The Road to Paris Read online

  BUT WHERE WAS HOME?

  Not with the Boones. Not with Grandma. Not even with Viola, because she never seemed to belong anywhere, in particular.

  Home was such a funny word. For most kids, home was where your mom and dad lived, where you felt safe, where the bogeyman was merely make-believe. Home was where you knew every square inch of the place by heart, where you could wake up in the middle of the night and know exactly where you were without even opening your eyes. Paris didn't have a place like that. She didn't even have an address she'd lived at long enough to memorize, no single place that felt familiar as all that. Except maybe the city itself.

  For Paris, home was more a person, and that person was Malcolm.

  I could follow that river back to Malcolm. But how do I know Malcolm is even there anymore?

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  THE ROAD TO PARIS

  Nikki Grimes

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

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  Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in the United States of America by G. P. Putnam's Sons,

  a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2006

  Published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2008

  Copyright © Nikki Grimes, 2006

  All rights reserved

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Grimes, Nikki.

  The road to Paris / Nikki Grimes.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Inconsolable at being separated from her older brother, eight-year-old Paris is apprehensive

  about her new foster family but just as she learns to trust them, she faces a life-changing decision.

  [1. Foster home care—Fiction. 2. African Americans—Fiction. 3. Brothers and sisters—Fiction.]

  I. Title. PZ7.G88429Ro 2006 [Fic]—dc22 2005028920

  Puffin Books ISBN: 978-1-101-65800-0

  Design by Marikka Tamura.

  Text set in Cg Cloister.

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that

  it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise

  circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover

  other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition

  including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume

  any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  For Kendall Buchanan,

  my foster brother,

  and for the children of

  Royal Family Kids

  Camp.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Running Away

  Chapter 2: To Grandmother’s House We Go

  Chapter 3: Short Term

  Chapter 4: Train Ride

  Chapter 5: Meeting the Lincolns

  Chapter 6: First Night

  Chapter 7: Backyard Beast

  Chapter 8: Breathless

  Chapter 9: Secret

  Chapter 10: New School

  Chapter 11: Nat King Cole

  Chapter 12: 99 Bottles of Beer

  Chapter 13: Fun and Games

  Chapter 14: Thanksgiving

  Chapter 15: Address Unknown

  Chapter 16: Marching to Zion

  Chapter 17: Jingle Bells

  Chapter 18: Fort Friendly

  Chapter 19: What Hearts

  Chapter 20: Fast Track

  Chapter 21: The Visit

  Chapter 22: Homecoming

  Chapter 23: Choir Practice

  Chapter 24: Saturday Surprise

  Chapter 25: Word

  Chapter 26: Easter Sunday

  Chapter 27: The Photograph

  Chapter 28: A Time to Weed

  Chapter 29: The Great Escape

  Chapter 30: Family Portrait

  Chapter 31: May 24

  Chapter 32: The Introduction

  Chapter 33: Gone Fishing

  Chapter 34: Me and my Shadow

  Chapter 35: Phone Call

  Chapter 36: The Gamble

  Chapter 37: Destinations Unlimited

  PROLOGUE

  Ask Paris if a phone call can be deadly. She’ll tell you. She learned the truth of it last night.

  The evening seemed perfect. To begin with, it was the tail end of spring, Paris’ favorite season of the year. If you took a deep breath in the rainwashed air of Ossining, the spring green would pinch your nose with the tart smell of young leaves and the light scent of lilacs. You’d find a profusion of them right in the backyard of the brown-shingled box of a house where Paris lived. She’d clipped a few lilac blossoms for the table, and plumped them up prettily in a jelly jar. What did she care about fancy vases? It was the smell she was after. And, jelly jar or no, the fragrant patch of purple did a fine job of sprucing up the dinner table.

  As she did every evening, Paris bowed her head while Dad said grace. Keeping her eyes shut tight was another matter altogether. Jordan kept kicking her under the table. She shot him a few warning looks, for all the good they did. If he didn’t stop kicking her soon, she’d have to order up a brand-new pair of shins. She wouldn’t tell on him, though. She never did. After all, he was just being a garden-variety pest, like every other little brother on the planet, and that felt normal. In the world of Paris Richmond, normal was rare, and rich.

  “Amen,” said Dad in his rumbling bass. Mom piled spaghetti and meatballs on the first plate and sent it down the table.

  “Oh! Paris, could you get the garlic bread out of the oven? I forgot it.”

  Paris hopped up from the table and grabbed the oven mitts. She’d forgotten the last time, and still had the burn marks to prove it.

  She placed the foil bundle in a basket, peeled back the edges, and leaned down so the buttery steam could warm her face.

