Read On the Brink of Paris for Free Online

genes. I come from, like, the least technologically savvy family since the Flintstones. We don’t have DSL. We didn’t even have Internet access until a year ago, when my dad needed to read his office e-mail from home. And if my mother didn’t entertain these recurrent terrifying fantasies that I was going to get Separated from the Group on this trip, she never in a blue moon would have bought me a cell phone.”
    â€œShow me,” said Lewis.
    I groped around in my bag until I found it. Then I silently handed it over to Lewis, who flipped it open and scrutinized it.
    â€œNice one. You can text message on this,” Lewis said. “And take pictures. It’s a good phone.”
    â€œI don’t know how to text message,” I said.
    â€œIt’s easy,” Lewis replied. He started pushing buttons on the phone, which chirped back at him in a friendly way. “Okay, I just entered my e-mail address in your address book. So you down-arrow-key to ‘write text message,’ then highlight my address from the address book. After you’ve finished writing, just hit ‘send.’”
    â€œWell,” I said, taking my phone back, “that’s great, thank you, Lewis. But I’m not much of a correspondent, text message–wise.”
    In reality, the only person I would ever want to text message was Jake, and I didn’t even know if his phone could do that. But I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.
    â€œThanks for showing me how it works, though,” I added.
    Lewis shrugged. “Just thought you should know how to use what you’ve got.”
    â€œAnything on the Internet about Lindy Sloane?” I asked, switching the subject. When Lewis didn’t answer right away, I clarified.
    â€œLindy Sloane, the Singer/Actress/Celebrity Personality?”
    Lewis studied me for a moment, the way he might look at an entirely new species of rodent discovered in Laos. Curious, but not necessarily in a good way. Maybe he didn’t know who Lindy Sloane was.
    â€œPlease don’t tell me you’re one of those deluded Sloane fans,” he said.
    So he DID know who she was!
    â€œThe Sloane Rangers, you mean,” I said.
    Lewis nodded and pulled back slightly, as if he’d just realized I very possibly had the bubonic plague. Sloane Rangers lived and breathed for Lindy Sloane. They wore what she wore (or cheap knockoffs). They ate what she ate. They read what she claimed to be reading. And they spent every second of their free time in Lindy Sloane chat rooms, posting articles and fanfic on Lindy Sloaneforums, and poring over the latest paparazzi pics posted on the gossip sites.
    â€œNo, Lewis, I am not a Sloane Ranger. In fact, I am imperatively, aggressively, and categorically NOT a Sloane Ranger. You might say I’m the anti–Sloane Ranger. I consider myself more of a Celebrity Social Crime Scene Analyst. I keep track of the outrageous antics, and I incorporate them into the Character Portion of my Mental Pool.”
    â€œYour Mental Pool?” asked Lewis. He still looked a bit worried about bubonic contagion.
    â€œIt’s a writer thing.” I said.
    â€œUh-huh,” Lewis said.
    â€œAnd one of the people I constantly update in my Mental Pool is Lindy Sloane. In case I ever want to write a novel satirizing Hollywood.” Because she certainly wasn’t going to make it into my Great Parisian Novel. Lindy Sloane and Paris went together like oil and water. Like chocolate and mayonnaise. Like Not at All.
    Lewis stared at me for a while, like he was still trying to decide if helping someone who admittedly had a Mental Pool was ethical or dangerous. After about a minute he hit a few keys on his Sidekick and read from the screen.
    â€œShe’s gone platinum,” he said.
    â€œHer CD!” I cried, stunned.
    â€œHer hair,” Lewis said. “Platinum blond. They say shemight have also added some