Chameleon by Cidney Swanson Page B

for better memories. Me and Will, pounding the pavement early to beat the triple–digit heat of central California. Eating raspberries with Sylvia. Bear hugs from my dad. I found the part of myself that didn’t want to go back inside the grayed–out world of my childhood.
    I found it and I held on, tight.
    Taking slow, deliberate breaths, I forced myself to notice my surroundings as students gawked at the Arc de Triomphe. Burning brakes. Gauloises cigarettes. Fresh–baked baguettes. It felt cold. Moisture in the air. A steady breeze. Then a wash of warm and sooty air gusted up from a set of Métro stairs.
    Someone nudged me. Will. “You kind of leave us back there for awhile?”
    I lifted my gaze from the scuffed toes of my boots. “A little.”
    His eyes, dark orbs, held mine.
    “But I’m back,” I whispered.
    “C’mon,” said Will. “Let’s go see the Eiffel Tower.”
    “Sounds good,” I said.
    Will smiled and brushed fingers across the back of my hand as we crowded down the Métro stairs once more.
    “Where’s Sir Walter?” I asked amid the clatter of trains and press of bodies.
    “Said he’d meet us at the Eiffel Tower,” Mickie replied. “He needed to contact someone about the book.”
    Once again, I felt a tickle at the back of my mind. We’ve got to tell Sir Walter about Helga’s book .

Excerpted from My Father’s Brilliant Journey, by Helga Gottlieb
    The Experiments conducted by my father during the 1930’s and 1940’s had a brilliant aim: the creation of a loyal army of chameleons. Some may criticize his methods, and whom better to respond to such a criticism than myself?
    As one of his more successful experiments, I can attest that neither harm nor cruelty were inflicted needlessly. The strict regime under which I and my siblings were raised has only served to develop in us the ability to transcend ordinary human limitations. We are hindered neither by weakened emotions nor enfeebled bodies. We are the living proof of my father’s genius, should any such proof be deemed necessary.
    Some might argue that his methods were crude. Certainly they were at times. It was war time, and in many things my father had to make do with what lay at hand.
    But who today could design a more perfect way in which to ensure the indebtedness of one human to another? I still recall from my days of solitary isolation how the man I knew only as Herr Doctor told me I was special. Such words are powerful in a child’s growth. With kind attention and with food, he assured my loyalty. I became indebted and remain to this day indebted to the greatest Man of Science the world has known.
    Crude his methods may have been; successful they most certainly were.

Chapter Twelve
GRAVITY
    Upon exiting the Métro , we emerged in the shadow of the iconic Eiffel Tower.
    “It’s freaking huge,” said Will.
    Beside him, his sister nodded, her mouth falling slightly open.
    It was the actual Tour Eiffel , just like on the cover of our French book. Our group dispersed—from here we were on our own. We three walked towards the tower, but it was like we never got any closer.
    Will grunted. “Food. Smell that? You do the ordering.” Will nudged me to a sidewalk crêperie .
    He was perfectly capable of ordering by himself. But I thought I knew why he’d asked: he wanted to keep me from pulling inside myself again. Warmth filled my belly.
    The warm pancake–y scent of the crêpes , combined with cheese and maybe something chocolate, intoxicated us. We completely forgot about the Eiffel Tower.
    “I want that.” Will pointed to a crêpe cooking on one of two burners, folded in half with loads of melted cheese, sliced mushrooms and chunks of ham.
    I summoned my inner French–girl. When our turn came, Will translated for Mickie, probably intending to annoy her and make me laugh at the same time.
    “ Bonjour, Monsieur ,” I said.
    (“Good day, sir,” Will echoed.)
    “ Bonjour, Mademoiselle ,” said the crêpe