there’s something in the air I recognize, something both musty and comforting.
True to her word, Rashmi pays for my ticket. I take the opportunity to slip out a scrap of paper and a pen that I’d hidden in my jacket for this very purpose. Mer is next in line, and I transcribe her speech phonetically.
St. Clair leans over my shoulder and whispers. “You’ve spelled it wrong.”
My head jerks up in embarrassment, but he’s smiling. I drop my face, so that my hair shields my cheeks. They blush more for his smile than anything else.
We follow blue rope lights down the aisle of the theater. I wonder if they’re blue everywhere here, rather than the golden glow of American cinemas. My heart beats faster. Everything else is the same.
Same seats. Same screen. Same walls.
For the first time in Paris, I feel at home.
I smile at my friends, but Mer and Rashmi and Josh are distracted, arguing about something that happened over dinner. St. Clair sees me and smiles back. “Good?”
I nod. He looks pleased and ducks into the row after me. I always sit four rows up from the center, and we have perfect seats tonight. The chairs are classic red. The movie begins, and the title screen flashes up. “Ugh, we have to sit through the credits?” Rashmi asks. They roll first, like in all old films.
I read them happily. I love credits. I love everything about movies.
The theater is dark except for the flicker of blacks and whites and grays on-screen. Clark Gable pretends to sleep and places his hand in the center of an empty bus seat. After a moment of irritation, Claudette Colbert gingerly plucks it aside and sits down. Gable smiles to himself, and St. Clair laughs.
It’s odd, but I keep finding myself distracted. By the white of his teeth through the darkness. By a wavy bit of his hair that sticks straight out to the side. By the soft aroma of his laundry detergent. He nudges me to silently offer the armrest, but I decline and he takes it. His arm is close to mine, slightly elevated. I glance at his hands. Mine are tiny compared to his large, knuckly boy hands.
And, suddenly, I want to touch him.
Not a push, or a shove, or even a friendly hug. I want to feel the creases in his skin, connect his freckles with invisible lines, brush my fingers across the inside of his wrist. He shifts. I have the strangest feeling that he’s as aware of me as I am of him. I can’t concentrate. The characters on the screen are squabbling, but for the life of me, I don’t know what about. How long have I not been paying attention?
St. Clair coughs and shifts again. His leg brushes against mine. It stays there. I’m paralyzed. I should move it; it feels too unnatural. How can he not notice his leg is touching my leg? From the corner of my eye, I see the profile of his chin and nose, and—oh, dear God—the curve of his lips.
There. He glanced at me. I know he did.
I bore my eyes into the screen, trying my best to prove that I am Really Interested in this movie. St. Clair stiffens but doesn’t move his leg. Is he holding his breath? I think he is. I’m holding mine. I exhale and cringe—it’s so loud and unnatural.
Again. Another glance. This time I turn, automatically, just as he’s turning away. It’s a dance, and now there’s a feeling in the air like one of us should say something. Focus, Anna. Focus. “Do you like it?” I whisper.
He pauses. “The film?”
I’m thankful the shadows hide my blush.
“I like it very much,” he says.
I risk a glance, and St. Clair stares back. Deeply. He has not looked at me like this before. I turn away first, then feel him turn a few beats later.
I know he is smiling, and my heart races.
chapter twelve
To: Anna Oliphant <[email protected]>
From: James Ashley <[email protected]>
Subject: Gentle Reminder
Hello, honey. It’s been a while since we’ve spoken. Have you checked your voice mail? I’ve called several times, but I assume you’re busy exploring Paree. Well, this is just a gentle reminder to call your dear old dad and tell him how your studies are going. Have you mastered French yet? Tasted foie gras? What exciting museums have you visited? Speaking of exciting, I’m sure you’ve heard the good news.
Josh leans his lanky body over my shoulder and peers at my laptop. “Is it just me, or is that ‘YOU’ sort of threatening?”
“No. It’s not just YOU,” I say.
“I thought your dad was a writer. What’s with the ‘laser-focused’ ‘gentle reminder’ shit?”
“My father is fluent in cliché. Obviously, you’ve never read one of his novels.” I pause. “I can’t believe he has the nerve to say he’ll ‘give Seany my best.’”
Josh shakes his head in disgust. My friends and I are spending the weekend in the lounge because it’s raining again. No one ever mentions this, but it turns out Paris is as drizzly as London. According to St. Clair, that is, our only absent member. He went to some photography show at Ellie’s school. Actually, he was supposed to be back by now.
He’s running late. As usual.
Mer and Rashmi are curled up on one of the lobby couches, reading our latest English assignment,
Memories from earlier this week—sitting next to St. Clair in the dark theater, his leg against mine, the look that passed between us—flood back in and fill me with shame. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I’m convinced nothing happened.
Because nothing DID happen.
When we left the movie, Rashmi announced, “The ending was too abrupt. We didn’t get to see any of the good stuff.” And by the time I’d finished defending it, we were already back inside the dorm. I wanted to talk to St. Clair, get a sign that
And then we had this lame wave goodbye.
And then I went to bed, confused as ever.
What happened? As thrilling as it was, I must have exaggerated it in my mind, because he didn’t act any differently at breakfast the next day.We had a friendly conversation, as always. Besides, he has Ellie. He doesn’t need me. All I can guess is that I must have projected my own frustrated feelings about Toph onto St. Clair.
Josh is examining me carefully. I decide to ask him a question before he can ask me one. “How’s your assignment going?” My team in La Vie actually won (no thanks to me), so Rashmi and I didn’t have to go on Friday. Josh ditched his last class to spend the hour with us. It earned him detention and several pages of additional homework.
“Eh.” He flops down in the chair beside me and picks up his sketchbook. “I have better things to do.”
“But . . . won’t you get in more trouble if you don’t do it?” I’ve never ditched. I don’t understand how he can just shrug everything off.
“Probably.” Josh flexes his hand and winces.
I frown. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s cramped,” he says. “From drawing. It’s okay, it’s always like this.”
Strange. I’d never considered art injuries before. “You’re really talented. Is that what you want to do? For a