  “Today!” snapped David, just to bug her. She whirled around and stuck her tongue out at him when Mom wasn’t looking, then passed the basket to Dad, who was clear at the other end of the table from David.

  So there!

  Paris settled back into her chair, grabbed her fork, and put it to work climbing the mountain of spaghetti o
n her plate. That was when the telephone rang. Mom rose to answer it.

  “Paris, it’s for you.”

  Paris took a bite of bread, then went to the phone, licking garlic butter from her fingers.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, sweetie,” said a familiar voice. “It’s me.”

  Paris held her breath. Time always stopped when her birth mother was on the other end of the line. Why is she calling me? What does she want this time?

  Paris listened. Viola, her twice-divorced mother, had recently remarried. She wanted to give this family thing another go.

  “Paris,” she said, “I want you and your brother Malcolm to come home.”

  No! thought Paris, dropping the phone as if it were too hot to handle. Not now!

  Paris rubbed the burn mark on her palm. In her mind, she knew the pain of it was nothing more than memory. So why did it feel real, again? And where had her perfect evening disappeared to?

  Paris slid to the floor, leaning her full weight against the kitchen cabinet.

  The phone cord swung out from the wall and sent the handset banging loudly against the doorjamb.

  “Hello? Hello? Are you still there?” said the tinny voice on the phone.

  “Paris, what’s the matter?” asked Dad.

  “Oh, Lord, what did that woman say to her? James, help her up,” Mom said to Dad.

  “Hey, Sis. Stop fooling around and get up,” said Jordan.

  “Yeah,” said David.

  Paris looked over at her foster family. They were all speaking at once. She could tell because she saw their mouths moving. But for some reason, her ears weren’t working. Paris couldn’t hear a thing.

  Chapter 1

  RUNNING AWAY

  The trouble with running away is you know what you’re leaving behind, but not what’s waiting up ahead. Paris Richmond learned that a year ago when she and her brother Malcolm ran away from a foster home in Queens.

  They slipped out of the brick two-story house one morning in late summer, hours before the heat would wring them dry. Malcolm moved free and easy in shorts and T-shirt, his head shaved cool and clean for summer. Paris, on the other hand, felt weighed down by the humidity. Her sundress kept her body comfortable enough, but her thick halo of blonde waves hung limp and heavy this time of year. She kept stopping to brush stray strands from her eyes, or off her damp forehead. Sometimes she’d rest her suitcase on the sidewalk so she could use both hands.

  Paris trudged down the street after her brother, totally oblivious to the amazing swath of sky, a marble of sun-streaked clouds and marine blue patches. Her attention was on Malcolm’s rapidly receding back.

  “Hurry up!” said Malcolm. “Or we’ll get caught. Is that what you want?”

  Paris shook her head no. The last thing she wanted to do was get caught.

  The foster home they were leaving was no place to be. The mother, Mrs. Boone, slapped Paris around every time her real daughter did something that called for punishment. You’d think she was playing some freak game of tag, and every single time, Paris was It. The woman never tried beating on Malcolm, though. But then, why chase down a ten-year-old who’d sink his teeth into you if he got half the chance when you’ve got a quiet, acquiescent eight-year-old to kick around?

  Just last week, Mrs. Boone had grabbed Paris and dragged her off to the bedroom, a strap dangling from her free hand. Malcolm followed close behind.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Stay out of this, Malcolm,” warned Mrs. Boone.

  “You leave Paris alone!” he screamed. “She didn’t do anything!” But the woman turned a deaf ear, locking the bedroom door behind her.

  Malcolm banged his fists on the door.

  “You better not hurt my sister!” he yelled.

  Malcolm couldn’t yell loudly enough to cover his sister’s cries, but that never stopped him from trying.

  After each beating, the daughter, Lisa, would swear she had no clue how her mama got the mistaken notion that Paris was the one who’d smashed a favorite vase, or stained the kitchen tablecloth, or whatever. My name is Paris, not Stupid, Paris would say to herself. And the last time Lisa made up a story, Paris called her a liar to her face. Lisa was shocked. Paris was rather surprised, herself. Malcolm was usually the one who did all the talking. Generally, Paris kept her thoughts to herself. She didn’t want to give Mrs. Boone any excuse to lock her up in the closet again, like she’d done every day the first month Malcolm and Paris were there.

  They’d told their mother, one of the few times she called, but Viola just thought they were making it up. No matter what Paris said, or didn’t say, the beatings kept coming, and there didn’t seem to be anything to do about them, except run away.

  • • •

  Early that morning, Malcolm snuck into Mrs. Boone’s purse and grabbed enough cash for the train and bus. He and Paris tiptoed out of the house while the Boones were enjoying their Saturday morning sleep in. The streets were empty at that hour, except for a drunk huddled in a vestibule, and he didn’t pay much attention to a couple of kids passing by.

