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

expected to see on This Planet or Any Other.
    Lindy Sloane.

Seven
    I t was like one of those standoffs in an old western movie. Slack-jawed, I stared at Lindy. She stared back at me, face dwarfed behind the giant, buglike glasses. The two of us just stood there, neither taking her eyes off the other. If Clint Eastwood were here, he’d put two fingers on his holster and say, “Draaaaaaaaaaaaaaw.”
    But Clint Eastwood was not here.
    â€œWhy are you staring at me?” asked Lindy Sloane.
    Why was I staring at her? Let’s review the top five reasons:
She was on the cover of every magazine except The Economist that had been published in the last six months.
Already this year she had made two movies, launched her own pajama design line, released a signature collection of edible hair products, been given the key to Tulsa, Oklahoma, appeared on her own MTV reality show to document the making of her new CD, endorsed a series of experimental hybrid SUV convertibles, written a children’s book, guest hosted American Idol , been engaged to and subsequently dumped the lead singer of Savage Karma, and caused a near riot in the Mall of America.
She was worshiped and revered by a bizarre group of teenagers calling themselves the Sloane Rangers, who spent hours on the Internet discussing her every move. They copied her clothes, hair, and mannerisms, and had even been known to paint freckles on their shoulders in the same places Lindy Sloane had freckles.
She was close personal friends with Houston Ramada, celebutante and internationally photographed bad girl.
I had absolutely nothing like her in my Mental Pool.
    Okay. That was reason enough.
    â€œWhy are you staring at me?” Lindy Sloane repeated impatiently.
    â€œPhletamgah.”
    Sorry, but that’s what came out of my mouth. Strangely, Lindy gave a small nod, as if I’d inadvertently stumbled upon the correct password.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” asked Tim.
    I looked at him in astonishment. Hearing the Mysterious Tim speaking in regular sentences was going to take some getting used to. It didn’t feel right. I kept expecting bats to fly out of his mouth, or something.
    â€œWhat are YOU doing here?” I asked him. “I thought you had to stay behind at the VEI because you were sick.”
    â€œI asked you first,” Tim said.
    Ah. Shrewd.
    I needed to forget for the moment that I was standing outside McDonald’s chez Paris with Lindy Sloane and provide Tim with some information so I could get some out of him.
    â€œI got on the Wrong Train,” I said. “Before I realized what was happening, I was being whisked away, and Bonnie and Charlotte and Janet were still standing on the platform. Now I’m trying meet them at the Louvre before Madame Chavotte realizes I’m missing. Because if she finds out I got Separated from the Group, everybody’s going to get in big trouble. But I have no ideahow to get there. Your turn.”
    Tim kind of glowered at me silently.
    â€œLook, Tim, I’ve already seen you here, so I know you’re playing hooky. If you get caught, we all get in trouble. I’m not going to tell on you, and I’m sure you have no intention of telling on me. But I told you my story.”
    â€œYeah, all right,” he said. “I faked being sick.”
    There was a long pause.
    â€œAnd you are here because?” I prompted.
    Tim gave a deep sigh and rubbed the top of his head. “Because I needed to see my sister.”
    I looked around. “Did you find her?”
    Tim looked at me like he’d just noticed the word stupid written across my forehead.
    â€œThis IS my sister,” he said, gesturing toward Lindy Sloane, who was applying lip gloss with a tube that appeared to have her picture on it.
    Wait.
    WHAT?
    It was bizarre, ridiculous, and highly improbable. Nobody could keep a secret like THAT. But even as I was starting to roll my eyes, I took a closer look at