Lost in Paris by Cindy Callaghan

the way I hoped, would help with this little thing I was doing to Henri’s so-called friends.
    JTC each offered me a high five on their way by.
    â€œVictory,” Josh said.
    â€œAnother win,” Topher said.
    â€œWe advance to the next round,” Charlie said.
    They followed their team into the hotel.
    Mom came up to us and glanced at her phone like I thought she would when she heard my message arrive. She said to me, “An abandoned metro station? I don’t think so, Gwen,” she said.
    â€œShh—Mom,” I said, and bent my neck toward our three competitors, like she’d spilled some majorly secret and important beans in front of the opposing team.
    â€œWhat? It’s too dangerous. And sorry, but I’m too exhausted to go with you. We can talk about it tomorrow.” Then she looked at Brigitte. “Pretty snake.” She petted Fifi and departed.
    Sabine, Jean-Luc, and Robert whispered to each other.
    Jean-Luc said, “Since your mommy won’t let you go to the old metro station at night, we will go on ahead and just beat you to another clue. Then we will tell the other teams where to go, and you will be last again.”
    They walked off, laughing. Robert barked.
    â€œI do not know what . . . what was that?” Henri asked.
    â€œI knew that was exactly what my mom would say, so I made up something to text her. And, presto, those three morons are off on a wild goose chase,” I said.
    â€œThey are chasing a goose? Is that like a duck?” Henri asked.
    â€œNo. Sorry. It’s just an expression. It means that they are off in the wrong direction, wasting their time.”
    â€œI am glad they are chasing ducks,” Henri said. “You are . . .” He pointed to his head.
    â€œThanks,” I said. “I have three older brothers who’ve taught me pretty much every trick in the book.”
    â€œWhat book?” Henri asked.
    â€œNever mind. Sorry, there isn’t a book.”
    â€œYes, there is,” Henri said. “Inside. Let’s look for the key in the hotel books.”
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    â€œDo you want to go in the hotel?” Brigitte asked Sylvie, who was still nestled in the bag. “She does.”

12

    Brigitte and Henri went into the lobby, but I walked to the corner where Knit Cap was. He was singing, “It’s time . . . my time . . . my time to fly . . .”
    The words were familiar, but the tune wasn’t.
    Coincidence?
    â€œDid you write those lyrics?” I asked.
    â€œYup. Ages ago. But I couldn’t finish it. I’m good at the music, but not the lyrics.”
    â€œThat’s funny. I’m just the opposite. I write lots of lyrics, but not music,” I said. “But those words you werejust singing. Do you know they were part of the Shock Value contest?”
    â€œYeah. It’s all over Twister.”
    That made sense.
    Then he asked me, “If you write lyrics, then you must sing?”
    â€œUm. No. Not so much,” I said. “My brothers say that I sound like a dying hyena when I sing.”
    â€œYou know,” he said, “sometimes brothers say things that aren’t true just to be mean.” He strummed. “Give it a try: ‘It’s time to fly.’”
    My brothers did a lot to be mean; that was true. I glanced around, and no one I knew was in earshot.
    He coaxed me again. “It’s time to fly,” he sang.
    I inhaled deeply and softly sang, “It’s time—”
    â€œLouder.”
    I inhaled again. “It’s time to FLLLLYYYYYY!”
    Knit Cap took his sunglasses off and looked at me with widened eyes. “O-M-G.”
    â€œThat bad?” I asked. “I told you. Hyena.”
    â€œNo. Your brothers stink. You’re really good. Try again.” He played the lead again and I sang.
    People walking by threw money in the open guitar case. “If you hang with me, I’ll be rich,”