“Good,” Professeur Cole says. “More. Elaborate.”
St. Clair sits next to Rashmi, but he’s not listening. He scribbles something fiercely in the margins of his book. “Wel ,” Rashmi says. “It’s the translator’s job to determine which definition the author means. And not only that, but there could be other meanings in relation to the context.”55
“So what you’re saying,” Professeur Cole says, “is that the translator has a lot of decisions to make. That there are multiple meanings to be found in any word, in any sentence. In any situation.”
“Exactly,” Rashmi says. And then she cuts her eyes at me.
Professeur Cole laughs. “And I’m sure none of us have ever mistaken something someone has said or done to mean something else, right? And we’re
al speaking the same language. You can see how chal enging this gets once things like . . . figures of speech are added. Some things just don’t translate between cultures.”
Misinterpretations swarm my mind. Toph. Rashmi. St. Clair?
“Or how about this?” Professeur Cole strol s over to the tal windows. “The translator, no matter how true he thinks he’s staying to the text, stil brings his own life experiences and opinions to the decisions he makes. Maybe not consciously, but every time a choice is made between one meaning of a word or another, the translator determines which one to use based on what he believes is correct, based on his own personal history with the subject.”
Personal history. Like because St. Clair was always quick to run back to El ie, I assumed he did it again. Is that it? And did he? I’m not sure anymore.
I’ve spent my entire senior year suffocating between lust and heartache, ecstasy and betrayal, and it’s only getting harder to see the truth. How many times can our emotions be tied to someone else’s—be pul ed and stretched and twisted—before they snap? Before they can never be mended again?
Class ends, and I stumble in a fog toward calculus. I’m almost there when I hear it. So quiet, it could almost be someone clearing his throat. “Slut.”
I freeze.
No. Keep moving. I hug my books tighter and continue down the hal .
A little louder this time. “Slut.”
And, as I turn around, the worst part is that I don’t even know who it’l be. So many people hate me right now. Today, it’s Mike. He sneers, but I stare
past him at Dave. Dave scratches his head and looks away.
“How could you?” I ask him.
“How could you?” Mike says. “I always told Dave you weren’t worth it.”
“Yeah?” My eyes are stil locked on Dave. “Wel , at least I’m not a liar.”
“You’re the liar.” But Dave says it under his breath.
“What was that? What did you say?”
“You heard me.” Dave’s voice is louder, but he’s squirming, blinking at his friend. A wave of disgust rol s over me. Mike’s little lapdog. Of course. Why didn’t I see it before? My hands clench. One more word from him, one word . . .
“Slut,” he says.
Dave slams into the floor.
But it wasn’t my fist.
Chapter forty-two
Arghhh!” St. Clair cradles his hand.
Mike lurches for St. Clair, and I jump between them. “No!”
Dave moans from the floor. Mike pushes me aside, and St. Clair throws him into the wal , his voice fil ed with rage. “Don’t touch her!”
Mike is shocked, but he bounces back. “You psycho!” And he lunges toward St. Clair just as Professeur Hansen steps between them, bracing himself
for blows.
“Hey hey HEY! What is going ON out here?” Our history teacher glares at his favorite student. “Monsieur St. Clair. To the head’s office. NOW.” Dave
and Mike simultaneously proclaim innocence, but Professeur Hansen cuts them off. “Shut it, the both of you, or fol ow Étienne.” They shut up. St. Clair
doesn’t meet my eyes, he just storms away in the direction told.
“Are you okay?” Professeur Hansen asks me. “Did any of these morons hurt you?”
I’m in shock. “St. Clair was defending me. It—it wasn’t his fault.”
“We don’t defend with our fists at this school. You know that.” He gives me a wry look before departing downstairs to join St. Clair in the head’s office.
What just happened? I mean, I know what happened, but . . . what just happened? Does this mean St. Clair doesn’t hate me? I feel my first surge of hope, even though there’s a chance that he just hates Dave and Mike more. I don’t see him for the rest of the school day, but when I arrive in detention, he’s already sitting in the back row.
St. Clair looks weary. He must have been here all afternoon. The professeur in charge today isn’t here yet, so it’s just the two of us. I take my usual seat
—it’s sad I have a usual seat—on the opposite side of the room. He stares at his hands. They’re smudged with charcoal, so I know he’s been drawing.
I clear my throat. “Thank you. For sticking up for me.”
No reply. Okay. I turn back to the chalkboard.
“Don’t thank me,” he says a minute later. “I ought to have punched Dave ages ago.” His boots kick the marble floor.
I glance over again. “How much detention did you get?”
“Two weeks. One per arsehole.”
I give a smal snort of laughter, and his head jerks up. My own hope flashes at me, mirrored in his expression. But it disappears almost instantly. Which hurts.