He’s running late. As usual.
Mer and Rashmi are curled up on one of the lobby couches, reading our latest English assignment, Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress. I turn back to my father’s email.
Gentle reminder ... your life sucks.
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 something between us had changed, but Mer broke in and hugged him good night. And since I couldn’t hug him without exposing my thudding heart, I lingered behind.
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 living, I mean?”
“I’m working on a graphic novel.”
“Really? That’s cool.” I push my laptop away. “What’s it about?”
The corner of his mouth rises in a sly smile. “A guy forced to attend a snobby boarding school, because his parents don’t want him around anymore.”
I snort. “I’ve heard that one before. What do your parents do?”
“My dad’s a politician. They’re working on his reelection campaign. I haven’t talked to ‘Senator Wasserstein’ since school started.”
“Senator? As in a senator senator?”
“Senator as in senator senator. Unfortunately.”
Again. What was my dad thinking? Sending me to school with the children of U.S. SENATORS? “Does everyone have a terrible father?” I ask. “Is it a requirement for attendance?”
He nods toward Rashmi and Mer. “They don’t. But St. Clair’s dad is a piece of work.”
“So I hear.” Curiosity gets the best of me, and I lower my voice. “What’s his deal?”
Josh shrugs. “He’s just a jerk. He keeps a tight leash on St. Clair and his mom, but he’s really friendly to everyone else. Somehow that makes it worse.”
I’m suddenly distracted by an odd purple-and-red knitted stocking cap walking into the lobby. Josh turns to see what I’m staring at. Meredith and Rashmi notice his movement, and they look up from their books.
“Oh God,” Rashmi says. “He’s wearing The Hat.”
“I like The Hat,” Mer says.
“You would,” Josh says.
Meredith gives him a dirty look. I turn to get a better look at The Hat, and I’m startled to realize it’s right behind me. And it’s sitting atop St. Clair’s head.
“So The Hat is back,” Rashmi says.
“Yup,” he says. “I know you missed it.”
“Is there a story behind The Hat?” I ask.
“Only that his mother made it for him last winter, and we all agreed it was the most hideous accessory in Paris,” Rashmi says.
“Oh, yeah?” St. Clair pulls it off and yanks it down over her head. Her two black braids stick out comically from underneath. “Looks great on you. Really fetching.”
She scowls and tosses it back, then smoothes her part. He shoves it over his messy hair again, and I find myself agreeing with Mer. It’s actually pretty cute. He looks warm and fuzzy, like a teddy bear.
“How was the show?” Mer asks.
He shrugs. “Nothing spectacular.What have you been up to?”
“Anna’s been sharing her father’s ‘gentle reminder,’” Josh says.
St. Clair makes a yuck face.
“I’d rather not go there again, thank you.” I shut my laptop.
“If you’re done, I have something for you,” St. Clair says.
“What? Who, me?”
“Remember how I promised I’d make you feel less American?”
I smile. “You have my French passport?” I hadn’t forgotten his promise but figured he had—that conversation was weeks ago. I’m surprised and flattered he remembered.
“Better. Came in the mail yesterday. Come on, it’s in my room.” And, with that, he puts his hands in his coat pockets and struts into the stairwell.
I shove my computer into my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and shrug at the others. Mer looks hurt, and for a moment I feel guilty. But it’s not like I’m stealing him from her. I’m his friend, too. I chase him up five flights of stairs, and The Hat bobs ahead of me.We get to his floor, and he leads me down the hallway. I’m nervous and excited. I’ve never seen his room before.We always meet in the lobby or on my floor.
“Home sweet home.” He pulls out an “I Left My ♥ in San Francisco” key chain. Another gift from his mother, I suppose. Taped to his door is a sketch of him wearing Napoleon’s hat. Josh’s work.
“Hey, 508! Your room is right above mine.You never said.”
St. Clair smiles. “Maybe I didn’t want you blaming me for keeping you up at night with my noisy stomping boots.”
“Dude.You do stomp.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” He laughs and holds the door open for me. His room is neater than I expected. I always picture guys with disgusting bedrooms—mountains of soiled boxer shorts and sweat-stained undershirts, unmade beds with sheets that haven’t been changed in weeks, posters of beer bottles and women in neon bikinis, empty soda cans and chip bags, and random bits of model airplanes and discarded video games.
That’s what Matt’s room looked like. It always grossed me out. I never knew when I might sit on a sauce packet from Taco Bell.
But St. Clair’s room is tidy. His bed is made, and there’s only one small pile of clothing on the floor. There are no tacky posters, just an antique world map tacked above his desk and two colorful oil paintings above his bed. And books. I’ve never seen so many books in one bedroom. They’re stacked along his walls like towers—thick history books and tattered paperbacks and . . . an OED. Just like Bridge.
“I can’t believe I know two people crazy enough to own the OED.”
“Oh, yeah? Who’s the other?”
“Bridge. God, is yours new?” The spines are crisp and shiny. Bridgette’s is a few decades old, and her spines are cracked and splintering.
St. Clair looks embarrassed. The Oxford English Dictionary is a thousand bucks new, and even though we’ve never talked about it, he knows I don’t have spending money like the rest of our classmates. It’s pretty clear when I order the cheapest thing on the menu every time we eat out. Dad may have wanted to give me a fancy education, but he isn’t concerned about my daily expenses. I’ve asked him twice for a raise in my weekly allowance, but he’s refused, saying I need to learn to live within my means.