Confessions: The Paris Mysteries by James Patterson Page B

hair was wild. His glasses were seesawing on the bridge of his nose. He was elated and hyper, which stirred up my darker-than-dark mood.
    Harry said, “You okay, Tandy?”
    “Me? I’m fine.”
    “Oh, right,” he said. “What do you call that toxic cloud right over your head?”
    “I’m
fine
.”
    “You’re lying. You know it. I know it. And you
know
—”
    “So
what
do you want to tell me, Harry? I’m not asking you again.”
    “I’m not going to
tell
you,” he said, “but I’m definitely going to
show
you. After school.”
    I was this close to losing it, but my brother was on fire,and whatever had lit that little blaze, I had to go with it. I really couldn’t let him down.
    With permission from Jacob, Monsieur Morel dropped Harry and me off at a tram that took us to Suresnes, a western suburb of Paris. Harry was still being a jerk, giggling, whistling through his teeth, as we walked to an address on Rue Honoré d’Estienne d’Orves.
    I followed my brother up a couple of steps to an unmarked door that had been painted an attractive marine blue. He pressed an intercom button and said his name into the grille.
    The door opened with a loud double
click
.
    What the hell?
    “Harry, where are we? Is this your studio?”
    “Brace yourself, Tandy. As they used to say when the Beatles walked out onstage, your mind is about to be blown.”
    Harry was one of the few kids in our generation who could get away with familiar references to the Beatles.
    But then, Harry was named for George Harrison.

The mysterious blue door opened into
a long, chilly hallway with awards and photos of recording superstars from several continents jam-packing the walls.
    I recognized almost all the names and faces: CeeLo Green, Flo Rida, Celine Dion, Meshell Ndegeocello, Zazie, Adele, Selah Sue, and Sens Unik. And there were others, too many to count. I thought I could feel a vibration in those walls. But then, I was kind of a human tuning fork today.
    I could feel everything, especially total awe that I was standing in a gallery of all-stars—and they had all probably come through the hallway where Harry and I were walking now.
    I looked up as a door opened at the end of the hall and a tall man in black with dreadlocks and sunglasses came out.
    “Heyyyyy, Harry.”
    Then he opened his arms and wrapped Harry in a huge hug, rocked him a little bit, and said, “How ya doing, muh man? You ready to show your stuff?”
    Harry grinned and gripped the man’s hand before turning to me. “Tandy, this is my agent, Michael Pogue. Michael, this is my twin sister, Tandy.”
    Agent? Mystified, I shook hands with Monsieur Pogue, who said, “
Enchanté
, Tan-deee. Very wonderful to meet you on Harrison’s big, perhaps life-changing, day. Come in, come in. Meet some good people.”
    Harry and I followed Pogue into the “mix room” and were introduced to three men arranged in comfy chairs around a plank coffee table. They were all wearing sharp business suits and had good haircuts, and one had an interesting sculpted beard. They were talking to one another, but when Harry and I came in, they all stood up. Each gripped Harry’s hand and clapped him on the back.
    I could see curiosity in their faces. And naked hope.
    I was also introduced. I was an afterthought, but I didn’t care. These men were all here for Harry.
    I switched my attention to the wall-to-wall console at the front of the mix room, with its hundreds of slidinglevers and dials. When the two men sitting at the controls swiveled around, I recognized them as the famous producers and recording engineers Yves Creole and Winter Knight. They were the brains and the engine of this first-class international chain of mix rooms called the Smart Blue Door.
    They shook my hand—well, actually, Mr. Knight took both my hands in his and mumbled praise for “the great Harry.”
    This was a huge moment for Harry, and I was so glad to be there for it. I watched him step through the door to the