Mom looks at me. “Are you hungry? Did they feed you on the plane?”
“I could eat.”
We pul off the interstate and hit the drive-through. They aren’t serving lunch yet, and Seany throws a fit. We decide on hash browns. Mom and Seany
get Cokes, and I order coffee. “You drink coffee now?” Mom hands it to me, surprised.
I shrug. “Everyone at school drinks coffee.”
“Wel , I hope you’re stil drinking milk, too.”
“Like Sean’s drinking milk right now?”
Mom grits her teeth. “It’s a special occasion. His big sister is home for Christmas.” She points to the Canadian flag on my backpack. “What’s that?”
“My friend St. Clair bought it for me. So I wouldn’t feel out of place.”
She raises her eyebrows as she pul s back onto the road. “Are there a lot of Canadians in Paris?”
My face warms. “I just felt, you know, stupid for a while. Like one of those lame American tourists with the white sneakers and the cameras around their
necks? So he bought it for me, so I wouldn’t feel . . . embarrassed. American.”
“Being American is nothing to be ashamed of,” she snaps.
“God, Mom, I know. I just meant—forget it.”
“Is this the English boy with the French father?”
“What does that have anything to do with it?” I’m angry. I don’t like what she’s implying. “Besides, he’s American. He was born here? His mom lives in
San Francisco. We sat next to each other on the plane.”
We stop at a red light. Mom stares at me. “You like him.”
“OH GOD, MOM.”
“You do.You like this boy.”
“He’s just a friend. He has a girlfriend.”
“Anna has a boooy-friend,” Seany chants.
“I do not!”
“ANNA HAS A BOOOY-FRIEND!”
I take a sip of coffee and choke. It’s disgusting. It’s sludge. No, it’s worse than sludge—at least sludge is organic. Seany is stil taunting me. Mom
reaches around and grabs his legs, which are kicking her seat again. She sees me making a face at my drink.
“My, my. One semester in France, and suddenly we’re Miss Sophisticated.Your father will be thril ed.”
Like it was my choice! Like I asked to go to Paris! And how dare she mention Dad.
“ANNNN-A HAS A BOOOY-FRIEND!”
We merge back onto the interstate. It’s rush hour, and the Atlanta traffic has stopped moving.The car behind ours shakes us with its thumping bass.The