“Who? Étienne?” I’m surprised when this name rol s out of my mouth.
“Étienne?” He raises his eyebrows. “I thought his name was St. Clair.”
I want to ask, Then why did you call him that guy ? But that’s rude. I shrug.
“Why do you hang out with him, anyway? Girls are always going on and on about him, but I don’t see what’s so great.”
“Because he’s funny,” I say. “He’s a real y nice guy.”
Nice.That was how I described Dave to St. Clair the other day. What’s wrong with me? As if Dave is anything like St. Clair. But he looks disgruntled, and I feel bad. It’s not fair to compliment St. Clair to Dave’s face. Not after kissing him.
Dave shoves his hands into his pockets. “We should get back.”
We shlump upstairs, and I imagine Professeur Gil et waiting for us, smoke pouring from her nostrils like an incensed dragon. But when we get there, the
hal is empty. I peek into her classroom window as she finishes up her lecture. She sees me and nods.
I don’t believe it.
Dave was right. She never knew we were gone.
Chapter thirty-seven
Okay, so Dave Isn’t as attractive as St. Clai,. He’s kind of gangly, and his teeth are sort of bucked, but his tan-but-freckled nose is cute. And I like how he brushes his shaggy hair from his eyes, and his flirty smile stil catches me off guard. And, sure, he’s a little immature, but he’s nothing like his friend Mike Reynard, who’s always talking about the Girl with the Pink Stripe’s chest. Even when she’s within hearing distance. And though I don’t think Dave would
ever get excited by a history book or wear a funny hat made by his mom, the important thing is this: Dave is available. St. Clair is not.
It’s been a week since we’ve kissed, and we’re dating now by default. Sort of. We’ve taken a few walks, he’s paid for some meals, and we’ve made out
in various locations around campus. But I don’t hang out with his friends, and he’s never hung out with mine. Which is good, because they tease me about
Dave relentlessly.
I’m lounging around with them in the lobby. It’s late Friday night, so there isn’t a crowd. Nate is behind the front desk, because the regular workers are on strike. Someone is always striking in Paris; it was bound to happen here sooner or later. Josh sketches Rashmi, who is talking on the phone with her
parents in Hindi, while St. Clair and Meredith quiz each other for a government test. I’m checking my email. I’m startled when one appears from Bridgette.
She hasn’t written in nearly two months.
I know you don’t want to hear from me, but I thought I’d try one last time. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Toph. I was afraid, because I knew how
much you liked him. I hope someday you’l understand that I didn’t mean to hurt you. And I hope your second semester in France is going well .
I’m excited there are only two months until graduation, and I can’t wait til prom! Does SOAP have a prom? Are you going with someone?
Whatever happened to that English guy? It sounded like a more-than-friends situation to me. Anyway. I’m sorry, and I hope you’re okay. And I
won’t bug you again. And I didn’t use any big words because I know you hate that.
“Are you all right, Anna?” St. Clair asks.
“What?” I snap my laptop shut.
“You look like the Mom and Pop Basset Hound Theater closed,” he says.
Bridgette and Toph are going to prom. Why am I upset? I’ve never cared about prom before. But they’l get those wal et-size pictures. He’l be in a tux
that he’s punk-rocked out with safety pins and she’l be in a fabulous vintage gown and he’l have his hands on her waist in some awkward pose and they’l be captured for all eternity together. And I am never going to prom.