“You should never ask ‘Do you want more tea? It suggests gluttony,” asserted Penelope, “just ‘Would you like some tea?’”
She pretended to pour a thimble-sized cup for a stuffed mouse dressed as a ballerina. I knew it was up to me to serve imaginary slices of lemon cake to an expectant Hop the kangaroo, Norm the bunny, and my personal favourite, the long-suffering Bussi the chimp. As Penelope looked on critically, I performed my duties with an experienced hand. I pushed out of my mind the fact that we were many years removed from this sort of thing and concentrated on paying off my debt to Penelope for leaving her at the mercy of Mademoiselle Lesage for a week last summer in Paris while I tried to save the city from perpetual darkness and the destruction of its most important historical monuments. Really!
I knew that the slightest resistance on my part could bring out the doll wedding finery.
“Bussi, more ... I mean, would you care for a spot of tea, old boy?”
Penelope’s eyes narrowed; I was on shaky ground here, although a part of me suspected she was long since done with the tea parties of our preschool years and was just torturing me because she could. I also wanted to borrow her safety pin bracelet, the only cool piece of jewellery she owned as far as I was concerned, for my return trip to Paris. Penelope, as usual, read my mind.
“You used to love doing the special menus as I recall, Mackenzie.”
I winced. Only Penelope at her most superior and my grandpa could get away with calling me anything but Mac. I also used to love the Playdough hair salon, too. Penelope sighed and got up, signalling the end of our fourth tea party this week.
“So, what do you need for your trip? If you didn’t borrow anything, you wouldn’t have any luggage. How about my cute little pirate blouse and the leather vest with the big buttons?”
“Umm, how about the bracelet that Gerald gave you,” I said meekly, referring to Penelope’s first real boyfriend.
(Let it be acknowledged that the boyfriend concept was foreign to me. There were some maybes, a couple of could bes, but no wannabes that I knew of.)
“Pas de problème,” said Penelope, pulling it out of a giant jewellery box and holding it out. She pulled it back just as quickly and eyed me suspiciously. “As long as you don’t wear it with corduroy, denim, or anything Pippi Longstocking would be seen in.”
That covered my entire wardrobe, unfortunately, but when I pictured the Russian Church on rue Daru in Paris, done up for a wedding, I knew she had a point. Dutifully being Penelope’s paper doll, I suffered through a frilly fashion parade till we settled on a simple velvet dress, short jacket, and boots that pinched like crazy, but which I had to admit looked pretty cool. She slipped the bracelet in place and stepped back.
“Voilà! Not bad at all.”
Looking at myself, I suppressed a grin and said, “Okay, if you say so, Madame Chanel.”
“I see a young tousle-haired Parisian garçon with a shy smile in your future, Mac.”
“Right. Hey, let’s get our bikes, go to the top of the canyon, and race all the way down through Lower Mandeville. We haven’t done that in ages.”
Penelope closed her eyes and slowly exhaled. “I’ll have Daddy deliver your outfit before you leave tomorrow. I’m pretty sure my bike’s got a flat.”
Fashion — la mode, as they call it in Paris — had eluded me completely. My mom and Penelope’s efforts had gone to waste; they might form a support group any day. My mom says every wardrobe needs basics and a few “statement” pieces. My statement is “I couldn’t care less.” Or is it “I could care less”? I can never remember. Mind you, I do appreciate scarves, thanks to Sashay, the bride-to-be, and the fact that a scarf pretty much saved my life. There’s a great ad here: “Stylish! Warm! And it prevents you from tumbling to your death from the spiky rooftop of a twelfth-century Gothic cathedral. On sale now!” But that’s another story, one you may already know if you heard about my first trip to The City of Light.