Free Last Message by Shane Peacock

since French police cars are about the size of American riding mowers) kept coming after me, pulling over to the narrow shoulder and zipping right up behind me. Finally I stopped, foolishly clutching at the painting inside my jacket. How did they know? Were they watching the farmhouse?
    â€œ Bonjour ,” said the cop who got out of the car. “ Américain? ” I thought he looked angry.
    â€œ Oui ,” I said, my voice cracking, as I pulled out my passport and handed it over. That’s what Mom and Dad had said to do if I ever got into trouble.
    â€œWhy are you running?” he asked, examining it with a frown. I was glad that he at least spoke English.
    â€œNo—no reason.”
    â€œNo reason?” He looked me up and down. I was certain that he paused at my midsection, where I clutched the painting close to my chest. I wondered if the wise thing was to simply hand it over.
    â€œDo you realize how serious your crime is?”
    â€œI…I…” I had totally lost the ability to speak.
    â€œNot,” he said with a smile, “all that serious.” He handed the passport back.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œYou must not walk along the side of a freeway in la France , mon ami . Get in. I shall take you to your residence.”
    â€œYou—”
    â€œTell me: are you a fan of Kobe Bryant?”
    â€œKobe?”
    â€œYes, a fine sportsman. I like. But, you know, I do not think he could ride a bicycle well, which is the most difficult of all the athletics. Lance Armstrong: now there is un Américain sensationnel! ”
    He clapped his hand on my shoulder and ushered me into the back of the cruiser, where I sat hunched over, the painting digging into my gut, listening to him and his partner as they went on about American sports heroes. My heart never stopped pounding. In less than ten minutes, they had dropped me at the hotel.
    â€œMonsieur Américain, stay away from such bad crimes while you are here,” the cop said with a grin as they roared off. “Keep your nose washed!”
    I slinked up the stairs to my room, sure that everyone in the hotel knew what I had under my jacket. Once inside my door, I hid the painting at the bottom of my suitcase, under all my clothes. Then I started to pace, back and forth, back and forth, the wooden floor creaking as I moved. I told myself that I had no choice now. I had the painting and I couldn’t risk taking it back. Someone might catch me and then all —my whole life—would be lost. I would rot in a French jail, guilty of robbery. And I would deserve it. What I had just done was typical of me. My hands were shaking. I had done something incredibly stupid and wrong, and now I had to live with it. I imagined someone coming up here and finding the painting. What, in God’s name, had I done?
    But after a while, I started to calm down. I used all the arguments I’d employed while walking away from the farmhouse. I could make this into a positive thing for everyone. I had to believe that. The painting was small and it would sail through airport security in my suitcase. Or would it?
    I sat down and took a deep breath.
    I tried to stay positive. And soon I was thinking about Vanessa again. I could make all this sound awfully good to her. I took out my cell and started emailing her. But then I stopped. What if I wrote her a letter, an old-fashioned letter? She’d find that awfully romantic. There was lots of stationery in the room, fancy stuff with the hotel’s name on it, looking very artistic, with lots of yellow. Very Van Gogh, very French. She would think that was really cool.
    It was hard going. The last time I’d written a letter was for a pen-pal thing when I was a little kid. But I worked hard, tried to find the right words, the ones I imagined a girl would like to hear, and got it done, making sure it was several pages long. I told her that I had found the Noels and the painting and that I was