Read Marie Antoinette, Serial Killer for Free Online

pair of small silver hoop earrings and the medallion I’d found in the old box back home. It hung from its ribbon around my neck.
    I’d tried to convince Hannah and Peely that French women were lower maintenance than your typical Ohio prep-school student, but they both insisted on performing their usual elaborate grooming rituals.
    “Versailles has been there for almost four hundred years,” Hannah said, plugging in her flat-iron as I hurried to load my day bag. “I’m sure it can wait another few minutes.”
    Finally, I gave up and left them so I could eat breakfast and meet the rest of the group by nine.
    They came strolling into the lobby together at 9:14. Hannah had meticulously straightened her hair and wore gobs of makeup. She was in one of her doubtless brand-new outfits, a dark-blue minidress with a flared skirt and wide bell sleeves, paired with four-inch heels and a Marc Jacobs handbag the size of a small car.
    Pilar had gelled her curly hair into a bazillion shiny ringlets and wore a pair of skinny jeans with a voluminous bright-pink poncho-style top. On her feet were three-inch cork platforms.
    “Are you going to be able to walk in those shoes, girls?” Madame Mitchell asked, one eyebrow raised.
    “I hope so,” Pilar said. “These are the lowest heels I brought.”
    Hannah flashed a disdainful smile. “I can walk in anything.”
    But after two blocks, we all had to stop and stand around for ten minutes while Hannah went into a shoe store and bought a pair of knee-high flesh-toned boots. At least after that, we could move at a normal pace.
    “This is ridiculous,” Hannah said, coming up alongside me. “They need to repave these streets so people can wear real shoes.”
    “Oh, sure,” I said. “Hundreds of years of history should totally get covered up so you can wear your Jimmy Choos.”
    I’d meant it as a joke, but her sharp look stung me like a hornet.
    “They weren’t Jimmy Choos, Colette,” Pilar said, a gentle rebuke in her voice. “They were Louboutins.”
    “At least Pilar and I don’t look like we just rolled out of bed,” Hannah said hotly.
    I didn’t let the comment bother me too much. She was only angry because she’d been forced to admit she was wrong. Looking around, it was obvious that I blended in, while Pilar and Hannah stuck out like a pair of overdone poodles on a hiking trail.
    “Where are we going, anyway?” Hannah’s voice was sour.
    “To the train station,” Pilar said. “It’s not much farther.”
    Hannah rolled her eyes. “Well, I’ve got my clodhoppers on now, so that doesn’t matter.”
    I cast a glance at Hannah’s “clodhoppers,” which had probably cost four hundred dollars.
    “I think we should turn left here,” Audrey said. She was walking next to the teacher, directly in front of us.
    Madame Mitchell followed Audrey’s advice without a moment’s hesitation, which made Hannah murmur, “ Loser ,” under her breath. Pilar laughed, and I stayed silent — but I could tell by the way Audrey’s shoulders went rigid that she’d heard what Hannah said.

    The Saint-Michel station served both Paris’s subway and the commuter rail lines. We stopped near the antique art deco METRO sign while Madame Mitchell looked around for our tour guide.
    Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I found myself looking into the bright-blue eyes of a guy a few years older than me.
    “ Pardonnez-moi, mais c’est un groupe d’élèves étrangers qui fait une visite guidée ,” he said.
    “What?” I said. “I mean … pardon ?”
    His eyebrows went up in surprise. “Oh, you are with the group. I thought you were French. I was telling you that you were mixed in with a bunch of Americans.”
    I stared at him, not knowing what to say. He thought I was French! An actual French person thought I was French . He gave me a quick smile and walked over to Madame Mitchell.
    “Girls!” she said. She flapped a red handkerchief above her head. “Écoutez! Voici votre