Lobsters

Grace burst into my bedroom with such force that she nearly fell over.
‘‘Freddie isn’t in France!’’ she announced triumphantly, as Tilly came crashing in behind her.
I sat up in bed, where I had been watching videos of baby sloths and tutorials on how to do eyeliner flicks all morning.
‘‘Are you sure?’’ I asked.
‘‘Yes!’’ Tilly yelled, and started doing a little victory dance onthe spot.
‘’But I stalked him this morning,’’ I said, ‘‘and there’s a picture of him actually standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, holding up a baguette and pretending it’s a moustache. He literally couldn’’t be more in France if he tried.’’