waving at me. I burst into laughter, and his face lights up. The escalator slides down.
He’s lost from view.
I swal ow hard and turn around. And then—there they are. Mom has a gigantic smile, and Seany is jumping and waving, just like St. Clair.
“For the last time, Bridgette said she was sorry.” Mom pays the grumpy woman in the airport parking deck’s tol booth. “She had to practice for the show.”
“Right. Because it’s not like we haven’t seen each other in four months.”
“Bridge is a ROCK STAR,” Seany says from the backseat. His voice is fil ed with adoration.
Uh-oh. Someone has a crush. “Oh, yeah?”
“She says her band is gonna be on MTV someday, but not the lame one, one of the cool ones you can only get with a special cable package.”
I turn around. My brother looks strangely smug. “And how do you know about special cable packages?”
Seany swings his legs. One of his freckled kneecaps is covered with Star Wars Band-Aids. Like, seven or eight of them. “Duh. Bridge told me.”
“Ah. I see.”
“She also told me about praying mantises. How the girl mantis eats the boy mantis’s head. And she told me about Jack the Ripper and NASA, and she
showed me how to make macaroni and cheese. The good kind, with the squishy cheese packet.”
“Anything else?”
“Lots of other things.” There is an edge to this. A threat.
“Oh. Hey, I have something for you.” I unzip my backpack and pul out a plastic shel . It’s an original StarWars Sand Person. The purchase on eBay ate my entire meal fund one week, but it was worth it. He real y wants this. I was saving it for later, but he clearly needs coaxing back to my side.
I hold up the package.The angry little figurine glares into the backseat. “Merry early Christmas!”
Seany crosses his arms. “I already have that one. Bridge got him for me.”
“Sean! What did I say about thanking people? tell your sister thank you. She must have gone through a lot of trouble to get that for you.”
“It’s okay,” I mumble, placing the toy back in my bag. It’s amazing how smal a resentful seven-year-old can make me feel.
“He just missed you, that’s all. He’s talked about you nonstop. He just doesn’t know how to express it now that you’re here. Sean! Stop kicking the seat!
What have I told you about kicking my seat while I’m driving?”
Seany scowls. “Can we go to McDonald’s?”
Mom looks at me. “Are you hungry? Did they feed you on the plane?”
“I could eat.”
We pul off the interstate and hit the drive-through. They aren’t serving lunch yet, and Seany throws a fit. We decide on hash browns. Mom and Seany
get Cokes, and I order coffee. “You drink coffee now?” Mom hands it to me, surprised.
I shrug. “Everyone at school drinks coffee.”
“Wel , I hope you’re stil drinking milk, too.”
“Like Sean’s drinking milk right now?”
Mom grits her teeth. “It’s a special occasion. His big sister is home for Christmas.” She points to the Canadian flag on my backpack. “What’s that?”
“My friend St. Clair bought it for me. So I wouldn’t feel out of place.”
She raises her eyebrows as she pul s back onto the road. “Are there a lot of Canadians in Paris?”
My face warms. “I just felt, you know, stupid for a while. Like one of those lame American tourists with the white sneakers and the cameras around their
necks? So he bought it for me, so I wouldn’t feel . . . embarrassed. American.”
“Being American is nothing to be ashamed of,” she snaps.
“God, Mom, I know. I just meant—forget it.”
“Is this the English boy with the French father?”
“What does that have anything to do with it?” I’m angry. I don’t like what she’s implying. “Besides, he’s American. He was born here? His mom lives in
San Francisco. We sat next to each other on the plane.”
We stop at a red light. Mom stares at me. “You like him.”
“OH GOD, MOM.”
“You do.You like this boy.”
“He’s just a friend. He has a girlfriend.”
“Anna has a boooy-friend,” Seany chants.
“I do not!”
“ANNA HAS A BOOOY-FRIEND!”
I take a sip of coffee and choke. It’s disgusting. It’s sludge. No, it’s worse than sludge—at least sludge is organic. Seany is stil taunting me. Mom
reaches around and grabs his legs, which are kicking her seat again. She sees me making a face at my drink.
“My, my. One semester in France, and suddenly we’re Miss Sophisticated.Your father will be thril ed.”
Like it was my choice! Like I asked to go to Paris! And how dare she mention Dad.
“ANNNN-A HAS A BOOOY-FRIEND!”
We merge back onto the interstate. It’s rush hour, and the Atlanta traffic has stopped moving.The car behind ours shakes us with its thumping bass.The
car in front sprays a cloud of exhaust straight into our vents.
Two weeks. Only two more weeks.
Chapter twenty-five
Sofia is dead. Because Mom only took her out three times since I left, now she’s stuck in some repair shop on Ponce de Leon Avenue. My car may be a
hunk of red scrap metal, but she’s my hunk of red scrap metal. I paid for her with my own money, earned with the stench of theater popcorn in my hair and artificial butter on my arms. She’s named after my favorite director, Sofia Coppola. Sofia creates these atmospheric, impressionistic films with this quiet but impeccable style. She’s also one of only two American women to have been nominated for the Best Director Oscar, for Lost in Translation.