“What, you didn’t think I’d find out you went to El ie’s?”
He’s thrown. “Wh-what?”
“Wel ?” I cross my arms. “Did you?”
He didn’t expect me to know this. “Yes, but . . . but—”
“But what? You must think I’m a complete idiot, right? That I’m just some doormat who’l wait for you on the sidelines forever? That you can keep running back to her every time things get difficult, and I’l just be okay with it?”
“It’s not like that!”
“It’s ALWAYS like that!”
Étienne opens his mouth but then snaps it shut. His expression flips between hurt and fury a thousand times. And then it hardens. And then he storms
away.
“I THOUGHT YOU WANTED TO TALK!” I say.
I slam my door.
Chapter forty-one
Let’s see. Yesterday, I: (1) made out with my best friend, even though I swore to myself I never would, (2) betrayed another friend by that same make-out session, (3) brawled with a girl who was already out to get me, (4) earned two weeks of detention, and (5) verbal y attacked my best friend until he ran
away.
Correction. Until he ran away again.
If there were a contest to see who could do more damage to herself in a single day, I’m pretty confident I would win. My mother spat fire when she found
out about my fight with Amanda, and now I’m grounded for the entire summer. I can’t even face my friends. I’m ashamed of what I’ve done to Meredith, and
Rashmi and Josh have clearly taken her side, and St. Clair . . . he won’t even look at me.
St. Clair. Once again, he’s no longer Étienne, my Étienne.
That hurts worse than anything.
The whole morning is hideous. I skip breakfast and slip into English at the last possible second. My friends don’t acknowledge my existence, but
everyone else whispers and stares. I guess they’re taking Amanda’s side. I just hope they don’t know about the St. Clair situation, which is unlikely
considering how loudly I shouted at him in the hal way last night. I spend the class sneaking peeks at him. He’s so exhausted that he can barely keep his eyes open, and I don’t think he’s showered.
But he’s stil beautiful. I hate that. And I hate myself for desperately wanting him to look at me, and I hate it even more when Amanda catches me staring, because then she smirks in a way that says, See? I told you he was out of your league.
And Mer. She doesn’t have to turn her body away from me in her seat like St. Clair—although she does, they both do—because her waves of hostility
crash into me, again and again, all period long. Calculus is an extension of this misery. When Professeur Babineaux hands back our homework, St. Clair
passes the stack of papers behind his head without looking at me. “Thanks,” I mumble. He freezes, just for a moment, before settling back into a rigid
state of ignorance to my being.
I don’t try talking to him again.
French is predictably bad. Dave sits as far from me as possible, but the way he ignores me is strange and purposeful. Some of the freshmen pester