A Whirlwind Vacation (6 page)

Katie sniffed the air. She didn't smell any rotten cabbages. Obviously, she wasn't in the alley anymore.

Slowly, Katie opened her eyes and looked around. She could see her parents sitting at the café across the street, happily enjoying their coffee. She breathed a sigh of relief. At least she hadn't gone far. Katie didn't know her way around Paris. It was good to know that her parents were nearby.

Now Katie knew
where
she was. But she still didn't know
who
she was. Slowly she looked down at her hands. They were large and kind of hairy.
They were a man's hands!

Okay, she was a man. But
what
man?

Maybe her clothes could give her a clue. She was wearing loose-fitting, blue cotton pants. They were stained with different colored paints. So was her white T-shirt. There were little spots of colored paints on her black leather shoes.

Uh-oh.
Katie had turned into a street artist. And not just any artist. Katie had become the artist she and Annabelle had been making fun of!

She sat there for a minute, staring at the painting and wishing that the magic wind would return and change her back. But deep down she knew that was impossible. The magic wind only came when Katie was alone. Right now she was on a busy street.

The other artists certainly were painting very quickly. Once in a while they would glance up at the sky and frown.

Katie followed their glances. The sky was getting pretty dark, and it looked like it was about to rain.

Uh-oh,
Katie thought again.

The artist sitting beside Katie reached over and took a tube of paint from the box of art supplies beside her easel.

“Okay, Pierre?” the artist asked Katie in a heavy French accent.

Well, at least she knew his name. Katie Carew was now Pierre. Unfortunately that was
all
she knew. She had absolutely no idea how to finish the painting in front of her.

But if she didn't finish it, Pierre wouldn't be able to sell his painting. That was how he made a living. Katie had to try. She owed him at least that much.

Katie figured Pierre probably had been trying to paint Notre Dame. After all, he'd been staring at the cathedral as he worked. But to Katie, his canvas just looked like a mess of charcoal-pencil triangles, rectangles, and squares.

Katie decided to begin painting in the shapes. She was pretty sure she could do that. Katie was very good at staying in the lines when she painted. She'd been doing that since first grade.

She picked up a paintbrush, and looked down at the tubes of paint Pierre had arranged so neatly beside his drawing.
Hmmm.
Which one should she start with? Finally, she picked up a tube of red paint and squirted a little bit into the center of one of the squares.

Wow!
That was a really bright red. Katie liked it a lot. She began to move the paint around with the brush, filling in the square perfectly.

Then she picked up another paintbrush and squirted a blob of yellow paint onto the big triangle at the top of the canvas.

Katie began to relax. Painting was a lot of fun. And as long as her parents and the Bridgemans stayed across the street drinking coffee, Katie didn't have to worry about being lost or alone in Paris.

As she colored in a blue square, Katie noticed Annabelle peering out from behind a nearby pole. She obviously didn't want the artists to see her. She must have felt badly about making fun of Pierre's painting, just like Katie had.

The artist sitting next to Katie turned to take a peek at what she was doing on her canvas. Katie leaned back to give him a good look.

Katie thought her painting was nice. Maybe even better than the ones the real artists had done. Their canvases all were covered with gloomy gray, brown, and black paint. They all looked pretty much the same.

But Katie's painting was bright and cheerful—all reds, yellows, greens, and blues. She thought it would make people smile.

And she was right. The other artists did all smile ... and
then they started to laugh.
They were making fun of her!

Katie was really angry. She threw down her paintbrush and jumped up from her chair.

“You guys are so mean!” she exclaimed.

The artists all looked at her strangely. They didn't understand what she was saying. But Annabelle did.

“You don't have to get so mad,” she said as she peeked her head out from behind the pole.

Katie scowled. Annabelle was wrong. She did have a right to be mad. Nobody liked being made fun of.

But Katie didn't feel like explaining that to Annabelle right then. All she wanted to do was get out of there. She really needed to be alone.

Katie stormed off toward the alleyway where she'd hidden before. It smelled just awful. But as far as Katie was concerned, being around stinky cabbages was better than being with Annabelle and the artists!

Katie plopped down on a wooden crate and wiped a tear from her cheek. She had a lot to feel awful about. She'd hurt Pierre's feelings. And the other artists had laughed at her painting. But worst of all, her parents would soon be finished with lunch. They were going to come looking for her any minute.

Katie was going to be in big trouble. Her parents had told her to stay where they could see her. But now, when they looked for Katie, all they'd see was an artist with paint-stained shoes.

And Annabelle was probably wondering where she was, too. After all, Katie had just run off without her.

