“Because we’re obviously just friends.”
“Obviously.”
We mil around until the head of school arrives for her welcome speech. The head is graceful and carries herself like a bal erina. She has a long neck, and her snow-white hair is pul ed into a tidy knot that makes her look distinguished rather than elderly. The overal effect is Parisian, although I know from my acceptance letter she’s from Chicago. Her gaze glides across us, her one hundred handpicked pupils. “Welcome to another exciting year at the
School of America in Paris. I’m pleased to see so many familiar faces, and I’m even happier to see the new ones.”
Apparently school speeches are one thing France can’t improve.
“To the students who attended last year, I invite you all to give a warm welcome to your new freshman class and to the new upperclassmen, as well .”
A smattering of polite applause. I glance around, and I’m startled to find St. Clair looking at me. He claps and lifts his hands in my direction. I blush and jerk away.
The head keeps talking. Focus, Anna. Focus. But I feel his stare as if it were the heat of the sun. My skin grows moist with sweat. I slide underneath one of the immaculately pruned trees. Why is he staring? Is he stil staring? I think he is. Why why why? Is it a good stare or a bad stare or an indifferent stare?
But when I final y look, he’s not staring at me at all. He’s biting his pinkie nail.
The head wraps up, and Rashmi bounds off to join the guys. Meredith leads me inside for English. The professeur hasn’t arrived yet, so we choose seats in the back. The classroom is smal er than what I’m used to, and it has dark, gleaming trim and tal windows that look like doors. But the desks are the same, and the whiteboard and the wal -mounted pencil sharpener. I concentrate on these familiar items to ease my nerves.
“You’l like Professeur Cole,” Meredith says. “She’s hilarious, and she always assigns the best books.”
“My dad is a novelist.” I blurt this without thinking and immediately regret it.
“Real y? Who?”
“James Ashley.” That’s his pen name. I guess Oliphant wasn’t romantic enough.
“Who?”
The humiliation factor multiplies. “The Decision? The Entrance? They were made into movies. Forget it, they all have vague names like that—”
She leans forward, excited. “No, my mom loves The Entrance!”
I wrinkle my nose.
“They aren’t that bad. I watched The Entrance with her once and total y cried when that girl died of leukemia.”
“Who died of leukemia?” Rashmi plops her backpack down next to me. St. Clair trails in behind her and takes the seat in front of Meredith.
“Anna’s dad wrote The Entrance,” Meredith says.
I cough. “Not something I’m proud of.”
“I’m sorry, what’s The Entrance?” Rashmi asks.
“It’s that movie about the boy who helps deliver the baby girl in the elevator, and then he grows up to fal in love with her,” Meredith says as St. Clair leans back in his chair and nabs her schedule. “But the day after their engagement, she’s diagnosed with leukemia.”
“Her father pushes her down the aisle in a wheelchair,” I continue. “And then she dies on the honeymoon.”
“Ugh,” Rashmi and St. Clair say together.
Enough embarrassment. “Where’s Josh?” I ask.
“He’s a junior,” Rashmi says, as if I should have known this already. “We dropped him off at pre-calc.”
“Oh.” Our conversation hits a dead end. Lovely.
“Three classes together, Mer. Give us yours.” St. Clair leans back again and steals my half sheet. “Ooo, beginning French.”