“And how many movies will this make this week anyway, Oliphant? Four? Five?”
Six actual y. I saw two on Sunday. I’ve settled into a routine: school, homework, dinner, movie. I’m slowly making my way across the city, theater by
theater.
I shrug, not will ing to admit this to him.
“When are you gonna invite me along, huh? Maybe I like scary movies, too.”
I pretend to study the family tree in my textbook. This isn’t the first time he’s hinted at this sort of thing. And Dave is cute, but I don’t like him that way. It’s hard to take a guy seriously when he stil tips over backward in his chair, just to annoy a teacher.
“Maybe I like going alone. Maybe it gives me time to think about my reviews.” Which is true, but I refrain from mentioning that usual y I’m not alone.
Sometimes Meredith joins me, sometimes Rashmi and Josh. And, yes, sometimes St. Clair.
“Right.Your reviews.” He yanks my spiral notebook out from underneath Level One French.
“Hey! Give that back!”
“What’s your website again?” Dave flips through the pages as I try to grab it. I don’t take notes while watching the films; I’d rather hold off until I’ve had time to think about them. But I like to jot down my first impressions afterward.
“Like I’d tell you. Give it back.”
“What’s the deal with these, anyway? Why don’t you go to the movies for fun, like a normal person?”
“It is fun. And I’ve told you before, it’s good practice. And I can’t see classics like these on the big screen back home.” Not to mention I can’t see them in such glorious silence. In Paris, no one talks during a movie. Heaven help the person who brings in a crunchy snack or crinkly cel ophane.
“Why do you need to practice? It’s not like it’s hard or something.”
“Yeah? I’d like to see you write a six-hundred-word review about one. ‘I liked it. It was cool. There were explosions.’” I snatch again at my notebook, but he holds it above his head.
He laughs. “Five stars for explosions.”
“Give. That. BACK!”
A shadow fal s over us. Madame Guil otine hovers above, waiting for us to continue. The rest of the class is staring. Dave lets go of the notebook, and I shrink back.
“Um ... très bien, David, ” I say.
“When you ’ave finished zis fascinating dee-scussion, plizz return to ze task at ’and.” Her eyes narrow. “And deux pages about vos familles, en français, pour lundi matin.”
We nod sheepishly, and her heels clip away. “For lundi matin? What the heck does that mean?” I hiss to Dave.
Madame Guil otine doesn’t break stride. “Monday morning, Mademoisel e Oliphant.”
At lunch, I slam my food tray down on the table. Lentil soup spil s over the side of my bowl, and my plum rol s away. St. Clair catches it. “What’s eating you?” he asks.
“French.”
“Not going well ?”
“Not going well .”
He places the plum back on my tray and smiles. “You’l get the hang of it.”
“Easy for you to say, Monsieur Bilingual.”
His smile fades. “Sorry.You’re right, that was unfair. I forget sometimes.”