my arm and pul s me across the street. An angry scooter honks its puny horn, and I laugh.
“Wait, what—” And then I’m knocked breathless.
We’re standing in front of an absolute beast of a cathedral. Four thick columns hold up a Gothic facade of imposing statues and rose windows and
intricate carvings. A skinny bel tower stretches all the way into the inky blackness of the night sky. “What is it?” I whisper. “Is it famous? Should I know it?”
“It’s my church.”
“You go here?” I’m surprised. He doesn’t seem like the church-going type.
“No.” He nods to a stone placard, indicating I read it.
“Saint Etienne du Mont. Hey! Saint Etienne.”
He smiles. “I’ve always been a bit proprietary about it. Mum used to bring me here when I was young. We’d take a picnic lunch and eat it right here on
the steps. Sometimes she’d bring her sketchbook, and she’d draw the pigeons and the taxis.”
“Your mother is an artist?”
“A painter. Her work is in the New York MoMA.” He sounds proud, and I remember what Meredith once said—that St. Clair admires Josh because he
can draw so well . And that St. Clair’s father owns two art gal eries. And that St. Clair is taking studio art this semester. I wonder aloud if he’s also an artist.
He shrugs. “Not real y. I wish I were. Mum didn’t pass on that particular talent, just the appreciation. Josh is much better. So is Rashmi, for that matter.”
“You get along well with her, don’t you? Your mom?”
“I love me mum.” He says this matter-of-factly, with no trace of teenage shame.
We stand before the cathedral’s double doors and look up, and up, and up. I picture my own mom, typing snapping turtle data into our home computer,
her usual evening activity. Except it’s not nighttime in Atlanta. Maybe she’s grocery shopping. Wading in the Chattahoochee River. Watching The Empire Strikes Back with Sean. I have no idea, and it bothers me.
At last, St. Clair breaks the silence. “Come along, then. Loads to see.”
The farther we go, the more crowded Paris gets. He talks about his mom, how she makes chocolate chip pancakes for dinner and tuna noodle
casserole for breakfast. How she painted every room of her flat a different color of the rainbow. How she col ects misspel ings of her name on junk mail.
He says nothing of his father.
We pass another enormous structure, this one like the ruins of a medieval castle. “God, there’s history everywhere,” I say. “What is that place? Can we go in?”
“It’s a museum, and sure. But not tonight. I believe it’s closed,” he adds.
“Oh. Yeah, of course.” I try not to let my disappointment show.
St. Clair is amused. “It’s only the first week of school. We have all the time in the world to visit your museum.”
We. For some reason, my insides squirm. St. Clair and me. Me and St. Clair.
Soon we enter an area even more touristy than our own neighborhood, crammed with bustling restaurants and shops and hotels. Street vendors
everywhere shout in English, “Couscous! You like couscous?” and the roads are so narrow that cars can’t drive on them. We walk down the middle of the
street and through the jostling crowd. It feels like a carnival. “Where are we?” I wish I didn’t have to ask so many questions.