“You mean when Amanda caught him dirty-texting Nicole?” Mer asks. “I thought she was gonna stab him in the neck with her pencil.”
“I’ve been busy,” St. Clair says.
I glance at him. “I was just teasing.”
“Wel , you don’t have to be such a bloody git about it.”
“I wasn’t being a git. I wasn’t even being a twat, or a wanker, or any of your other bleeding Briticisms—”
“Piss off.” He snatches his bag back from Mer and scowls at me.
“HEY!” Mer says. “It’s Christmas. Ho-ho-ho. Deck the hal s. Stop fighting.”
“We weren’t fighting,” he and I say together.
She shakes her head. “Come on, St. Clair’s right. Let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”
“I think it’s pretty,” I say. “Besides, I’d rather look at ribbons than dead rabbits.”
“Not the hares again,” St. Clair says. “You’re as bad as Rashmi.”
We wrestle through the Christmas crowds. “I can see why she was upset! The way they’re hung up, like they’d died of nosebleeds. It’s horrible. Poor
Isis.” all of the shops in Paris have outdone themselves with elaborate window displays, and the butcher is no exception. I pass the dead bunnies every
time I go to the movies.
“In case you hadn’t noticed,” he says. “Isis is perfectly alive and well on the sixth floor.”
We burst through the glass doors and onto the street. Shoppers rush by, and for a moment, it feels like I’m visiting my father in Manhattan. But the
familiar lampposts and benches and boulevards appear, and the il usion disappears. The sky is white gray. It looks like it’s about to snow, but it never
does. We pick our way through the throngs and toward the métro. The air is cold, but not bitter, and tinged with chimney smoke.
St. Clair and I continue bickering about the rabbits. I know he doesn’t like the display either, but for whatever reason, he wants to argue. Mer is
exasperated. “Wil you guys cut it out? You’re kil ing my holiday buzz.”
“Speaking of buzzkil s.” I look pointedly at St. Clair before addressing Mer. “I stil want to ride one of those Ferris wheels they set up along the Champs-
Élysées. Or that big one at the Place de la Concorde with all the pretty lights.”
St. Clair glares at me.
“I’d ask you,” I say to him, “but I know what your answer would be.”
It’s like I slapped him. Oh God. What’s wrong with me?
“Anna,” Mer says.
“I’m sorry.” I look down at my shoes in horror. “I don’t know why I said that.”
A red-cheeked man in front of a supermarket swears loudly. He’s sel ing baskets fil ed with oysters on ice. His hands must be freezing, but I’d trade
places with him in a second. Please, St. Clair. Please say something.
He shrugs, but it’s forced. “’S all right.”
“Anna, have you heard from Toph lately?” Mer asks, desperate for a subject change.
“Yeah. Actual y, I got an email last night.” To be honest, for a while I’d stopped thinking about Toph. But since St. Clair has moved clearly, definitively out of the picture again, my thoughts have drifted back to Christmas break. I haven’t heard much from Toph or Bridge, because they’ve been so busy with the
band, and we’ve all been busy with finals, so it was surprising—and exciting—to get yesterday’s email.
“So what’d it say?” Mer asks.
sorry i haven’t written. its been insane with the practicing. that was funny about the french pigeons being fed contraceptive seeds. those crazy
parisians. they should put it in the school pizza here, there’ve been at least six preggos this year. bridge says ur coming to our show. lookin
forward to it, annabel lee. later. toph.
“Not much. But he’s looking forward to seeing me,” I add.
Mer grins. “You must be so psyched.”
We startle at the sound of breaking glass. St. Clair has kicked a bottle into the gutter.
“You okay?” she asks him.
But he turns to me. “Have you had a chance to look at that poetry book I got you?”
I’m so surprised, it takes a moment to answer. “Uh, no. We don’t have to read it until next semester, right?” I turn to Mer and explain. “He bought me the Neruda book.”
She whips her head toward St. Clair, who adjusts his face away from her scrutiny. “Yeah, well . I was just wondering. Since you hadn’t mentioned it ...”
He trails off, dejected.
I give him a funny look and return to Mer. She’s upset, too, and I’m afraid I’ve missed something. No, I know I’ve missed something. I babble to cover the peculiar silence. “I’m so happy to be going home. My flight leaves at, like, six in the morning this Saturday, so I have to get up insanely early, but it’s worth it. I should make it in plenty of time to see the Penny Dreadfuls.
“Their show is that night,” I add.
St. Clair’s head shoots up. “When does your flight leave?”
“Six a.m.,” I repeat.
“So does mine,” he says. “My connecting flight is through Atlanta. I bet we’re on the same plane.We ought to share a taxi.”
Something twinges inside me. I don’t know if I want to. It’s all so weird with the fighting and the not-fighting. I’m searching for an excuse when we pass a homeless man with a scraggly beard. He’s lying in front of the métro, cardboard propped around him for warmth. St. Clair roots around his pockets and places all of his euros into the man’s cup. “Joyeux Noël.” He turns back to me. “So? A taxi?”