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Show Hannah Mae and the Mona Lisa 9 floats from a child's hand. On another, a red balloon is tied to the handlebars of a bicycle. On the last, a red balloon swings in the door of a pastry shop. Every one bright and cheerful. I couldn't help lifting my head and frowning. Not a red balloon to be seen in all of Willard County. Ever. And no fountains either, unless you fancy irrigation pipe. No wooded parks or comer cafes. And no berets. Nothing but sweaty ball caps advertising fertilizer and com seed. I sighed and turned to my favorite picture in the whole book-maybe my favorite picture in the whole world-the Eiffel Tower at night. I remembered what Miss Larkin had said about everyone else writing about the famous monuments and I knew she was right. Everyone will write about the Eiffel Tower. Too bad. Most will write about how lovely the tower is, or how unique, or how tall. That's all well and good, but I figure I'm the only soul who can write about how the Eiffel Tower feels. You see, in myfanciful brain, I've already stood atop of the Eiffel Tower on many a summer night. I've waited there for Billy Waltrup. Billy comes to the Eiffel Tower at midnight, right before I give up hope and leave. Billy reaches out and touches me on the shoulder and, when I turn, I can hardly breathe because that boy is staring at me with those blue, blue eyes and all the city of Paris is spread out below like a blanket of twinkling stars. Billy pulls me close and I close my eyes and lift my head and pucker out like in the movies and. . . Unfortunately, Billy Waltrup never gets around to planting that kiss. In fact, Billy never says anything the least bit romantic-even in my fanciful brain. |