“You're being rude," whispered Devon. "Stop calling the kettle black, Miss Pot," I replied. Devon rolled her eyes and shook her head. It was the first time she'd spoken to me since we'd arrived in Paris. We'd gotten into another big argument at the train station in Versailles when she found out I'd lied about having the cell phone Mrs. T. gave me. Devon was hoping to use it to get in touch with the others. She'd used all the money she had on our train tickets and couldn't buy a cheap dis...posable one. All I had was a twenty-dollar bill, which was useless in France. I'd purposefully left everything my foster mother had given me behind because I wanted to prove I wasn't a thief. I ended up treating her just like Mr. and Mrs. Higgins had treated me. Boy, did I owe her an apology. Anyway, now we were on the metro hoping to beat the group from St. Albans back to their hotel. And for the record, I hadn't been staring at anyone.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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