We sit a row apart in detention. I feel him watching me the entire hour, the entire week. I watch him, too. But we don’t walk together to the dorm; he
packs his things slowly to all ow me time to leave first. I think we’ve arrived at the same conclusion. Even if we managed to begin something, there’s stil no hope for us. School is almost over. Next year, I’l attend San Francisco State University for film theory and criticism, but he stil won’t tell me where he’s going. I flat-out asked him after detention on Friday, and he stammered something about not wanting to talk about it.
At least I’m not the only one who finds change difficult.
On Saturday, the Mom and Pop Basset Hound Theater screens my favorite Sofia Coppola movie, Lost in Translation. I greet the dignified man and
Pouce, and slide into my usual seat. It’s the first time I’ve watched this film since moving here. The similarities between the story and my life are not lost on me.
It’s about two Americans, a middle-aged man and a young woman, who are alone in Tokyo. They’re struggling to understand their foreign surroundings,
but they’re also struggling to understand their romantic relationships, which appear to be fal ing apart. And then they meet, and they have a new struggle—
their growing attraction to each other, when they both know that such a relationship is impossible.
It’s about isolation and loneliness, but it’s also about friendship. Being exactly what the other person needs. At one point, the girl asks the man, “Does it get easier?” His first reply is “no,” and then “yes,” and then “it gets easier.” And then he tell s her, “The more you know who you are, and what you want, the less you let things upset you.”
And I realize ... it’s okay. It’s okay if St. Clair and I never become more than friends. His friendship alone has strengthened me in a way that no one
else’s ever has. He swept me from my room and showed me independence. In other words, he was exactly what I needed. I won’t forget it. And I certainly
don’t want to lose it.
When the film ends, I catch my reflection in the theater’s bathroom. My stripe hasn’t been retouched since my mother bleached it at Christmas. Another
thing I need to learn how to do myself. Another thing I want to learn how to do myself. I pop into the Monoprix next door—which is kind of like a mini SuperTarget—to buy hair bleach, and I’m walking back out when I notice someone familiar across the boulevard.
I don’t believe it. St. Clair.
His hands are in his pockets, and he’s looking around as if waiting for someone. My heart swel s. He knows Sofia is my favorite director. He knew I’d
come here, and he’s waiting for me to appear. It’s final y time to talk. I soar over the crosswalk to his side of the street. I feel happier than I have in ages.
And I’m just about to cal his name, when I realize he’s no longer alone.
He’s been joined by an older gentleman.The man is handsome and stands in a way that’s strangely familiar. St. Clair is speaking in French. I can’t hear
him, but his mouth moves differently in French. His gestures and his body language change, they become more fluid. A group of businessmen passes by
and temporarily bars him from view, because St. Clair is shorter than them.
Wait a second. The man is short, too.
I startle as I realize I’m staring at St. Clair’s father. I look closer. He’s immaculately dressed, very Parisian. Their hair is the same color, although his father’s is streaked with silver and is shorter, tidier. And they have that same air of confidence, although St. Clair looks unsettled right now.
I feel shamed. I did it again. Everything is not always about me. I duck behind a métro sign, but I’ve unwittingly positioned myself in hearing distance.
The guilty feeling creeps back in. I should walk away, but . . . it’s St. Clair’s biggest mystery. Right here.
“Why haven’t you registered?” his father says. “It was due three weeks ago. You’re making it difficult for me to convince them to take you.”
“I don’t want to stay here,” St. Clair says. “I want to go back to California.”
“You hate California.”
“I want to go to Berkeley!”
“You don’t know what you want! You’re just like her. Lazy and self-centered. You don’t know how to make decisions. You need someone to make them