Thank you, but it was okay. Dad wanted to apologize. For a split second, he was almost human. Almost. And then Mom apologized, and now
they’re washing dishes and pretending like nothing happened. I don’t know. I didn’t mean to get all drama queen, when your problems are so
much worse than mine. I’m sorry.
To: Anna Oliphant <[email protected]>
From: Étienne St. Clair <[email protected]>
Subject: Are you mad?
My day was boring. Your day was a nightmare. Are you all right?
To: Étienne St. Clair <[email protected]>
From: Anna Oliphant <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Are you mad?
I’m okay. I’m just glad I have you to talk to.
To: Anna Oliphant <[email protected]>
From: Étienne St. Clair <[email protected]>
Subject: So . . .
Does that mean I can cal you now?
Chapter twenty-nine
In the history of terrible holidays, this ranks as the worst ever. Worse than the Fourth of July when Granddad showed up to see the fireworks in a kilt and insisted on singing “Flower of Scotland” instead of “America the Beautiful.” Worse than the Hal oween when Trudy Sherman and I both went to school
dressed as Glinda the Good Witch, and she told everyone her costume was better than mine, because you could see my purple “Monday” panties through
my dress AND YOU TOTALLY COULD.
I’m not talking to Bridgette. She cal s every day, but I ignore her. It’s over. The Christmas gift I bought her, a tiny package wrapped in red-and-white-
striped paper, has been shoved into the bottom of my suitcase. It’s a model of Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris. It was part of a model train set, and because of my poor language skil s, St. Clair spent fifteen minutes convincing the shopkeeper to sel the bridge to me separately.
I hope I can return it.
I’ve only been to the Royal Midtown 14 once, and even though I saw Hercules, Toph was there, too. And he was like, “Hey, Anna. Why won’t you talk to
Bridge?” and I had to run into the restroom. One of the new girls fol owed me in and said she thinks Toph is an insensitive douchebag motherhumping
assclown, and that I shouldn’t let him get to me. Which was sweet, but didn’t real y help.
Afterward, Hercules and I watched the latest cheesy Christmas movie and made fun of the actors’ matching holiday sweaters. He told me about the
mysterious package of roast beef he found in theater six, and he said he’s been enjoying my website. He thinks my reviews are getting better. At least
that was nice.
It was also nice when Dad left. He kept gril ing me about French monuments and making these irritating cal s to his publicist.We were all relieved to see him go.The only consistent bright spot has been St. Clair. We talk every day—cal s, emails, texts. It doesn’t escape my attention that when Toph and I
were separated, our communications fizzled out, but now that I’m not seeing St. Clair every day, we talk even more.