smiling together on the church steps before they went inside. Paris beamed.

“This is the one,” Paris said, handing that last photo to Mrs. Lincoln.

“Okay!” said Mrs. Lincoln, a few minutes later. “All done.” She closed the album and asked Paris to set it on the coffee table.

“Can I look at it first?” Paris asked.

“Sure,” said Mrs. Lincoln. “Just put it back on the coffee table when you’re done.”

Paris carried the leather-bound book to the dining room, away from the racket of the television so she could enjoy the album in relative quiet.

As she turned the pages, she found people she knew, and people she didn’t. There were photos of aunts and uncles
and cousins she’d met at Thanksgiving and Christmas. There were shots of men at Con Edison who worked with Mr. Lincoln. Paris figured out who they were because they all wore shirts with the company logo. And there were shots of David and Jordan, and even a few of Earletta. And now, there were several shots of Paris, including a new one of her singing, and the one she had chosen herself, and that made her happy. Almost.

One thing bothered her. All of the Lincolns, including the aunts and uncles and cousins, looked alike. You could tell they were related. And when you looked at pictures of David and Jordan, it was clear they belonged to each other. Earletta was the same color as the Lincolns, at least. But not Paris. She didn’t look like any of them, in any way. And why should she? This wasn’t her family, not really. These weren’t pictures of
her
aunts and uncles, of
her
cousins. The eyes and ears that stared back at Paris from the mirror every morning were different from the ones that stared back at her from these photographs. If she wanted to find her features, she’d have to stare into the face of her birth mother, Viola.

Paris ran her fingers over the photo of the Lincoln boys and herself. She returned the album to the coffee table and went to her room. But first, Paris called Viola and asked if she had any family pictures she could send.

M
arch melted into April, and the weather began to warm.

“Time to weed the flower beds,” said Mrs. Lincoln one Saturday over breakfast. “Who wants to help?”

Mr. Lincoln was sleeping in, for a change. The boys kept munching their cereal. Earletta popped her last forkful of eggs into her mouth, cleared her plate from the table, and left the kitchen.

Lazybones
, thought Paris. Of course, Paris had no idea what weeding flower beds entailed. She’d had little experience with yards and flower beds in New York City.

“I’ll help,” she said. David and Jordan exchanged looks, shaking their heads.

“See you next year,” David muttered. Jordan giggled.

“What?” asked Paris.
“What?”

•    •    •

Once Paris looked at it closely, she could see that the entire backyard was a hopscotch of dandelions and clover. She’d be pulling weeds forever! No wonder nobody else wanted the job.

Should’ve kept my big mouth shut
, thought Paris. But at least she was outdoors. And she was looking forward to seeing the garden in full bloom. It wouldn’t kill her to help the garden get that way, now would it?

Paris set to work around the hydrangeas. She used a small spade to break the ground and loosen it up like Mrs. Lincoln told her, so she could yank the weeds, root and all.

The soil was teeming with critters. Paris had to shake off ants several times, and more than once disturbed an earthworm who didn’t appreciate being exposed to the sun.

How do they see down there?
Paris wondered.
And look how fast they move!

Fascinated, Paris was doing more watching than weeding. If she hadn’t, she’d never have seen the snake.

“It won’t hurt you,” said David, suddenly behind her. “Garter snakes aren’t poisonous.”