“What were they fighting about?” Mer asks.
“Dunno. Couldn’t hear them.”
“It’s her. She’s so different now.”
Rashmi frowns. “She thinks she’s so much better than us, now that she’s at Parsons.”
“And the way she dresses,” Mer says, with an unusual bitter streak. “Like she thinks she’s actual y Parisian.”
“She was always that way.” Rashmi huffs.
Josh is stil quiet. He polishes off the éclair, wipes the white fluff from his fingers, and pul s out his sketchbook. The way he focuses on it, deflecting Meredith and Rashmi’s conversation, is . . . purposeful. I get the feeling he knows more about St. Clair’s situation than he’s letting on. Do guys talk about things like that with each other? Could it be possible?
Are St. Clair and El ie breaking up?
Chapter fourteen
Don’t y’al think it’s kind of a cliché to have a picnic in a graveyard on Hal oween?”
The five of us—Mer, Rashmi, Josh, St. Clair, and I—are traipsing through the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, located on a hil side overlooking Paris. It’s
like a miniature city itself. Wide pathways act as roads through neighborhoods of elaborate tombs. They remind me of tiny Gothic mansions with their
arched doorways and statuary and stained-glass windows. A stone wal with guardsmen and iron gates runs the perimeter. Mature chestnuts stretch their
branches overhead and wave their last remaining golden leaves.
It’s a quieter city than Paris, but no less impressive.
“Hey , did y’al hear Anna say ‘y’al ’?” Josh asks.
“Oh my God, I so did not.”
“You so did,” Rashmi says. She adjusts the pack on her shoulders and fol ows Mer down yet another path. I’m glad my friends know their way around,
because I’m lost. “I told you you’ve got an accent.”
“It’s a cemetery, not a graveyard,” St. Clair says.
“There’s a difference?” I ask, thankful for an opportunity to ignore The Couple.
“A cemetery is a plot of land set specifical y aside for burial, while a graveyard is always located in a churchyard. Of course, now the words are
practical y interchangeable, so it doesn’t really matter—”
“You know more useless crap, St. Clair. Good thing you’re so darn cute,” Josh says.
“I think it’s interesting,” Mer says.
St. Clair smiles. “At least ‘cemetery’ sounds classier. And you must admit—this place is pretty classy. Or, I’m sorry.” He turns back to me. “Would you
rather be at the Lambert bash? I hear Dave Higgenbottom is bringing his beer bong.”
“Higgenbaum.”
“That’s what I said. Higgenbum.”
“Oh, leave him alone. Besides, by the time this place closes, we’l stil have plenty of time to party.” I rol my eyes at this last word. None of us have plans to attend, despite what I told Dave yesterday at lunch.