“Yes.”
He flips it open and reads the jacket. I watch his face anxiously. His expression grows puzzled. I see him stop and go back to read something again. St.
Clair looks up at me. “It’s about cancer,” he says.
Oh. My. God.
“This woman has cancer. What happens to her?”
I can’t swal ow. “My father is an idiot. I’ve told you, he’s a complete jackass.”
An excruciating pause. “He sel s a lot of these, does he?”
I nod.
“And people enjoy this? They find it entertaining, do they?”
“I’m sorry, St. Clair.” Tears are well ing in my eyes. I’ve never hated my father as much as I do right now. How could he? How dare he make money off
something so horrible? St. Clair shuts the book and shoves it back on the shelf. He picks up another, The Entrance. The leukemia novel. My father wears a dress shirt with the first few buttons casual y undone. His arms are crossed, but he has that same ridiculous grin.
“He’s a freak,” I say. “A total ... goinky freak.”
St. Clair snorts. He opens his mouth to say something, but then sees me crying. “No, Anna. Anna, I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have seen this.” I snatch the book and thrust it back onto the shelf. Another stack of novels tumbles off and crashes to the floor between us. We drop to pick them up and bash heads.
“Ow!” I say.
St. Clair rubs his head. “Are you all right?”
I wrench the books from his hands. “I’m fine. Just fine.” I pile them back on the bookcase and stumble to the back of the store, as far from him, as far
from my father, as possible. But a few minutes later, St. Clair is back at my side.
“It’s not your fault,” he says quietly. “You don’t pick your parents. I know that as well as anyone, Anna.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fair enough.” He holds up a col ection of poetry. Pablo Neruda. “Have you read this?”
I shake my head.
“Good. Because I just bought it for you.”
“What?”
“It’s on our syl abus for next semester in English.You’d need to buy it anyway. Open it up,” he says.
Confused, I do. There’s a stamp on the front page. SHAKESPEARE AND COMPANY, Kilometer Zero Paris. I blink. “Kilometer Zero? Is that the same
thing as Point Zéro?” I think about our first walk around the city together.
“For old times’ sake.” St. Clair smiles. “Come on, the rain’s stopped. Let’s get out of here.”
I’m stil quiet on the street.We cross the same bridge we did that first night—me on the outside again, St. Clair on the inside—and he keeps up the
conversation for the both of us. “Did I ever tell you I went to school in America?”