“So your sister came in yesterday.” Toph always refers to Bridge as my sister. We’re the same height with the same slender build, and we both have
long, stick-straight hair, although hers is blond and mine is brown. And, as people who spend tons of time together are prone to do, we talk the
same.Though she uses bigger words. And her arms are sculpted from the drumming. And I have the gap between my teeth, while she had braces. In other
words, she’s like me, but prettier and smarter and more talented.
“I didn’t know she was a drummer,” he says. “She any good?”
“The best.”
“Are you saying that because she’s your friend, or because she’s actual y decent?”
“She’s the best,” I repeat. From the corner of my eye, I see St. Clair glance at the clock on my dresser.
“My drummer abandoned ship. Think she’d be interested?”
Last summer Toph started a punk band, the Penny Dreadfuls. Many member changes and arguments over lyrical content have transpired, but no actual
shows. Which is too bad. I bet Toph looks good behind a guitar.
“Actual y,” I say, “I think she would. Her jerkwad percussion instructor just passed her up as section leader, and she has some rage to funnel.” I give him her number. Toph repeats it back as St. Clair taps an imaginary wristwatch. It’s only nine, so I’m not sure what his rush is. Even I know that’s early for Paris. He clears his throat loudly.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I need to go,” I say.
“Is someone there with you?”
“Uh, yeah. My friend. He’s taking me out tonight.”
A beat. “He?”
“He’s just a friend.” I turn my back to St. Clair. “He has a girlfriend.” I squeeze my eyes shut. Should I have said that?
“So you’re not gonna forget about us? I mean ...” He slows down. “Us here in Atlanta? Ditch us for some Frenchie and never return?”
My heart thrums. “Of course not. I’l be back at Christmas.”
“Good. Okay,Annabel Lee. I should get back to work anyway. Hercules is probably pissed I’m not covering the door. Ciao.”
“Actual y,” I say. “It’s au revoir.”
“Whatever.” He laughs, and we hang up.
St. Clair gets up from the bed. “Jealous boyfriend?”
“I told you. He’s not my boyfriend.”
“But you like him.”
I blush. “Wel ... yeah.”
St. Clair’s expression is unreadable. Maybe annoyed. He nods toward my door. “You stil want to go out?”
“What?” I’m confused. “Yeah, of course. Lemme change first.” I let him out, and five minutes later, we’re headed north. I’ve thrown on my favorite shirt, a cute thrift-store find that hugs me in the right places, and jeans and black canvas sneakers. I know sneakers aren’t very French—I should be wearing
pointy boots or scary heels—but at least they aren’t white. It’s true what they say about white sneakers. Only American tourists wear them, big ugly things made for mowing grass or painting houses.
It’s a beautiful night.The lights of Paris are yel ow and green and orange. The warm air swirls with the chatter of people in the streets and the clink of wineglasses in the restaurants. St. Clair has brightened back up and is detailing the more gruesome aspects of the Rasputin biography he finished this