Free Double Vision by F. T. Bradley Page B

my not being Ben made Françoise stop trying to kill me, I told the truth. “I’m not.”
    Françoise pointed to my neck. “Ben has a scratch on his neck.”
    â€œDid you put it there?” I pulled at my collar.
    â€œHah. You’re a funny guy, aren’t you?” Françoise’s English was perfect, but singsongy, like she was speaking French. I figured it wasn’t the time to bring that up, though. “Your eyes are different from his, too,” she mumbled.
    â€œHow?” I stood up, clutching the strap of my backpack, remembering Henry’s Tickstick. She shrugged. Then she tossed her stick aside in the alleyway. “So who are you, then? And why are you here? And where is that Ben?”
    I tried to think of where to start, but fatigue and hunger were turning my brain to mush. “Is your bakery open?”
    â€œNot for you.” Françoise stood there in the alleyway, like she was trying to make up her mind what to do with me. But then her face seemed to soften a little. “We have leftovers, usually. You tell me your story, and you can eat.” She wore a long necklace with a key on it, which she tucked back inside her jacket. Françoise went around me and farther into the alleyway.
    I followed her past a Dumpster. Françoise used a key from a key chain clipped to her belt to open a white door with a black M written on it. We went inside, walking right into a commercial kitchen with stainless steel cabinets, marble counters, and a bunch of ovens lined up against the wall opposite the door. To my right, there was an open door that led to the bakery. I followed Françoise to the left, into a back room that was obviously the family dining and sitting room. The whole place smelled like fresh bread, making my stomach growl.
    â€œFrançoise?” an old woman’s voice called from a hallway to the right of the sitting room.
    â€œ Oui , Nana,” Françoise yelled. She motioned for me to sit at the table, and I did. An old lady walked in, smiling when she saw Françoise. And then she saw me. Her smile faded, and she gritted her teeth. “Benjamin!” She spit the name at me. And she slapped me in the face.
    â€œHey!” I called, clutching my cheek. “What’s up with you ladies in this bakery?” I asked Françoise.
    When the old lady looked like she was ready to charge me, Françoise laughed. “Nana, stop! This isn’t Benjamin—can’t you see?”
    The old lady looked confused. Then she leaned closer and boxed my ears.
    â€œHey, hey.” I tried to pull away, but let’s face it: this lady was old. I wasn’t about to push her.
    The old lady frowned and looked into my eyes. She said something in French I couldn’t understand.
    â€œThat’s what I’d like to know,” Françoise said as she plumped down at the small dining table. “Who are you, really?”
    I hesitated. But then I told them everything: about my chicken farm disaster, the government agents, the expensive lawsuit and Dad working at Meineke, and how I was sent to replace Ben since he’d gone missing. Let’s face it: my cover as Benjamin Green was blown anyway. I left out the cool gadgets Henry had given me, but then I figured a guy was entitled to a few secrets. Especially when the ladies at the table had repeatedly tried to hurt me.
    I don’t think Françoise’s grandma understood much of what I was saying, because she still gave me the stink eye. After a while she disappeared down the hall where she’d come from, muttering stuff in French.
    â€œI think your grandma hates me,” I said to Françoise once I finished my long story.
    â€œShe doesn’t like strangers, and she hates Benjamin Green. You look like him, so that’s enough for her.” Françoise just shrugged. “You want some croissants?” She took me into the kitchen, where there was a basket of