  Paris told her legs and feet to get a move on, and they did. Her suitcase kept bumping up against her leg, but she didn’t care. She and Malcolm practically ran the last half of the block and set a dog off barking like crazy. Paris looked around to see if it was coming after her and almost missed a curb. Good thing Malcolm had waited for her at the corner. He caught her by the elbow before she toppled.

  “Watch yourself,” said Malcolm, in his grown-up voice. They hurried to the bus stop two blocks over and stood so long, their feet grew roots in the sidewalk. Finally, the bus came. Malcolm climbed up first to pay for their fare, then reached down for his sister’s suitcase. On another day, she might have told him that she could do it herself, but not this day. Her arm was sore from lugging that battered old case. She handed it over.

  Paris followed Malcolm to the middle of the bus. Soon as they were settled, she turned to her brother and asked, “Malcolm, are you sure you know where we’re going?”

  Chapter 2

  TO GRANDMOTHER’S HOUSE WE GO

  They were on their way to their grandmother’s house in Washington Heights. Malcolm reminded her there was nowhere else for them to go.

  Paris’ white blue-eyed father abandoned her when she was four. Apparently, he couldn’t handle being seen walking down the street with a child whose skin was so much darker than his own. He’d wince every time she called him Daddy in public. Malcolm’s father had been even more of a stranger. He lasted less than a year. Malcolm had seen a picture of him, but that was the extent of his familiarity. As for their mother, she had no use for them. She was the reason they were in foster care to begin with.

  Paris blamed it on drink. Her mother blamed it on loneliness. In a way, they were both right. Viola drank some when her most recent husband, Clark, was around, but she drank even more after he was gone.

  Paris remembered clearly the night he left. They were sitting at the dinner table, plowing through mounds of mashed sweet potatoes, fried chicken wings, and green beans, too.

  Clark polished off the first helping and belched without apology. He reached for more chicken, but Malcolm moved the platter, then smiled. If Viola hadn’t been there, Clark would have smacked Malcolm, and they both knew it.

  Whenever Clark had too much to drink, which was about every Friday after he got paid, he was in the habit of smacking Malcolm around, as long as Viola wasn’t looking. Malcolm never told her, though. He figured it was something his mother didn’t really want to hear. Paris didn’t like it one bit.

  This evening, though, with Viola in the room, Malcolm could do whatever he wanted, and Clark wouldn’t dare touch him.

  For a second time, Clark reached for the platter, and Malcolm pulled it away.

  “Stop it, Malcolm!” snapped Viola.

  Paris pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.

  When Clark reached for the chicken a third time and Mal
colm yanked the dish away, Paris burst out laughing.

  Clark banged his fist on the table and shot up out of his chair.

  “That’s it!” he spat out. “I’m outta here!”

  “Aw, baby,” Viola cooed, “don’t be like that.” She snatched the platter from Malcolm, boring her eyes into his before turning back to Clark.

  “Here, sugar,” she said, holding the dish out to him. “Here’s all the chicken you can eat. And I can always fry some more.”

  “Forget it,” said Clark, heading for the door. Viola set the plate down, slipped past Clark, and blocked his path.

  “Look, honey, I’m sorry about Malcolm. He was just playing. You know how kids are.”

  “Actually, I don’t know. And guess what? I’m really not into raising somebody else’s brats.”

  “Clark, look, if you want, I can send the kids to my mother’s for a while so we can have some time alone. How would that be?” The more desperate Viola got, the softer her voice became. But Clark just pushed past her and disappeared into their bedroom. Viola ran in after him.

  Paris and Malcolm stayed at the table, picking at their food quietly.

  A few minutes later, Clark slammed out the door, suitcase in hand. Viola stayed locked in her bedroom for the rest of the night.

  “Good riddance,” said Malcolm.

  “Yeah,” said Paris. “Good riddance.”

  Clark being gone was nothing but good for Malcolm and Paris. As far as Paris was concerned, he was nobody her mom should be lonely over. And yet, Viola was.

  That was when Viola started going to the local bars every night, where she drank to make herself feel better. Sometimes, that “feeling better” took days, and Paris and Malcolm would be left home alone. Malcolm did his best to take care of himself and his little sister.

  One day, their grandmother dropped by during one of Viola’s absences and discovered the truth. She called Child Welfare immediately, and Paris and Malcolm had been in foster care ever since. Grandma was the one family they had left.

  One bus and two subway train rides after leaving Queens, Paris climbed the stairs of her grandmother’s brownstone and rang the bell. A voice crackled from the intercom.