Free On the Brink of Paris by Elizabeth Cody Kimmel Page A

disappeared.
    where r u?
    All sorts of witty responses occurred to me. But I was alone and lost in Paris, and my phone was trying to make friends with me. It might pay to be concise.
    lost. where r u?
    Then I thought about it, and added:
    who r u?
    I waited. And waited. Until:
    Lewis @ the Louvre
    â€œLEWIS?!” I shouted at the phone. “What do you mean, Lewis? How can you be Lewis?”
    The cursor blinked at me, just as confused. A few people shot the cheese look in my direction and hurried by.
    how why help
    I typed rapidly. Though it goes against every fiber in mybeing to write sentence fragments and use convenience spellings like “u,” I was one desperate Little Chicken, and I didn’t want Lewis to go away.
    For a minute no message came back, and I began to panic. But then suddenly the screen filled with words.
    ok. told mdme c just saw u. thinks u r in bathrm.
    This seemed to require a response:
    ok and?
    Lewis shot back:
    gt hr as sn as psble. msg me whn u r here. gtta go 4 now.
    Gotta go for now?
    â€œNO!” I yelled at the phone. “You have to tell me where HERE is!”
    Then I typed it. But Lewis was gone. Apparently he was buying me some time. I had to get to the Louvre, fast.
    Jogging was simply out of the question. I settled for an ants-in-the-pants kind of speed walk. Have you ever tried to rush somewhere when you don’t know where you’regoing? I’m sure it looks all kinds of stupid.
    I was going to have to ask someone else for directions, and I just didn’t have time to mess around with the French and be called the diminutive form of another barnyard animal. I needed to find a Tourist. At this point, even a Simple Tourist would do.
    I looked down the street before crossing it, and there they were, gleaming golden and familiar in the sunlight like a beacon of hope in an ocean of despair. The Icon of Recognizability. The Object of Every Lost Soul’s Hopes and Dreams.
    The Golden Arches.
    The Blennerhassetts are not, as a rule, a McDonald’s family. We go only once a year, as an elaborate staged “accident,” on the way to our lake house when my dad pretends to get lost. But right now it looked like home. I trotted toward it with desperation.
    There was a guy standing outside the door, talking to a girl in a large floppy hat and enormous sunglasses. I did a classic double take, unable to believe my eyes. The sad slouch and hands thrust deep in pockets were unmistakable. It was the Mysterious Tim, not looking sick to his stomach at all. The Mysterious Tim, big as life right there outside Mickey Dees, chez Paris. Why or how he had got there was the least of my concerns. Perhaps no one had ever heard him speak, but the chances were excellent that he could, and that when he did, it would be in ENGLISH!
    I took off in a sprint toward him.
    â€œTIM!” I bellowed. He turned and looked at me right away. When he saw me, his jaw dropped, and he took a step backward. I skidded to a stop inches before knocking him down.
    â€œTim, thank GOD!” I yelled. “I’m lost and I’m supposed to be at the Louvre right now and I don’t know how to get there and Lewis is covering for me but Madame Chavotte is going to figure it out when I don’t come back from the bathroom and everyone will be expelled because of me and I’ve got to get there fast but I have no idea how far it is and if I should get back on the train or try to get a cab which I don’t even know how to DO in French and you’ve GOT to help me!”
    I only stopped because I needed to breathe. Between heaving gasps, I heard the girl say something, possibly in Italian. Did NO ONE in this town speak English?
    â€œOf course she’s not paparazzi,” Tim said to her. “She’s a girl from my class.”
    Paparazzi?
    In spite of my plight, I turned to check the girl out. You know. For my Mental Pool. And I beheld the face of the very last person I ever