“Better. Came in the mail yesterday. Come on, it’s in my room.” And, with that, he puts his hands in his coat pockets and struts into the stairwel .
I shove my computer into my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and shrug at the others. Mer looks hurt, and for a moment I feel guilty. But it’s not like I’m stealing him from her. I’m his friend, too. I chase him up five flights of stairs, and The Hat bobs ahead of me.We get to his floor, and he leads me down the hal way. I’m nervous and excited. I’ve never seen his room before.We always meet in the lobby or on my floor.
“Home sweet home.” He pul s out an “I Left My ♥ in San Francisco” key chain. Another gift from his mother, I suppose. Taped to his door is a sketch of
him wearing Napoleon’s hat. Josh’s work.
“Hey, 508! Your room is right above mine.You never said.”
St. Clair smiles. “Maybe I didn’t want you blaming me for keeping you up at night with my noisy stomping boots.”
“Dude.You do stomp.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” He laughs and holds the door open for me. His room is neater than I expected. I always picture guys with disgusting bedrooms—
mountains of soiled boxer shorts and sweat-stained undershirts, unmade beds with sheets that haven’t been changed in weeks, posters of beer bottles
and women in neon bikinis, empty soda cans and chip bags, and random bits of model airplanes and discarded video games.
That’s what Matt’s room looked like. It always grossed me out. I never knew when I might sit on a sauce packet from Taco Bel .
But St. Clair’s room is tidy. His bed is made, and there’s only one smal pile of clothing on the floor. There are no tacky posters, just an antique world map tacked above his desk and two colorful oil paintings above his bed. And books. I’ve never seen so many books in one bedroom. They’re stacked
along his wal s like towers—thick history books and tattered paperbacks and . . . an OED. Just like Bridge.
“I can’t believe I know two people crazy enough to own the OED.”
“Oh, yeah? Who’s the other?”
“Bridge. God, is yours new?” The spines are crisp and shiny. Bridgette’s is a few decades old, and her spines are cracked and splintering.
St. Clair looks embarrassed. The Oxford English Dictionary is a thousand bucks new, and even though we’ve never talked about it, he knows I don’t have spending money like the rest of our classmates. It’s pretty clear when I order the cheapest thing on the menu every time we eat out. Dad may have
wanted to give me a fancy education, but he isn’t concerned about my daily expenses. I’ve asked him twice for a raise in my weekly all owance, but he’s
refused, saying I need to learn to live within my means.
Which is difficult when he doesn’t give me enough means to begin with.
“Whatever happened with her and that band?” he asks, changing the subject. “Is she going to be their drummer?”
“Yeah, their first practice is this weekend.”
“It’s that one guy’s band—Sideburns, right?”
St. Clair knows Toph’s name. He’s trying to get a rise out of me, so I ignore it. “Yeah. So what do you have for me?”
“It’s right here.” He hands me a yel ow padded envelope from his desk, and my stomach dances like it’s my birthday. I rip the package open. A smal
patch fal s to the floor. It’s the Canadian flag.
I pick it up. “Um. Thanks?”
He tosses his hat onto his bed and rubs his hair. It flies up in all different directions. “It’s for your backpack, so people won’t think you’re American.
Europeans are much more forgiving of Canadians.”
I laugh. “Then I love it. Thank you.”