Second Fiddle by Rosanne Parry

Author:Rosanne Parry [Parry, Rosanne]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-0-375-89350-6
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2011-03-22T04:00:00+00:00

took off across the courtyard in front of the Sorbonne and onto the Boulevard Saint Michel. We ran, not caring that people were staring, or even that we were crashing into some of them with our violin cases. Giselle’s cello bumped along on wheels behind her. Medium-sized men in a shirt and tie were as common as litter, but men with crutches were nowhere to be found. In the window of an art supply shop, we saw a man who could be Arvo. We followed him down the street that led to the Panthéon, but he turned out to be a much older man.

It was crazy to think we could find him, but what could we do? He had all our money. We kept heading toward the nearest train station. He couldn’t travel on a child’s ticket, and no way would he want to go back to Berlin, but he could cash our tickets in for a ticket to Poland and be halfway home by midnight. But the farther we ran, the more I second-guessed myself. What if he caught a cab? Could he really walk all this way? And what was I thinking to travel with a stranger? He was a thief. What if everything he’d ever said to me was a lie? We finally made it to the Gare Montparnasse, but Arvo was nowhere to be found.

We were walking now, barely. We trudged through the Luxembourg Gardens and back onto the street. Across from the Odéon theater a beggar sitting on the pavement called out to us for money. He was young and handsome in a pirate way.

“Francs. Marks. Pounds,” he said.

If I’d had a dime, I’d have given it to him. But I didn’t. I shrugged and said, “Sorry.”

“No!” he insisted. “Dollars! Pounds!” He grabbed Vivian’s violin case and dragged her closer.

Vivian gasped as if he’d slapped her. I couldn’t believe it; he’d touched her violin. People crowded right past as if this sort of thing was allowed.

“Let go! Let go! Let go!” Vivi’s voice went higher with each shout until it was nothing but a mouse-sized squeak.

“Dollars!” the beggar insisted.

Even if her backpack had been full of bricks, Vivi wouldn’t weigh eighty pounds. She slid toward the man. Her ballet flats had no traction on the pavement.

“Stop it!” I yelled.

I threw my arms around Vivi’s waist and tugged her backward. Giselle squared her shoulders, tightened her grip on her cello, and got ready to kick the beggar’s hand.

“Giselle, don’t do it!”

I could picture her breaking his bones. I could picture us getting arrested for assault. I guess the beggar could picture the same thing, because he let go of Vivian’s violin and spat out a long stream of French swears. We tumbled backward into the street. A teeny black car squealed right by our heels, horn blaring. The driver leaned out her window and yelled more curses at us. We stumbled across the street. Safe on the opposite street corner, Giselle and I sandwich-hugged Vivi until she stopped shaking.

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