“Exactly,” Rashmi says. And then she cuts her eyes at me.
Professeur Cole laughs. “And I’m sure none of us have ever mistaken something someone has said or done to mean something else, right? And we’re
al speaking the same language. You can see how chal enging this gets once things like . . . figures of speech are added. Some things just don’t translate between cultures.”
Misinterpretations swarm my mind. Toph. Rashmi. St. Clair?
“Or how about this?” Professeur Cole strol s over to the tal windows. “The translator, no matter how true he thinks he’s staying to the text, stil brings his own life experiences and opinions to the decisions he makes. Maybe not consciously, but every time a choice is made between one meaning of a word or another, the translator determines which one to use based on what he believes is correct, based on his own personal history with the subject.”
Personal history. Like because St. Clair was always quick to run back to El ie, I assumed he did it again. Is that it? And did he? I’m not sure anymore.
I’ve spent my entire senior year suffocating between lust and heartache, ecstasy and betrayal, and it’s only getting harder to see the truth. How many times can our emotions be tied to someone else’s—be pul ed and stretched and twisted—before they snap? Before they can never be mended again?
Class ends, and I stumble in a fog toward calculus. I’m almost there when I hear it. So quiet, it could almost be someone clearing his throat. “Slut.”
I freeze.
No. Keep moving. I hug my books tighter and continue down the hal .
A little louder this time. “Slut.”
And, as I turn around, the worst part is that I don’t even know who it’l be. So many people hate me right now. Today, it’s Mike. He sneers, but I stare
past him at Dave. Dave scratches his head and looks away.
“How could you?” I ask him.
“How could you?” Mike says. “I always told Dave you weren’t worth it.”
“Yeah?” My eyes are stil locked on Dave. “Wel , at least I’m not a liar.”
“You’re the liar.” But Dave says it under his breath.
“What was that? What did you say?”
“You heard me.” Dave’s voice is louder, but he’s squirming, blinking at his friend. A wave of disgust rol s over me. Mike’s little lapdog. Of course. Why didn’t I see it before? My hands clench. One more word from him, one word . . .
“Slut,” he says.
Dave slams into the floor.
But it wasn’t my fist.
Chapter forty-two
Arghhh!” St. Clair cradles his hand.
Mike lurches for St. Clair, and I jump between them. “No!”
Dave moans from the floor. Mike pushes me aside, and St. Clair throws him into the wal , his voice fil ed with rage. “Don’t touch her!”
Mike is shocked, but he bounces back. “You psycho!” And he lunges toward St. Clair just as Professeur Hansen steps between them, bracing himself
for blows.
“Hey hey HEY! What is going ON out here?” Our history teacher glares at his favorite student. “Monsieur St. Clair. To the head’s office. NOW.” Dave
and Mike simultaneously proclaim innocence, but Professeur Hansen cuts them off. “Shut it, the both of you, or fol ow Étienne.” They shut up. St. Clair