have seen a few films there together?”
“We watched a spaghetti-western retrospective there last month.” I’m baffled. He thought St. Clair and I were dating?
She’s quiet. Jealous. But Meredith has no reason for envy. There’s nothing— nothing—going on between St. Clair and me. And I’m okay with it, I swear.
I’m too worried about St. Clair to think about him in that other way. He needs the familiar right now, and El ie is familiar.
I’ve been thinking about the familiar, too. I miss Toph again. I miss his green eyes, and I miss those late nights at the theater when he’d make me laugh so hard I’d cry. Bridge says he asks about me, but I haven’t talked to him lately, because their band is so busy.Things are good for the Penny
Dreadfuls.They’ve final y scheduled their first gig. It’s just before Christmas, and I, Anna Oliphant, will be in attendance.
One month. I can hardly wait.
I should be seeing them next week, but Dad doesn’t think it’s worth the money to fly me home for such a short holiday, and Mom can’t afford it. So I’m
spending Thanksgiving here alone. Except . . . I’m not anymore.
I recal the news Mer dropped only minutes ago. St. Clair isn’t going home for Thanksgiving either. And everyone else, his girlfriend included, is
traveling back to the States. Which means the two of us will be here for the four-day weekend. Alone.
The thought distracts me all the way back to the dorm.
Chapter eighteen
Happy Thanksgiving to you! Happy Thanksgiving to yoouuu! Happy Thanks-giv-ing, St. Cla-airrr—”
His door jerks open, and he glares at me with heavy eyes. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and white pajama bottoms with blue stripes. “Stop.
Singing.”
“St. Clair! Fancy meeting you here!” I give him my biggest gap-toothed smile. “Did you know today is a holiday?”
He shuffles back into bed but leaves his door open. “I heard,” he says grumpily. I let myself in. His room is . . . messier than the first time I saw it. Dirty clothes and towels in heaps across the floor. Half-empty water bottles. The contents of his schoolbag spil from underneath his bed, crinkled papers and
blank worksheets. I take a hesitant sniff. Dank. It smel s dank.
“Love what you’ve done with the place. Very col ege-chic.”
“If you’re here to criticize, you can leave the way you came in,” he mumbles through his pil ow.
“Nah.You know how I feel about messes. They’re ripe with such possibility.”
He sighs, a long-suffering noise.
I move a stack of textbooks off his desk chair and several sketches fal from between the pages. They’re all charcoal drawings of anatomical hearts. I’ve only seen his doodles before, nothing serious. And while it’s true Josh is the better technical artist, these are beautiful. Violent. Passionate.
I pick them off the floor. “These are amazing. When did you make them?”
Silence.
Delicately, I place the hearts back inside his government book, careful not to smudge them any more than they already are. “So. We’re celebrating
today.You’re the only person I know left in Paris.”
A grunt. “Not many restaurants are serving stuffed turkey.”
“I don’t need turkey, just an acknowledgment that today is important. No one out there”—I point out his window, even though he’s not looking—“has a
clue.”
He tugs his covers tight. “I’m from London. I don’t celebrate it either.”
“Please. You said on my first day you were an American. Remember? You can’t switch nationalities as suits your needs. And today our country is
gorging itself on pie and casseroles, and we need to be a part of that.”
“Hmph.”
This isn’t going as planned. Time to switch tactics. I sit on the edge of his bed and wiggle his foot. “Please? Pretty please?”
Silence.
“Come on. I need to do something fun, and you need to get out of this room.”
Silence.
My frustration rises. “You know, today sucks for both of us. You aren’t the only one stuck here. I’d give anything to be at home right now.”
Silence.
I take a slow, deep breath. “Fine.You wanna know the deal? I’m worried about you. We’re all worried about you. Heck, this is the most we’ve talked in weeks, and I’m the only one moving my mouth! It sucks what happened, and it sucks even harder that there’s nothing any of us can say or do to change it. I mean there’s nothing I can do, and that pisses me off, because I hate seeing you like this. But you know what?” I stand back up. “I don’t think your mom would want you beating yourself up over something you can’t control. She wouldn’t want you to stop trying. And I think she’l want to hear as many good
things as possible when you go home next month—”
“IF I go home next month—”
“WHEN you go home, she’l want to see you happy.”
“Happy?” Now he’s mad. “How can I—”
“Okay, not happy,” I say quickly. “But she won’t want to see you like this either. She won’t want to hear you’ve stopped attending class, stopped trying.
She wants to see you graduate, remember? You’re so close, St. Clair. Don’t mess this up.”
Silence.
“Fine.” It’s not fair, not rational, for me to be this angry with him, but I can’t help it. “Be a lump. Drop out. Enjoy your miserable day in bed.” I head for the door. “Maybe you aren’t the person I thought you were.”