“It’s nothing. I’m fine.” I keep my back to him and wipe my eyes.
St. Clair sits up. “It’s not nothing.You’re crying.”
The front door opens, and the decibel level rises as Dave, Mike, and three junior girls arrive. They’ve been drinking, and they’re laughing loudly. Emily Middlestone, the Girl with the Pink Stripe, clutches Dave’s arm. One of his hands rests casual y on her waist. Prom picture. The stab of jealousy surprises me.
Emily’s cheeks are flushed, and she laughs harder than anyone else. Mer nudges me with the toe of her shoe. The others, even Josh and Rashmi,
watch the situation with interest. I open my laptop back up, determined not to look as pissed off as I feel.
“Anna!” Dave gives me a gigantic, exaggerated wave. Emily’s face sours. “You missed it!” He shakes her off and staggers toward me with limp arms.
He looks like a newly hatched chick with useless wings. “You know that café with the blue window? We stole their outside tables and chairs and set them
up in the fountain.You should’ve seen the look on the waiters’ faces when they found them. It was awesome!”
I look at Dave’s feet. They are, indeed, wet.
“What are you doing?” He flops down next to me. “Checking your email?”
St. Clair snorts. “Give the lad a medal for his bril iant skil s in detection.”
My friends smirk. I’m embarrassed again, for both Dave and myself. But Dave doesn’t even look at St. Clair, he just keeps grinning. “Wel , I saw the
laptop, and I saw the cute frown that means she’s concentrating so hard, and I put two and two together—”
“NO,” I tell St. Clair, who opens his mouth to say something else. He shuts it, surprised.
“Wanna come upstairs?” Dave asks. “We’re gonna chil in my room for a while.”
I probably should. He is sort of my boyfriend. Plus, I’m annoyed with St. Clair. His hostile stare only makes me more determined. “Sure.”
Dave whoops and pul s me to my feet. He trips over St. Clair’s textbook, and St. Clair looks ready to commit murder. “It’s just a book,” I say.
He scowls in disgust.
Dave takes me to the fifth floor. St. Clair’s floor. I forgot they were neighbors. His room turns out to be the most . . . American place I’ve seen in
Paris.The wal s are covered in tacky posters—99 BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL, Reefer Madness, a woman with huge boobs in a white bikini.
Her cle**age is covered with sand, and she’s pouting as if to say: Can you believe this? Sand! At the beach!
The girls pile onto Dave’s unmade bed. Mike hurls himself on top of them, and they squeal and bat at him. I hover in the doorway until Dave pul s me
inside and onto his lap. We sit on his desk chair. Another guy comes in. Paul? Pete? Something like that. One of the juniors, a girl with dark hair and tight jeans, stretches in a move designed to show off her bel y button ring to Paul/Pete. Oh, please.
The party divides and people make out. Emily doesn’t have a partner, so she leaves, but not before shooting me another bitchy look. Dave’s tongue is
in my mouth, but I can’t relax, because he’s slobbering tonight. His hand creeps underneath my shirt and rests against the smal of my back. I glance down at his other hand and realize they aren’t much bigger than mine. He has little-boy hands.
“I need to take a leak.” Mike Reynard stands, knocking tonight’s date to the floor. I expect him to exit the room, but, instead, he does the unforgivable.
He unzips his pants—right there in front of all of us—and pees in Dave’s shower.
And no one says anything.
“Aren’t you going to stop him?”
But Dave doesn’t reply to my question. His head has fal en back, and his mouth is open. Is he asleep?