“Let me get this straight.” Josh places his hands in prayer position. His fingers are slender, like the rest of his body, and he has a black ink splotch on one index finger. “You’ve been in Paris for an entire week and have yet to see the city? Any part of it?”
“I went out with my parents last weekend. I saw the Eiffel Tower.” From a distance.
“With your parents, bril iant. And your plans for tonight?” St. Clair asks. “Washing some laundry, perhaps? Scrubbing the shower?”
“Hey. Scrubbing is underrated.”
Rashmi furrows her brow. “What are you gonna eat? The cafeteria will be closed.” Her concern is touching, but I notice she’s not inviting me to join her
and Josh. Not that I’d want to go out with them anyway. As for dinner, I’d planned on cruising the dorm’s vending machine. It’s not well stocked, but I can make it work.
“That’s what I thought,” St. Clair says when I don’t respond. He shakes his head. His dark messy hair has a few curls in it today. It’s quite breathtaking, real y. If there were an Olympics competition in hair, St. Clair would total y win, hands down. Ten-point-oh. Gold medal.
I shrug. “It’s only been a week. It’s not a big deal.”
“Let’s go over the facts one more time,” Josh says. “This is your first weekend away from home?”
“Yes.”
“Your first weekend without parental supervision?”
“Yes.”
“Your first weekend without parental supervision in Paris? And you want to spend it in your bedroom? Alone?” He and Rashmi exchange pitying
glances. I look at St. Clair for help, but find him staring at me with his head tilted to the side.
“What?” I ask, irritated. “Soup on my chin? Green bean between my teeth?”
St. Clair smiles to himself. “I like your stripe,” he final y says. He reaches out and touches it lightly. “You have perfect hair.”
Chapter seven
The party people have left the dorm. I munch on vending machine snacks and update my website. So far I’ve tried: a Bounty bar, which turned out to be the same thing as a Mounds, and a package of madeleines, shel -shaped cakes that were stale and made me thirsty. Together they’ve raised my blood
sugar to a sufficient working level.
Since I have no new movies to review for Femme Film Freak (as I’m severed from everything good and pure and wonderful about America—the
cinema), I fiddle with the layout. Create a new banner. Edit an old review. In the evening, Bridge emails me:
Went with Matt and Cherrie M (for meretricious) to the movies last night. And guess what? Toph asked about you!! I told him you’re great BUT
you’re REALLY looking forward to your December visit. I think he got the hint. We talked about his band for a minute (stil no shows, of course)
but Matt was making faces the whole time, so we had to go. You know how he feels about Toph. OH! And Cherrie tried to talk us into seeing
your dad’s latest tearjerker. I KNOW.
You suck. Come home.
Bridge
Meretricious. Showily attractive but cheap or insincere. Yes! That is so Cherrie. I just hope Bridge didn’t make me sound too desperate, despite my longing for Toph to email me. And I can’t believe Matt is stil weird around him, even though we’re not dating anymore. Everyone likes Toph. well ,
sometimes he annoys the managers, but that’s because he tends to forget his work schedule. And cal in sick.
I read her email again, hoping for the words Toph says he’s madly in love with you, and he’ll wait for all eternity to appear. No such luck. So I browse my favorite message board to see what they’re saying about Dad’s new film. The reviews for The Decision aren’t great, despite what it’s raking in at the box office. One regular, clockworkorange88, said this: It sucked balls. Dirty balls. Like I-ran-a-mile-in-July-while-wearing-leather-pants balls.