Katie really wanted to be herself again.
Where was the magic wind when she needed it?

Just then, Katie felt a familiar breeze blowing on the back of her neck. It grew stronger and stronger, blowing all around Katie like a tornado.

And then it stopped.

Katie looked down at her feet. The paint-stained shoes had been replaced by Katie's red high-top sneakers. And she was back in her own purple cargo pants and pink T-shirt.

Woohoo! She was Katie Carew!

Now her parents wouldn't be angry with her for disappearing. Her big problem was solved!

That was more than Pierre could say. As Katie peered out from the alleyway, she could see him sitting in his chair. He was staring at the red, green, blue, and yellow canvas. He looked kind of confused ... and very upset.

Katie felt really bad for him. She really wanted to cheer him up.

“Oh, I like that,” Katie said, walking over toward Pierre.

“You, again!” he shouted. “Didn't I tell you to go away?”

“But I like your painting,” Katie assured him.

“It's not
my
painting,” he told her.

“Yes, it is. I saw you working on it,” Annabelle called out from her hiding place behind the pole.

“I didn't paint ...” Pierre sighed and shook his head. “Or maybe I did. I don't know. I can't really remember.”

“It's really different from everyone else's paintings,” Katie told him.

“It's a mess,” Pierre replied. “I don't know what made me use these colors.”

“If you don't like it, why don't you just get a new canvas and start over?” Annabelle asked him.

“Canvases are expensive,” Pierre told her. “I have to sell this painting before I can buy the paints and canvas. I will need to do another one.” He sighed. “But I don't see how I'm going to sell this.”

His friends obviously didn't think he would sell it either. They were all pointing at his artwork and laughing.

Katie really wished she could help him. But how?

Then, suddenly, she remembered something Ms. Barnes, her art teacher at school, had taught her.

“Maybe you could add some white or black to a few of the shapes,” she suggested. “Then you'll have different shades of the colors.”

“You think I don't know that?” Pierre asked her. “I'm an artist. I know how to change colors. But these are not colors I would want at all. I'm painting Notre Dame. It should be gray and black.”

“It doesn't look like Notre Dame,” Annabelle said. “It looks like squares and triangles.”

Pierre rolled his eyes. “Foolish child. This is abstract art. It's not supposed to look like Notre Dame. But it is supposed to be dark and gloomy.”

“Why?” Katie asked him. “Everyone does it that way. I think it's great that you did something different. Sometimes change can be good.”

Pierre shrugged. “I suppose,” he said slowly. “It's worth a try. Maybe I can save this after all.” He put a dab of white paint in the middle of a blue square and began to swirl it around with his paintbrush.

“Oh, that's pretty,” Katie said as she watched the bright blue become lighter. It looked just like the color of the sky.

“It's not bad,” Pierre agreed. He added a touch of gray paint to Katie's red triangle. “Not bad at all.”

Katie and Annabelle watched as Pierre finished the painting. He worked quickly, changing the shades of several of the colors. He sketched in a few more shapes and painted them in.

As Pierre put the finishing strokes on his canvas, the girls' parents walked across the street.

“Did you have a good time?” Mr. Carew asked as he came up beside Katie.

She nodded. “We're watching Pierre finish his painting of Notre Dame.”

Pierre looked at her strangely. “How do you know my name?”

Katie gulped.
How was she going to explain this one?

“It says Pierre right there, on your paint box,” Annabelle pointed out.

Katie breathed a sigh of relief.
Phew.
That had been close.

Mr. Bridgeman looked at the artists' easels. Most of the men leaned back to give him a better view of their work. Pierre leaned forward. He didn't want anyone seeing this painting.

But it was Pierre's artwork that Mr. Bridgeman focused on the longest. “This is very interesting,” he said. “I haven't seen anything like it.”

“Well, it's not my best work ...” Pierre began.

“I think it's fantastic,” Mrs. Bridgeman interrupted him. “It's just what I was looking for. I need a cheerful painting like this for my new house in Houston.”

“You use wonderful colors,” Mr. Bridgeman told Pierre. “They're so bright.”

“It's a change for me,” Pierre told the Bridgemans. “And change can be good.” He winked at Katie. Katie winked back.

The other artists watched as Mr. and Mrs. Bridgeman talked about how much the painting would cost. The Bridgemans were paying for it in Euros, the kind of money a lot of countries in Europe use.

Katie had no idea how much the painting cost in American dollars. But it must have been expensive, because the other artists seemed really impressed. They weren't laughing at Pierre anymore. One of the men even splashed a big blob of yellow paint onto the center of his gray, black, and brown painting.