She shakes her head. “Come on, St. Clair’s right. Let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”
“I think it’s pretty,” I say. “Besides, I’d rather look at ribbons than dead rabbits.”
“Not the hares again,” St. Clair says. “You’re as bad as Rashmi.”
We wrestle through the Christmas crowds. “I can see why she was upset! The way they’re hung up, like they’d died of nosebleeds. It’s horrible. Poor
Isis.” all of the shops in Paris have outdone themselves with elaborate window displays, and the butcher is no exception. I pass the dead bunnies every
time I go to the movies.
“In case you hadn’t noticed,” he says. “Isis is perfectly alive and well on the sixth floor.”
We burst through the glass doors and onto the street. Shoppers rush by, and for a moment, it feels like I’m visiting my father in Manhattan. But the
familiar lampposts and benches and boulevards appear, and the il usion disappears. The sky is white gray. It looks like it’s about to snow, but it never
does. We pick our way through the throngs and toward the métro. The air is cold, but not bitter, and tinged with chimney smoke.
St. Clair and I continue bickering about the rabbits. I know he doesn’t like the display either, but for whatever reason, he wants to argue. Mer is
exasperated. “Wil you guys cut it out? You’re kil ing my holiday buzz.”
“Speaking of buzzkil s.” I look pointedly at St. Clair before addressing Mer. “I stil want to ride one of those Ferris wheels they set up along the Champs-
Élysées. Or that big one at the Place de la Concorde with all the pretty lights.”
St. Clair glares at me.
“I’d ask you,” I say to him, “but I know what your answer would be.”
It’s like I slapped him. Oh God. What’s wrong with me?
“Anna,” Mer says.
“I’m sorry.” I look down at my shoes in horror. “I don’t know why I said that.”
A red-cheeked man in front of a supermarket swears loudly. He’s sel ing baskets fil ed with oysters on ice. His hands must be freezing, but I’d trade
places with him in a second. Please, St. Clair. Please say something.
He shrugs, but it’s forced. “’S all right.”
“Anna, have you heard from Toph lately?” Mer asks, desperate for a subject change.
“Yeah. Actual y, I got an email last night.” To be honest, for a while I’d stopped thinking about Toph. But since St. Clair has moved clearly, definitively out of the picture again, my thoughts have drifted back to Christmas break. I haven’t heard much from Toph or Bridge, because they’ve been so busy with the
band, and we’ve all been busy with finals, so it was surprising—and exciting—to get yesterday’s email.
“So what’d it say?” Mer asks.
sorry i haven’t written. its been insane with the practicing. that was funny about the french pigeons being fed contraceptive seeds. those crazy
parisians. they should put it in the school pizza here, there’ve been at least six preggos this year. bridge says ur coming to our show. lookin
forward to it, annabel lee. later. toph.
“Not much. But he’s looking forward to seeing me,” I add.