“French.”
“Not going well?”
“Not going well.”
He places the plum back on my tray and smiles. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
“Easy for you to say, Monsieur Bilingual.”
His smile fades. “Sorry.You’re right, that was unfair. I forget sometimes.”
I stir my lentils aggressively. “Professeur Gillet always makes me feel stupid. I’m not stupid.”
“Of course you aren’t. It’d be mad for anyone to expect fluency. It takes time to learn anything, especially a language.”
“I’m just so tired of going out there”—I gesture at the windows—“and being helpless.”
St. Clair is surprised at my suggestion. “You aren’t helpless. You go out every night, often on your own. That’s a far cry from when you arrived. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“Hmph.”
“Hey.” He scoots closer. “Remember what Professeur Cole said when she was talking about the lack of translated novels in America? She said it’s important to expose ourselves to other cultures, other situations. And that’s exactly what you’re doing. You’re going out, and you’re testing the waters.You ought to be proud of yourself. Screw French class, that means sod-all.”
I crack a smile at his Briticism. Speaking of translation. “Yeah, but Professeur Cole was talking about books, not real life. There’s a big difference.”
“Is there? What about film? Aren’t you the one who’s always going on about cinema as a reflection of life? Or was that some other famous film critic I know?”
“Shut up. That’s different.”
St. Clair laughs, knowing he’s caught me. “See? You ought to spend less time worrying about French, and more time ...” He trails off, attention snagged by something behind me. His expression is of growing revulsion.
I turn to find Dave, kneeling on the cafeteria floor behind us. His head is bowed, and he thrusts a small plate in the air before me. “Allow me to present this éclair with my humblest apologizes.”
My face burns. “What are you doing?”
Dave looks up and grins. “Sorry about the extra assignment. That was my fault.”
I’m speechless. When I don’t take the dessert, he rises and delivers it in front of me with a grand flourish. Everyone is staring. He nabs a chair from the table behind us and wedges himself between St. Clair and me.
St. Clair is incredulous. “Make yourself at home, David.”
Dave doesn’t seem to hear him. He dips his finger in the sticky chocolate icing and licks it off. Are his hands clean? “So. Tonight. Texas Chain Saw Massacre. I’ll never believe you aren’t afraid of horror films if you don’t let me take you.”
Oh my God. Dave is NOT asking me out in front of St. Clair. St. Clair hates Dave; I remember him saying it before we saw It Happened One Night. “Uh . . . sorry.” I grasp for an excuse. “But I’m not going. Anymore. Something came up.”
“Come on. Nothing could be that important on a Friday night.” He pinches my arm, and I glance desperately at St. Clair.
“Physics project,” he cuts in, glaring at Dave’s hand. “Last minute. Loads to do. We’re partners.”
“You have all weekend to do homework. Loosen up, Oliphant. Live a little.”
“Actually,” St. Clair says, “it sounds like Anna has quite a bit of additional work to do this weekend. Thanks to you.”
Dave finally turns around to face St. Clair. They exchange scowls.
“I’m sorry,” I say. And I mean it. I feel awful for turning him down, especially in front of everyone. He’s a nice guy, despite what St. Clair thinks.
But Dave looks at St. Clair again. “It’s cool,” he says after a moment. “I get it.”
“What?” I’m confused.
“I didn’t realize ...” Dave motions between St. Clair and me.
“No! No. There’s nothing. There. I mean it, we’ll see something soon. I’m just busy tonight. With the physics thing.”
Dave looks annoyed, but he shrugs his shoulders. “No biggie. Hey, you going to the party tomorrow night?”
Nate is throwing a Halloween bash for Résidence Lambert. I wasn’t planning to attend, but I lie to make him feel better. “Yeah, probably. I’ll see you there.”
He stands up. “Cool. I’m holding you to that.”
“Right. Sure. Thanks for the éclair!” I call after him.
“You’re welcome, beautiful.”
