Page 104 of The Perils of Paulie
“Ten kilometers,” I said, reading the sign that flashed by us. Dixon had the Flyer pushed to its limits now, the engine and wind roaring away at us, bugs and dirt splattering not only the car and window but our goggles, faces, and clothing. Every now and again, when it was safe to do so, Tabby drove alongside us and Sam hung out of their car and filmed us.
“Five kilometers.” I gripped the logbook with nervous, sweaty hands and checked the clock on my phone. It was dark now, the night air cooling down with a hint of rain, and the lights of the suburbs and oncoming traffic startedblurring. Neither one of us had rested since we crossed into France, and I felt slightly nauseous. I realized with a start that we hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
“You know where we’re going?” Dixon asked for the third time.
I would have pointed out that fact, but knew he was just as nervous as me, so instead I pulled open the logbook to the printed map of Paris and instructions on the building where we were to meet. “The automobile museum on rue Béarnaise, yes. I have GPS ready once we hit our exit.”
“Three kilometers now,” he said, and flashed a grin at me. “We gave it a good shot even if we didn’t do it.”
“Do you think Roger would tell us if they got there before us?” I asked, breathing deeply to keep the nausea at bay.
“No. That’s why Sam is sticking so close on our tail—they want to film us arriving, and our surprise at winning... or losing.”
“Can I punch the Esses if we lose?”
“No, but you can write rude things in your journal about them,” he said, laughter rich in his voice. “I certainly plan on doing so. One kilometer. Which exit?”
I reminded him for the fifth time of the exit, and then gave him the next couple of turns he needed to make after that as we came into Paris proper.
“I feel like there should be a brass band waiting for us, but here it is almost two in the morning and everyone is asleep. Golly, Dixon. We’ve driven around the world!”
“It certainly seems like it, doesn’t it?”
“OK, we flew across the ocean, but still, we drove from New York City and here we are in Paris.” Excited ripples of goose bumps prickled on my arms at the lights of Paris, shining brightly even at the ungodly hour. “Left at rue Béarnaise, then get in the right lane and make a right at the next intersection. It should be on the right side of the street. Oh man. I think I’m going to be sick.”
He shot me a startled look. “Should I pull over?”
“You do and I’ll strangle you where you sit,” I said, gritting my teeth and ignoring the fact that Tabby had pulled alongside us again with Sam hanging precariously out of the window. I refused to turn to face him, instead nervously watching the road ahead as Dixon made each turn. “There it is!” I shouted, pointing.
Two blocks away a sign indicated the automobile museum. Dixon, with more presence of mind than I had, calmly pulled into the parking lot and proceeded around to the back of the building, where a couple of bright arc lights had been set up along with an awning and a cluster of people. There was a handful of cars there, but as I worriedly ran my eyes over them, wave after wave of goose bumps rippled down my back. “They aren’t here! We did it! Holy hellballs, we did it! Dixon!”
“We did it—I know, I heard you!” he said, laughing as he came to a stop. Behind us, Sam burst from his car and circled around to catch our faces on camera. Roger, all smiles and with a big bouquet of flowers, broke free from the group of production assistants and network officials who had evidently stayed up all night to meet us.
“Congratulations, Sufferin’ Suffragettes, our New York City to Paris race winners!” Roger said loudly, and paused while everyone applauded. Tabby did a little congratulatory dance behind Sam as I stood up in the car and whooped, then allowed Dixon to help me out of the car.
“We won, we won. We beat those”—I caught Dixon’s eye and changed what I was going to say—“worthy opponent Esses. We won! I can’t believe it! We won!”
And then I threw up all over the ground, only narrowly missing Dixon’s feet.
Paulina Rostakova’s Adventures
AUGUST 14
11:22 a.m.
Paris, City of Love
Had to stop writing in midexplanation of what happened when my father suddenly appeared in my hotel room. Which is also Dixon’s hotel room, and since he was having a long shower to try to... Wait. Let me do this in the correct order. Man, that foreshadowing stuff is insidious.
“That’s going to make the gag reel,” I heard Tabby say when I clutched my pink skirt and tried to ralph up my guts.
“Literally,” Sam agreed.
“Good god! Are you drunk or ill?” Roger said, doing a fast sidestep to get out of the way.
Dixon, a man of fast reflexes, not only moved out of the danger zone but also had the presence of mind to gather up my veil and hold it back so it didn’t fall into the mess.
“Sorry,” I said when my stomach stopped dry heaving. “I think it was nerves. It’s been so stressful these last few hours, and we didn’t have food or water, and I feel a bit woozy to be honest...”
