“A natural!You say you’ve never lived in France before?”
“Har. Bloody. Har.”
He smiles. “Oh, I see. Known me less than a day and teasing me about my accent.What’s next? Care to discuss the state of my hair? My height? My trousers?”
Trousers. Honestly.
The Frenchman behind the counter barks at us. Sorry, Chef Pierre. I’m a little distracted by this English French American Boy Masterpiece. Said boy asks rapidly, “Yogurt with granola and honey, soft-boiled egg, or pears on brioche?”
I have no idea what brioche is. “Yogurt,” I say.
He places our orders in perfect French. At least, it sounds impeccable to my virgin ears, and it relaxes Chef Pierre. He loses the glower and stirs the granola and honey into my yogurt. A sprinkling of blueberries is added to the top before he hands it over.
“Merci, Monsieur Boutin.”
I grab our tray. “No Pop-Tarts? No Cocoa Puffs? I’m, like, total y offended.”
“Pop-Tarts are Tuesdays, Eggo waffles are Wednesdays, but they never, ever serve Cocoa Puffs. You shal have to settle for Froot Loops Fridays instead.”
“You know a lot about American junk food for a British dude.”
“Orange juice? Grapefruit? Cranberry?” I point to the orange, and he pul s two out of the case. “I’m not British. I’m American.”
I smile. “Sure you are.”
“I am.You have to be an American to attend SOAP, remember?”
“Soap?”
“School of America in Paris,” he explains. “SOAP.”
Nice. My father sent me here to be cleansed.
We get in line to pay, and I’m surprised by how efficiently it runs. My old school was all about cutting ahead and incensing the lunch ladies, but here everyone waits patiently. I turn back just in time to catch his eyes flicker up and down my body. My breath catches. The beautiful boy is checking me out.
He doesn’t realize I’ve caught him. “My mum is American,” he continues smoothly. “My father is French. I was born in San Francisco, and I was raised in London.”
Miraculously, I find my voice. “A true international.”
He laughs. “That’s right. I’m not a poseur like the rest of you.”
I’m about to tease him back when I remember: He has a girlfriend. Something evil pokes the pink folds of my brain, forcing me to recal my conversation with Meredith last night. It’s time to change the subject. “What’s your real name? Last night you introduced yourself as—”
“St. Clair is my last name. Étienne is my first.”
“Étienne St. Clair.” I try to pronounce it like him, all foreign and posh.
“Terrible, isn’t it?”
I’m laughing now. “Étienne is nice. Why don’t people cal you that?”
“Oh, ‘Étienne is nice.’ How generous of you.”
Another person gets in line behind us, a tiny boy with brown skin, acne, and a thick mat of black hair. The boy is excited to see him, and he smiles back.
“Hey, Nikhil. Did you have a nice holiday?” It’s the same question he asked Amanda, but this time his tone is sincere.
That’s all it takes for the boy to launch into a story about his trip to Delhi, about the markets and temples and monsoons. (He went on a day trip to the Taj Mahal. I went to Panama City Beach with the rest of Georgia.) Another boy runs up, this one skinny and pale with sticky-uppy hair. Nikhil forgets us and greets his friend with the same enthusiastic babble.