Beautiful. He called me beautiful! But wait. I don’t like Dave.
Do I like Dave?
“Wanker,” St. Clair says, the moment he’s out of earshot.
“Don’t be rude.”
He stares at me with an unfathomable expression. “You weren’t complaining when I made an excuse for you.”
I push the éclair away. “He put me on the spot, that’s all.”
“You ought to thank me.”
“Thank you,” I say sarcastically. I’m aware of the others staring at us. Josh clears his throat and points at my finger-smudged dessert. “You gonna eat that?” he asks.
“Be my guest.”
St. Clair stands so suddenly that his chair clatters over.
“Where are you going?” Mer asks.
“Nowhere.” He stalks away, leaving us in surprised silence. After a moment, Rashmi leans forward. She raises her dark eyebrows. “You know, Josh and I saw them fighting a couple nights ago.”
“Who? St. Clair and Dave?” Mer asks.
“No, St. Clair and Ellie. That’s what this is about, you know.”
“It is?” I ask.
“Yeah, he’s been on edge all week,” Rashmi says.
I think about it. “That’s true. I’ve heard him pacing his room. He never used to do that.” It’s not like I make a point of listening, but now that I know that St. Clair lives above me, I can’t help but notice his comings and goings.
Josh gives me a weird look.
“Where did you see them?” Mer asks Rashmi.
“In front of the Cluny métro.We were gonna say hi, but when we saw their expressions, we went the other way. Definitely not a conversation I wanted to interrupt.”
“What were they fighting about?” Mer asks.
“Dunno. Couldn’t hear them.”
“It’s her. She’s so different now.”
Rashmi frowns. “She thinks she’s so much better than us, now that she’s at Parsons.”
“And the way she dresses,” Mer says, with an unusual bitter streak. “Like she thinks she’s actually Parisian.”
“She was always that way.” Rashmi huffs.
Josh is still quiet. He polishes off the éclair, wipes the white fluff from his fingers, and pulls out his sketchbook. The way he focuses on it, deflecting Meredith and Rashmi’s conversation, is . . . purposeful. I get the feeling he knows more about St. Clair’s situation than he’s letting on. Do guys talk about things like that with each other? Could it be possible?
Are St. Clair and Ellie breaking up?
chapter fourteen
Don’t y’all think it’s kind of a cliché to have a picnic in a graveyard on Halloween?”
The five of us—Mer, Rashmi, Josh, St. Clair, and I—are traipsing through the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, located on a hillside overlooking Paris. It’s like a miniature city itself. Wide pathways act as roads through neighborhoods of elaborate tombs. They remind me of tiny Gothic mansions with their arched doorways and statuary and stained-glass windows. A stone wall with guardsmen and iron gates runs the perimeter. Mature chestnuts stretch their branches overhead and wave their last remaining golden leaves.
It’s a quieter city than Paris, but no less impressive.
“Hey, did y’all hear Anna say ‘y’all’?” Josh asks.
“Oh my God, I so did not.”
“You so did,” Rashmi says. She adjusts the pack on her shoulders and follows Mer down yet another path. I’m glad my friends know their way around, because I’m lost. “I told you y
ou’ve got an accent.”
“It’s a cemetery, not a graveyard,” St. Clair says.
“There’s a difference?” I ask, thankful for an opportunity to ignore The Couple.
“A cemetery is a plot of land set specifically aside for burial, while a graveyard is always located in a churchyard. Of course, now the words are practically interchangeable, so it doesn’t really matter—”
“You know more useless crap, St. Clair. Good thing you’re so darn cute,” Josh says.
“I think it’s interesting,” Mer says.
St. Clair smiles. “At least ‘cemetery’ sounds classier. And you must admit—this place is pretty classy. Or, I’m sorry.” He turns back to me. “Would you rather be at the Lambert bash? I hear Dave Higgenbottom is bringing his beer bong.”
“Higgenbaum.”
“That’s what I said. Higgenbum.”
