Josh is horrified. “Whyareyougivingawaythecookies?”
“Seriously.” Mer gives Amanda an irritated glance. “Let’s go someplace private.” She grabs my package and carries it upstairs. Always prepared, she
has fresh milk in her mini-fridge. They wish me happy birthday, and we clink glasses. And then we stuff ourselves until bursting.
“Mmm.” Étienne moans from the floor. “Tagalongs.”
“Told you,” Mer says, licking chocolaty peanut butter from her rings.
“Sorry we didn’t get you anything.” Rashmi col apses. “But thanks for sharing.”
I smile. “I’m happy to.”
“Actual y”—Étienne sits up—“I was planning to give this to you at dinner, but I suppose now is as good a time as any.” He reaches into his backpack.
“But you hate birthdays!” I say.
“Don’t thank me yet. And I don’t hate them, I just don’t celebrate my own. Sorry it’s not wrapped.” He hands me a spiral notebook.
I’m confused. “Um . . . thanks.”
“It’s left-handed. See?” He flips it the other way. “Your old one is almost fil ed with notes and film reviews, so I thought you’d need a new one soon.”
No one ever remembers I’m left-handed. A lump rises in my throat. “It’s perfect.”
“I know it’s not much—”
“No. It’s perfect. Thank you.”
He bites his pinkie nail, and we smile at each other.
“Aw, St. Clair. That’s sweet,” Josh says.
Étienne chucks one of Mer’s pil ows at his head.
“So you’ve never explained it to me,” Rashmi says. “What’s the deal with that? The reviews?”
“Oh.” I tear my gaze from Étienne. “It’s just something I’ve always wanted to do. I like talking about movies. And it’s hard to get into the business—it’s kind of like a lifetime position—so I need all the practice I can get.”
“Why don’t you want to be a director? Or a screenwriter or an actress or something?” she asks. “No one wants to be a critic, it’s weird.”
“It’s not weird,” Étienne says. “I think it’s cool.”
I shrug. “I just like ... expressing my opinion.That possibility of turning someone on to something real y great. And, I dunno, I used to talk with this big critic in Atlanta—he lived in my theater’s neighborhood, so he used to go there for screenings— and he once bragged about how there hadn’t been a
respectable female film critic since Pauline Kael, because women are too soft. That we’l give any dumb movie four stars. I want to prove that’s not true.”
Mer grins. “Of course it’s not true.”
Étienne props himself up. “I don’t think anyone who knows you would say it’s easy to earn your good review.”
I look at him, puzzled. “What does that mean?”
“Yawn,” Josh says, not actual y yawning. “So what’s the plan?”
I wait for Étienne to reply, but he doesn’t. I turn to Josh, distracted. “Huh?”
“Let’s not sit here all evening. Let’s go out.”