In the Bag Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Kate Klise
standing in front of Cour du Commerce Saint-André, a lovely cobblestone passageway. It was at number 9 that Dr. Joseph-Ignace Guillotin allegedly perfected the decapitating device.
“Believe it or not, Dr. Guillotin was opposed to the death penalty,” I told Coco. “He hoped the guillotine, which he didn’t invent by the way, would replace more gruesome forms of execution, like hanging. And that it might be the first step to abolishing executions altogether.”
Coco stared at the building. “Actually, I would love a picture of that. I wish I had my camera. Or my phone.”
I could feel my chest tightening. Were we actually going to spend the whole week lamenting every missed photo op? If so, I would need an appointment with Dr. Guillotin.
“But it’s not like this is the only time I’ll ever be on this street in my whole life,” she countered, as if reading my mind. “I should write about it. Or sketch it—with colored pencils. I bet I’d get extra credit in French class.”
“That’s a great idea,” I said. “I’m sure we can find colored pencils. We’re in Paris, the city of art and artists.”
“And executioners!” Coco said, laughing wickedly and tucking her arm through mine.
“Don’t be too hard on Dr. Guillotin,” I cautioned. “He was a humanitarian and a reformist. Executions in his day were public spectacles and almost unimaginably brutal. That’s what he was fighting against.”
“Oh, I just love gruesome stuff like this,” Coco purred, pulling me closer. “Let’s wander around and look at everything creepy and cool.”
And we did. The entire afternoon.
We should’ve been back at Solange’s apartment, taking naps and trying to shake off our jet lag. This was still our arrival day. But it felt wonderful to wander the narrow streets, admiring the beauty that enveloped us.
Hours later, when we weren’t hungry for dinner, we decided to get some pastries to take back to the apartment. We chose a patisserie based on the spellbinding window display of pastel meringues stacked with architectural precision.
“The French know how to do sweets like nobody else,” I told Coco. It was the reason I’d studied in Paris twenty years earlier. I was heartened that I could still remember most of the names of the delicacies: opéra, tropizenne, castel, mille-feuilles, éclair au chocolat ou café.
“Mom, what do you want?” Coco asked when we were inside.
“Hmm,” I said, mulling over the possibilities. The tartes des pommes looked lovely. So fresh and light and unlike the morbidly heavy Death by Chocolate monstrosities I saw on too many American menus.
“Mom, what do you want ?” Coco repeated.
And with that question, the spell was broken. Because instead of delighting in the edible art in front of my eyes, I was remembering that idiotic headline in the Chicago Tribune .
“What do I want?” I asked, feeling my blood pressure rising. “I want people to stop asking me what the hell I want.”
I caught myself. Don’t take your frustrations out on Coco, I could hear Nancy the wonder therapist telling me. Anxiety is unexpressed anger. Breathe deeply. Are you angry at Coco? No. But you are angry. Who are you angry with? I’m not angry, I’m just tired. I need a small vacation .
I took a deep breath and tried again. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I want whatever you’re having.”
Coco smiled mysteriously and ordered a small, hideous-looking thing called séduction .
CHAPTER 13
Webb
D ad was going to be busy with work stuff for hours, so I could’ve responded to Coco’s message right away. But that would’ve seemed lame, especially given her “Answer at your leisure” suggestion. Wasn’t that code for “Dude, don’t e-mail me for a while”?
I logged off and left the hotel. The concierge was still at his post. He smiled and lifted his chin at me.
“Luego,” I said with a wave. I felt like a dope using my crappy high school Spanish. But it seemed ruder to expect
“Believe it or not, Dr. Guillotin was opposed to the death penalty,” I told Coco. “He hoped the guillotine, which he didn’t invent by the way, would replace more gruesome forms of execution, like hanging. And that it might be the first step to abolishing executions altogether.”
Coco stared at the building. “Actually, I would love a picture of that. I wish I had my camera. Or my phone.”
I could feel my chest tightening. Were we actually going to spend the whole week lamenting every missed photo op? If so, I would need an appointment with Dr. Guillotin.
“But it’s not like this is the only time I’ll ever be on this street in my whole life,” she countered, as if reading my mind. “I should write about it. Or sketch it—with colored pencils. I bet I’d get extra credit in French class.”
“That’s a great idea,” I said. “I’m sure we can find colored pencils. We’re in Paris, the city of art and artists.”
“And executioners!” Coco said, laughing wickedly and tucking her arm through mine.
“Don’t be too hard on Dr. Guillotin,” I cautioned. “He was a humanitarian and a reformist. Executions in his day were public spectacles and almost unimaginably brutal. That’s what he was fighting against.”
“Oh, I just love gruesome stuff like this,” Coco purred, pulling me closer. “Let’s wander around and look at everything creepy and cool.”
And we did. The entire afternoon.
We should’ve been back at Solange’s apartment, taking naps and trying to shake off our jet lag. This was still our arrival day. But it felt wonderful to wander the narrow streets, admiring the beauty that enveloped us.
Hours later, when we weren’t hungry for dinner, we decided to get some pastries to take back to the apartment. We chose a patisserie based on the spellbinding window display of pastel meringues stacked with architectural precision.
“The French know how to do sweets like nobody else,” I told Coco. It was the reason I’d studied in Paris twenty years earlier. I was heartened that I could still remember most of the names of the delicacies: opéra, tropizenne, castel, mille-feuilles, éclair au chocolat ou café.
“Mom, what do you want?” Coco asked when we were inside.
“Hmm,” I said, mulling over the possibilities. The tartes des pommes looked lovely. So fresh and light and unlike the morbidly heavy Death by Chocolate monstrosities I saw on too many American menus.
“Mom, what do you want ?” Coco repeated.
And with that question, the spell was broken. Because instead of delighting in the edible art in front of my eyes, I was remembering that idiotic headline in the Chicago Tribune .
“What do I want?” I asked, feeling my blood pressure rising. “I want people to stop asking me what the hell I want.”
I caught myself. Don’t take your frustrations out on Coco, I could hear Nancy the wonder therapist telling me. Anxiety is unexpressed anger. Breathe deeply. Are you angry at Coco? No. But you are angry. Who are you angry with? I’m not angry, I’m just tired. I need a small vacation .
I took a deep breath and tried again. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I want whatever you’re having.”
Coco smiled mysteriously and ordered a small, hideous-looking thing called séduction .
CHAPTER 13
Webb
D ad was going to be busy with work stuff for hours, so I could’ve responded to Coco’s message right away. But that would’ve seemed lame, especially given her “Answer at your leisure” suggestion. Wasn’t that code for “Dude, don’t e-mail me for a while”?
I logged off and left the hotel. The concierge was still at his post. He smiled and lifted his chin at me.
“Luego,” I said with a wave. I felt like a dope using my crappy high school Spanish. But it seemed ruder to expect
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