Free On the Brink of Paris by Elizabeth Cody Kimmel

français, non?” he continued.
    I, Lily Blennerhassett, the Little Chicken, nodded. Because I was better at understanding French than speakingit. The sentence meant “But you speak a little French, no?” And you see, when I NODDED, my intention was to be agreeing with the NO part. I speak a little French NO. I NO speak NO French NO. Yes, I am supposed to speak French and I have spoken it before and just yesterday I correctly translated the meaning of (but not the location of) deuxième étage , and I can ask for a gift of chewing gum from the sea, but for the moment let’s all just agree, Dear Readers, that I speak French NO. Wherever you put the NO word in English, it’s right there. No. NO!! And it should be PAINFULLY OBVIOUS that I NO spoke a little French because I had addressed the man in English from the start.
    It was too late, though. The man started chattering away in French, the merry smile never leaving his face, as he jabbed in the air, indicating lefts and rights and this ways and that ways. And I, the Little Chicken, nodded and smiled and made the “ah, yes, I understand completely” face until he finally stopped and in his Kindly Elderly Manner he waved me along.
    At least I had gotten the general direction. I was on a main street—it was wide and busy and full of shops and restaurants (like Fifth Avenue, where I now recognized I was NOT)—so it obviously went somewhere important and the Kindly Elderly Man had clearly indicated his Little Chicken was to proceed down it.
    Progress.
    I looked at my watch. It was eight minutes before one.
    I began to jog. Though I interviewed no witnesses, I feel certain that the sight of a little American chicken jogging down the street, red-faced and wheezing, was not going to improve any international reputations.
    I jogged as long as I could. Then I stopped and clutched my leg in alarm, letting out a little shriek that signaled approaching doom. I had injured myself. Possibly gravely. Possibly fatally. I felt no pain, but my entire right leg was shuddering. It was convulsing in agony. I grabbed my thigh muscle and squeezed.
    There was something in my pocket. I reached in frantically and pulled the thing out. It was small and dark and vibrating, and it looked like a phaser from Star Trek . But before I had the chance to scream and hurl it into the street, I realized what it was. It was the cell phone that my mother had given me. And I remembered that my father, Esteemed Law Abider Lenny Blennerhassett, who is Diametrically Opposed to All Cell Phones for Any Reason but Grudgingly Accepts Their Role in Personal Safety, had painstakingly followed the instruction booklet and programmed my phone to vibrate, not ring, so as not to violate the Personal Listening Space of other people.
    Someone was calling me. I had no idea who it could be, and I didn’t care to guess. Someone was reaching out to touch me, at a moment when I’d never felt more alone.
    I jabbed the phone against my ear and barked, “Hello?”
    The phone kept vibrating.
    Why, oh, WHY, had I not learned how to operate this machine?
    I stared at the phone. Buttons. Many buttons. One of them was green. Green! The international signal for GO! I pushed it and frantically put the phone to my ear again.
    â€œHELLO?” I shrieked.
    No one was there. What kind of cruel trick was this? I stared at the phone again. Maybe I’d hit the wrong button.
    Wait a minute. There was something written on my little display screen.
    where r u?
    What kind of question was that? It was patently obvious that I was lost, and now my PHONE wanted to know where I was?
    â€œI’m lost, stupid!” I yelled at the phone. Nothing happened.
    Wait.
    WAIT!
    I had another Small Burst of Brain. My phone wasn’t talking to me. It was typing to me!
    Maybe I was supposed to type back.
    what?
    The little cursor blinked on and off. As an afterthought, I hit the green button, and my words