“My father is fluent in cliché. Obviously, you’ve never read one of his novels.” I pause. “I can’t believe he has the nerve to say he’l ‘give Seany my best.’”
Josh shakes his head in disgust. My friends and I are spending the weekend in the lounge because it’s raining again. No one ever mentions this, but it
turns out Paris is as drizzly as London. According to St. Clair, that is, our only absent member. He went to some photography show at El ie’s school.
Actual y, he was supposed to be back by now.
He’s running late. As usual.
Mer and Rashmi are curled up on one of the lobby couches, reading our latest English assignment, Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress. I turn back to my father’s email.
Gentle reminder ... your life sucks.
Memories from earlier this week—sitting next to St. Clair in the dark theater, his leg against mine, the look that passed between us—flood back in and
fil me with shame. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I’m convinced nothing happened.
Because nothing DID happen.
When we left the movie, Rashmi announced, “The ending was too abrupt. We didn’t get to see any of the good stuff.” And by the time I’d finished
defending it, we were already back inside the dorm. I wanted to talk to St. Clair, get a sign that something between us had changed, but Mer broke in and hugged him good night. And since I couldn’t hug him without exposing my thudding heart, I lingered behind.
And then we had this lame wave goodbye.
And then I went to bed, confused as ever.
What happened? As thril ing as it was, I must have exaggerated it in my mind, because he didn’t act any differently at breakfast the next day.We had a
friendly conversation, as always. Besides, he has El ie. He doesn’t need me. all I can guess is that I must have projected my own frustrated feelings about Toph onto St. Clair.
Josh is examining me careful y. I decide to ask him a question before he can ask me one. “How’s your assignment going?” My team in La Vie actual y
won (no thanks to me), so Rashmi and I didn’t have to go on Friday. Josh ditched his last class to spend the hour with us. It earned him detention and
several pages of additional homework.
“Eh.” He flops down in the chair beside me and picks up his sketchbook. “I have better things to do.”
“But . . . won’t you get in more trouble if you don’t do it?” I’ve never ditched. I don’t understand how he can just shrug everything off.
“Probably.” Josh flexes his hand and winces.
I frown. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s cramped,” he says. “From drawing. It’s okay, it’s always like this.”
Strange. I’d never considered art injuries before. “You’re real y talented. Is that what you want to do? For a living, I mean?”
“I’m working on a graphic novel.”
“Real y? That’s cool.” I push my laptop away. “What’s it about?”
The corner of his mouth rises in a sly smile. “A guy forced to attend a snobby boarding school, because his parents don’t want him around anymore.”
I snort. “I’ve heard that one before. What do your parents do?”
“My dad’s a politician. They’re working on his reelection campaign. I haven’t talked to ‘Senator Wasserstein’ since school started.”