Take the Key and Lock Her Up (Embassy Row 3)

When I see her cell phone peeking out of the top of the bag, I don’t stop to ponder that I’m about to commit the second crime of my life. I don’t worry about the stain upon my record or my soul. It’s too late for that.

Murder is hard to top, after all.

So I pull the phone from the woman’s purse and keep walking. I don’t let myself run. I just move smoothly away.

Maybe I should find a hotel or a youth hostel, some place where I can eat some food and take a shower and think. I know I need to think. But thinking has never done anything but get me into trouble.

So I dart into a dark and twisty side street. There’s a dim doorway, and that’s where I stand, hidden in shadow as I dial and wait for the voice at the other end of the line.

I don’t want to hear it.

And I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t.

I just stand, shaking, listening until I hear: “Hello.”

“It’s me,” I blurt. Even my whispers are too loud in the silence. I put my hand over my mouth and the phone. “No. Don’t say my name,” I say. “I’m … I’m in trouble. I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

My voice cracks, and maybe I’d even cry if I still had tears. But I don’t. So I just crumble to the ground, my back sliding against the heavy wooden door until I reach the dirty stoop. I pull my knees up and rest my head against them, the phone still pressed to my ear like a lifeline to another world.

“I don’t know who to trust. I don’t … I need help.” Probably the hardest three words in the English language, so for good measure I say them again. “I need help. Will you—”

I listen. I breathe. And in the end, I find some tears after all as I say, “Paris. I’m in Paris.”

Tourists are the same everywhere—every city, every language. It’s a crazy thing that I’ve started to realize: that the very act of seeing other cultures can make the see-ers so the same.

That’s why it almost feels like home the next morning as I stand in the long line of people waiting to board a big red bus. There are fancy cameras and backpacks and sensible shoes.

It’s a good place to hide, I learned long ago. Teenagers are supposed to be dragged along behind adults, sulky and sullen. No one looks or wonders or worries about me here. Everyone just assumes I’m someone else’s kid—someone else’s problem.

So the driver takes my ticket and looks at my Eiffel Tower sweatshirt and the hair I washed in a bathroom sink this morning. I practically feel like a new person. It’s a shame it isn’t true.

I walk alone down the center aisle, then up the twisting stairs that lead to the top deck. It’s open, and the cool air hits me in the face, jolting me fully awake. It’s a good thing. I can’t be sloppy now, not tired or slow. I need to stay moving just a little while longer. If I don’t, I might never move again.

The driver speaks in heavily accented English, but I don’t care about the sights. I just needed to get on a bus. Now. I needed a ride and a good place to rest. To wait. To think.

Paris really is a beautiful city. Maybe someday Jamie and I can come here together. Someday when he is healthy and strong and we’re both safe. He’d like it, I think. The history, the food. Jamie likes everything. He is always able to see the good. Even in me. And that is maybe his only weakness.

“If you will look to our left,” the guide says, “we have turned onto a street where you might find your own countries, but here, in the heart of Paris. Many call it Embassy Row.”

I turn my head and watch the buildings streak by, but I don’t try to recognize the flags, read the signs. I’ve only had a croissant to eat, and the cup of coffee that I forced down an hour ago rebels inside my stomach. I want to be sick. But I’m surrounded by people taking pictures and smiling and enjoying the cool air and warm sun. I’m in one of the world’s most beautiful cities, but I’m not lucky. When we pass the Eiffel Tower, I don’t even see it.

The bus is almost at a bridge. We’re slowing down. Some people will hop off here, I know. Others will hop on. Tourists will make this loop all day around the city. My ticket is good for twenty-four hours, but I have to get off. I can’t stay here, sit here. Wait. I’m through waiting.

I have someone to meet.

So I bolt out of my seat and down the twisty stairs. The bus is just starting to move again when I jump, landing on the sidewalk.

There’s an intricate railing along the bridge. Tourists and lovers lean against it, looking down at the river below. It really is a beautiful day, I have to admit. The wind blows through my hair, a slight chill to the breeze, but I feel cozy inside my new cheesy sweatshirt.

Maybe that’s why, when I hear the voice, I don’t immediately turn. It’s like I’m hearing it in a dream.

“Grace?” the voice comes again, and that’s when I know it’s true. But even so, I’m not quite sure it’s her.

It has to be, though. This is the time. The place. So I force myself to look beyond the plain denim jeans and sensible shoes—the lightweight trench coat she wears belted around her tiny waist. She’s in a ball cap and dark glasses. No makeup. And still people look. Some even stare. No matter what, she is an absolutely beautiful woman.

Right now, she looks like a movie star, but even I don’t really think she looks like a princess. Ann’s one of the most recognizable women in the world, and yet no one here seems to recognize her. It just goes to show how people always see what they want to.