“Yes,” he says. It’s a chal enge.
“Oh, come on, you guys,” Mer says. Our friends are sick of us fighting, even though they stil don’t know the details of our current situation. Which is how I prefer it. “Anna, it’s a comparative essay between the two stories in Kitchen. Remember?”
Of course I remember. I’m actual y looking forward to this assignment. We just finished reading a book by Banana Yoshimoto, a Japanese author, and
it’s my favorite so far. Both of her stories are about heartache and mourning, but they’re tinged with this . . . simplicity and romance. I can’t help but think of my father’s work.
He writes about love and death, too. But while his books are fil ed with sappy melodrama, Yoshimoto reflects on the healing process. Her characters
are also suffering, but they’re putting their lives back together. Learning to love again. Her stories are harder, but they’re also more rewarding.The
characters suffer in the beginning and the middle, but not the end. There’s positive resolution.
I should mail my dad a copy. Circle the happy endings in red.
“Er,” St. Clair says. “Shal we work on the paper together, then? Tonight?”
He’s making an effort to be friendly. It sounds painful. He keeps trying, and I keep shooting him down. “I don’t know,” I say. “I have to get measured for my wedding dress.”
St. Clair’s face flickers with frustration, but for some reason this doesn’t make me feel as satisfied as it should. Argh, fine. “Sure,” I say. “That’d be . . .
nice.”
“Yeah, I need to borrow your calculus notes,” Mer says. “I must have missed something. It just wasn’t clicking for me today.”
“Oh,” St. Clair says. Like he just noticed she’s standing here. “Yeah.You can borrow them. When you join us.”
Rashmi smirks but doesn’t say anything.
He turns back to me. “So did you enjoy the book?”
“I did.” Discomfort lingers between us. “Did you?”
St. Clair considers it for a moment. “I like the author’s name the best,” he final y says. “Ba-nah-na.”
“You’re pronouncing it wrong,” I say.
He nudges me gently. “I stil like it best.”
“Oliphant, what’d you get for number nine?” Dave whispers.
We’re taking a pop quiz. I’m not doing so hot, because conjugating verbs isn’t my strong point. Nouns I can handle—boat, shoelace, rainbow. Le
bateau, le lacet, l’arc-en-ciel. But verbs? If only everything could be said in the present tense.
I go to store yesterday for milk!
Last night he ride bus for two hours!
A week ago, I sing to your cat at beach!
I make sure Professeur Gil et is distracted before replying to Dave. “No idea,” I whisper. Though I actual y do know the answer. I just hate cheating. He holds up six fingers, and I shake my head. And I don’t know the answer to that one.
“Number six?” he hisses, not sure if I’ve understood him.
“Monsieur Higgenbaum!”
Dave tenses as Madame Guil otine advances. She rips the quiz from his hands, and I don’t need to speak French to understand what she says. Busted.