I wonder how often they talk. I only talk to mine about once a week, but our calls always last for at least an hour. “Is that why you’re here? In France? I have to admit, I’ve always thought it was kind of odd that a senator would send his kid to a foreign country to be educated.”
“Paris wasn’t exactly their first choice.” And then he gets this strange expression, as if he’s surprised by his own words.
“What do you mean?”
“I…I’ve never admitted that to anyone before.”
My brow furrows.
Josh stares at his hands, massaging his left thumb into his right palm. “My friends were aware that I don’t get along with my parents, so…they sort of assumed that I was shipped here because I’m difficult. Or whatever. And I never corrected them. I guess I wanted them to believe it, because…it’s less embarrassing than the truth.” He looks back up at me and holds my gaze. “I chose this. Being stuck here is my own fault.”
My eyes widen. I wait for him to explain.
“When my parents started looking at private high schools in New York and DC, I talked them into believing that sending me overseas would be better for my education. And I was immature, and I was dumb, and Paris sounded romantic and artistic and all of that bullshit, but the moment I got here, I realized…it’s just a city. You know? And, yeah, it’s beautiful and cultured and everything the cliché says it is. But, I don’t know. It’s always felt like I’m killing time here until my real life can begin.”
Killing time. I don’t think he counts me as a part of this, but the words are still wounding. I try not to let it show. “So where would you like to be? New York? DC?”
“No. And definitely no. I’m going to Vermont next year.”
I frown. “Vermont? What’s in Vermont?”
“The Center for Cartoon Studies.” Josh perks up at my confusion. He scoots closer in his chair. “It’s the only one of its kind – it completely focuses on sequential art. And it has this insane faculty, all of the best cartoonists visit to teach there.”
“Cartoonists? Like, what? The guy who draws Calvin and Hobbes?”
He shakes his head. “No, anyone who draws sequential art is a cartoonist. Superhero stuff, graphic novels, graphic non-fiction. It doesn’t just apply to the people who draw comic strips.”
“Oh.” And now I feel dumb. “How big is the school?”
“It’s not big. It’s about half the size of SOAP.” He picks up a pencil and rocks it between two fingers. “So what’s next for you?”
The nerve is struck. Just like that. “I…I don’t know.”
His pencil stops.
I should have seen the question coming, but it blindsides me. I’m humiliated to find myself fighting back tears. “I’m applying to both la Sorbonne and Columbia, but I don’t know where I want to go. I don’t know where I belong.”
Josh moves onto the bed, beside me again. “Hey. It’s okay. You still have plenty of time to decide.”
“No. I don’t. And you wanna know the worst part? I kind of hope one of them will reject me so that I won’t have to make the decision myself.”
His eyebrows raise. He’s silent for a long time, debating something in his head. “I’ve seen the charts in the head’s office.” He’s choosing his words carefully. “You’re the best student in our class. Both schools are going to accept you.”
So he does know. I scratch at my peachy-pink nail polish. Chip it away, bit by bit.
“What do you want to study?”
The pit in my stomach grows deeper. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I mean…I don’t know. I don’t know what I want to do, or who I want to be, or where I want to live. It’s like everyone else has their entire future mapped out except for me.”
Josh’s expression falls. “You know that’s not true.”
“Maybe at other schools, but at ours? People have plans. You have plans.”
“Well. Which city do you like better?”