He bends down to shout back. “But not the real one. That glamorous, fake one you see in films. I always spend the real one watching television alone in my bedroom.”
“Yes! Exactly!”
Josh hands me a glass and nods towards one of the restaurant’s giant decorative-aluminium shells. We duck underneath it. The noise becomes somewhat muffled, and I raise my glass. “To the new year? Our new school year?”
He places a dramatic hand across his heart. “I’m sorry. But I can’t toast that place.”
I laugh. “Okay, how about…comics? Or Joann Sfar?”
“I propose a toast” – Josh raises his glass with mock gravitas – “to new beginnings.”
“To new beginnings.”
“And Joann Sfar.”
I laugh again. “And Joann Sfar.” Our glasses clink, and his eyes stay carefully fixed upon mine in the French tradition. My smile widens into a grin. “Ha! I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“You held eye contact with me. I’ve seen you pretend like you don’t know how things go around here, but you do know. I knew you knew. You’re too good of an observer.” I take a triumphant sip of champagne. The pristine fizz tickles the tip of my tongue, and my smile grows so enormous that he breaks into laughter.
Thank you, France, for allowing alcohol to be legal for teenagers.
Well, eighteen year olds. And we’re close enough.
Josh is amused. “How do you know I wasn’t looking at you simply because I want to look at you?”
“I’ll bet you speak French better than you let on, too. You never use it at school, but I bet you’re fluent. People can play dumb all they want, but they always give themselves away in actions. In the small moments, like that.”
The bubbles seem to go down the wrong hole. He coughs and sputters. “Play dumb?”
“I’m right, right? You’re fluent.”
Josh shakes his head. “Not all of us grew up in a half-French household.”
“But I’ll bet you’re still good.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Thankfully, he’s amused again.
“So why do you pretend not to know things?” My fingers play with the stem of my glass. “Or not to care?”
“I don’t care. About most things,” he adds.
“But why play dumb?”
He takes another sizable gulp of champagne. “You know, you ask really tough questions for a first date.”
A painful blush erupts across my face and neck. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I like girls who challenge me.”
“I didn’t mean to be challen—”
“You aren’t.”
I raise an eyebrow, and he laughs.
“Really,” he says. “I like smart girls.”