And so will El ie.
I try not to take it personal y, but it hurts. I consider going to the movies, but I work on my history homework instead. At least that’s what I tell myself I’m doing. My ears are tuned to the movements above me in his room, tuned to distraction. He’s so close, yet so far away.As students arrive back, Résidence
Lambert gets louder, and it becomes difficult to pick out individual noises. I’m not even sure if he’s there anymore.
Meredith bursts in around eight, and we go to dinner. She chatters about her holiday in Boston, but my mind is elsewhere. He’s probably with her right now. I remember the first time I saw them together—their kiss, her hands tangled in his hair—and I lose my appetite.
“You’re awful y quiet,” Mer says. “How was your break? Did you get St. Clair out of his room?”
“A little.” I can’t tell her about our nights, but for some reason, I don’t want to tell her about our days either. I want to keep the memories for myself, hidden. They’re mine.
Their kiss. Her hands tangled in his hair. My stomach churns.
She sighs. “And I was hoping he might come back out of his shel . Take a walk, get some fresh air. You know, something craa-zy like that.”
Their kiss. Her hands tangled—
“Hey,” she says. “You guys didn’t do anything crazy while we were gone, did you?”
I nearly choke on my coffee.
The next few weeks are a blur. Classes pick up with the professeurs anxious to get to the halfway point in their lesson plans. We pul all -nighters to keep up, and we cram to prepare for their finals. For the first time, it strikes me how competitive this school is. Students here take studying seriously, and the dormitory is almost as quiet as it was when they were gone for Thanksgiving.
Letters arrive from universities. I’ve been accepted into all of the schools I applied to, but there’s hardly time to celebrate. Rashmi gets into Brown, and Meredith gets into her top picks, too—one in London, one in Rome. St. Clair doesn’t talk about col ege. None of us know where he’s applied or if he’s applied, and he changes the subject whenever we bring it up.
His mother is done with chemo, and it’s her last week of external radiation. Next week, when we’re home, she’l have her first internal radiation
treatment. It requires a three-day hospital stay, and I’m thankful St. Clair will be there for it. He says her spirits are up, and she claims she’s doing well —as well as can be expected under the circumstances—but he’s impatient to see it with his own eyes.
Today is the first day of Hanukkah and, in its honor, the school has given us a break from homework assignments and tests.
Wel , in honor of Josh.
“The only Jew in SOAP,” he says, rol ing his eyes. He’s understandably annoyed, because jerks like Steve Carver were punching his arm and thanking
him at breakfast.
My friends and I are in a department store, trying to get some shopping done while we have an actual afternoon off. The store is beautiful in a familiar
way. Shiny red and gold ribbons hang from dangling wreaths. Green garlands and white twinkle lights are draped down the escalator and across the
perfume counters. And American musicians sing from the speakers.
“Speaking of,” Mer says to Josh. “Should you even be here?”
“Sundown, my little Catholic friend, sundown. But actual y”—he looks at Rashmi—“we need to go, if we want to catch dinner in the Marais in time. I’m
craving latkes like no one’s business.”
She glances at the clock on her phone. “You’re right. We better scoot.”
They say goodbye, and then it’s just the three of us. I’m glad Meredith is stil here. Since Thanksgiving, things have regressed between St. Clair and
me. El ie is his girlfriend, and I’m his friend-who-is-a-girl, and I think he feels guilty for overstepping those boundaries. I feel guilty for encouraging him.
Neither of us has mentioned anything about that weekend, and even though we stil sit next to each other at meals, there’s now this thing between us. The ease of our friendship is gone.
Thankful y, no one has noticed. I think. Once I caught Josh mouthing something to St. Clair and then motioning toward me. I don’t know what he said, but
it made St. Clair shake his head in a “shut up” manner. But it could have been about anything.
Something catches my attention. “Is that . . . the Looney Tunes theme?”
Mer and St. Clair c**k their ears.
“Why, yes. I believe it is,” St. Clair says.
“I heard ‘Love Shack’ a few minutes ago,” Mer says.
“It’s official,” I say. “America has final y ruined France.”
“So can we go now?” St. Clair holds up a smal bag. “I’m done.”
“Ooo, what’d you get?” Mer asks. She takes his bag and pul s out a delicate, shimmery scarf. “Is it for El ie?”
“Shite.”
Mer pauses. “You didn’t get anything for El ie?”
“No, it’s for Mum. Arrrgh.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “Would you mind if we pop over to Sennelier before we go home?” Sennelier is a gorgeous
little art supply store, the kind that makes me wish I had an excuse to buy oil paints and pastels. Mer and I went with Rashmi last weekend. She bought
Josh a new sketchbook for Hanukkah.
“Wow. Congratulations, St. Clair,” I say. “Winner of today’s Sucky Boyfriend award. And I thought Steve was bad—did you see what happened in calc?”