I stir my lentils aggressively. “Professeur Gil et always makes me feel stupid. I’m not stupid.”
“Of course you aren’t. It’d be mad for anyone to expect fluency. It takes time to learn anything, especial y a language.”
“I’m just so tired of going out there”—I gesture at the windows—“and being helpless.”
St. Clair is surprised at my suggestion. “You aren’t helpless. You go out every night, often on your own. That’s a far cry from when you arrived. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“Hmph.”
“Hey.” He scoots closer. “Remember what Professeur Cole said when she was talking about the lack of translated novels in America? She said it’s
important to expose ourselves to other cultures, other situations. And that’s exactly what you’re doing. You’re going out, and you’re testing the waters.You ought to be proud of yourself. Screw French class, that means sod-al .”
I crack a smile at his Briticism. Speaking of translation. “Yeah, but Professeur Cole was talking about books, not real life. There’s a big difference.”
“Is there? What about film? Aren’t you the one who’s always going on about cinema as a reflection of life? Or was that some other famous film critic I
know?”
“Shut up. That’s different.”
St. Clair laughs, knowing he’s caught me. “See? You ought to spend less time worrying about French, and more time ...” He trails off, attention snagged
by something behind me. His expression is of growing revulsion.
I turn to find Dave, kneeling on the cafeteria floor behind us. His head is bowed, and he thrusts a smal plate in the air before me. “Al ow me to present this éclair with my humblest apologizes.”
My face burns. “What are you doing?”
Dave looks up and grins. “Sorry about the extra assignment. That was my fault.”
I’m speechless. When I don’t take the dessert, he rises and delivers it in front of me with a grand flourish. Everyone is staring. He nabs a chair from the table behind us and wedges himself between St. Clair and me.
St. Clair is incredulous. “Make yourself at home, David.”
Dave doesn’t seem to hear him. He dips his finger in the sticky chocolate icing and licks it off. Are his hands clean? “So. Tonight. Texas Chain Saw
Massacre. I’l never believe you aren’t afraid of horror films if you don’t let me take you.”
Oh my God. Dave is NOT asking me out in front of St. Clair. St. Clair hates Dave; I remember him saying it before we saw It Happened One Night. “Uh
. . . sorry.” I grasp for an excuse. “But I’m not going. Anymore. Something came up.”
“Come on. Nothing could be that important on a Friday night.” He pinches my arm, and I glance desperately at St. Clair.
“Physics project,” he cuts in, glaring at Dave’s hand. “Last minute. Loads to do. We’re partners.”
“You have all weekend to do homework. Loosen up, Oliphant. Live a little.”
“Actual y,” St. Clair says, “it sounds like Anna has quite a bit of additional work to do this weekend. Thanks to you.”
Dave final y turns around to face St. Clair. They exchange scowls.
“I’m sorry,” I say. And I mean it. I feel awful for turning him down, especial y in front of everyone. He’s a nice guy, despite what St. Clair thinks.
But Dave looks at St. Clair again. “It’s cool,” he says after a moment. “I get it.”
“What?” I’m confused.