Wanna go to the movies? They're showing It Happened One Night at Le Champo." Just because I haven't gone out doesn't mean I haven't pored over the glorious Pariscope.
"They're showing what? And I'm not gonna tell you how badly you just butchered that theater's name."
"It Happened One Night. Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert.Won five Academy Awards.It was a big deal."
"In what century?"
"Ha ha. Honestly, you'll like it. I hear it's great."
Rashmi rubs her temples. "I don't know. I don't really like old movies. The acting is so, 'Hey buddy,ol' pal. Let's go wear our hats and have a big misunderstanding.
Steve Carver-the guy with the faux-surfer hair-and Amanda's best friend, Nicole,are chosen.Rashmi and I groan in a rare moment of camaraderie.Steve pumps a fist in the air.What a meathead.
The selecting begins,and Amanda is chosen first. Of course. And then Steve's best friend.Of course. Rashmi elbows me. "bet you five euros I'm picked last."
"I'll take that bet.Because it's totally me."
Amanda turns in her seat toward me and lowers her voice. "That's a safe bet, Skunk Girl. Who'd want you on their team?"
My jaw unhinges stupidly.
"St. Clair!" Steve's voice startles me. It figures that St. Clair would be picked early. Everyone looks at him, but he's staring down Amanda. "Me," he says, in answer to her question. "I want Anna on my team,and you'd be lucky to have her."
She flushes and quickly turns back around,but not before shooting me another dagger.What have I ever done to her?
More names are called. More names that are NOT mine. St. Clair goes to get my attention,but I pretend I don't notice. I can't bear to look at him.I'm too humiliated. Soon the selection is down to me, Rashmi,and a skinny dude who, for whatever reason,is called Cheeseburger. Cheeseburger is always wearing this expresion of surprise, like someone's just called his name, and he can't figure out where the voice is coming from.
"Rashmi," Nicole says without hestitation.
My heart sinks.Now it's between me and someone named Cheeseburger. I focus my attention down on my desk, at the picture of me that Josh drew earlier today in history. I'm dressed like a medieval peasant (we're studying the Black Plague), and I have a fierce scowl and a dead rat dangling from one hand.
Amanda whispers into Steve's ear. I feel her smirking at me,and my face burns.
Steve clears his throat. "Cheeseburger.
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 perfectseats 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.
Keep laser-focused on school, and I'll see YOU at Christmas.
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 cliche. 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, Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress. I turn back to my father's email.
Gentle reminder... your life sucks.
There.You're officially Canadian. Try not to abuse your new power."
"Whatever.I'm totally going out tonight."
"Good." He slows down. "You should."
We're both standing still. He's so close to me.His gaze is locked on mine, and my heart pounds painfully in my chest. I step back and look away. Toph. I like Toph,not St. Clair. Why do I have to keep reminding myself of this? St. Clair is taken.
"Did you paint these?" I'm desperate to change the mood. "These above your bed?" I glance back,and he's still staring at me.
He bites his thumbnail before replying. His voice is odd. "No.My mum did."
"Really? Wow,they're good. Really, really...good."
"Anna..."
"Is this here in Paris?"
"No,it's the street I grew up on. In London."
"Oh."
"Anna..."
"Hmm?" I stand with my back to him, trying to examine the paintings. They really are great. I just can't seem to focus. Of course it's not Paris. I should've known-
"That guy.Sideburns.You like him?"
My back squirms. "You've asked me that before."
"What I meant was," he says, flustered. "Your feelings haven't changed? Since you've been here?"
It takes a moment to consider the question. "It's not a matter of how I feel," I say at last. "I'm interested,but...I don't know if he's still interested in me."
St. Clair edges closer. "Does he still call?"
"Yeah.I mean,not often. But yes."
"Right.Right,well," he says, blinking. "There's your answer."
I look away. "I should go.I'm sure you have plans with Ellie."
"Yes.I mean,no. I mean, I don't know. If you aren't doing any-"
I open his door. "So I'll see you later. Thank you for the Canadian citizenship." I tap the patch on my bag.
St. Clair looks strangely hurt. "No problem. Happy to be of service."
I take the stairs two at a time to my floor. What just happened? One minute we were fine,and the next it was like I couldn't leave fast enough. I need to get out of here.I need to leave the dorm. Maybe I'm not a brave American,but I think I can be a brave Canadian.I grab the Pariscope from inside my room and jog downstairs.
I'm going to see Paris.Alone.
You know more useless crap, St. Clair. Good thing you're so darn cute," Josh says.
St. Clair smiles. "At least 'cemetary' 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."
"Oh,leave him alone.Besides, by the time this place closes, we'll still have plenty of time to party." I roll my eyes at this last word.None of us have plans to attend,despite what I told Dave yesterday at lunch.
St. Clair nudges me with a tall thermos. "Perhaps you're upset because he won't have the opportunity to woo you with his astonishing knowledge of urban street racing."
I laugh. "Cut it out."
"And I hear he has exquisite taste in film. Maybe he'll take you to a midnight showing of Scooby-Doo 2."
I whack St. Clair with my bag, and he dodges aside,laughing.
Victor Noir. He was a journalist shot by Pierre Bonaparte," St. Clair says, as if that explains anything. He pulls The Hat up off his eyes. "The statue on his grave is supposed to help...fertility."
"His wang us rubbed shiny," Josh elaborates. "For luck."
"Why are we talking about parts again?" Mer asks. "Can't we ever talk about anything else?"
"Really?" I ask. "Shiny wang?"
"Very," St. Clair says.
"Now that's something I've gotta see." I gulp my coffee dregs, wipe the bread crumbs from my mouth, and hop up. "Where's Victor?"
"Allow me." St. Clair springs up to his feet and takes off. I chase after him. He cuts through a stand of bare trees, and I crash through the twigs behind him. We're both laughing when we hit the pathway and run smack into a guard. He frowns at us from underneath his military-style cap. St. Clair gives an angelic smile and a small shrug. The guard shakes his head but allows us to pass.
St. Clair gets away with everything.
We stroll with exaggerated calm, and he points out an area occupied with people snapping pictures.We hang back and wait our turn. A scrawny black cat darts out from behind an altar strewn with roses and wine bottles,and rushes into the bushes.
"Well.That was sufficiently creepy. Happy Halloween."
"Did you know this place is home to three thousand cats?" St. Clair asks.
"Sure.It's filed away in my brain under 'Felines,Paris.
I'm fine.My father's an arse, and my mum is dying and-oh my God,I'm so pissed." St. Clair looked at me again. His eyes were glassy like black marbles. "Pissed.Pissed.Pissed."
"We know you're pissed at your dad," I said. "It's okay. You're right, he's a jerk." I mean what was I supposed to say? He just found out his mother has cancer.
"Pissed is British for 'drunk,'" Mer said.
"Oh," I said. "Well. You're definitely that, too."
Meanwhile,The Couple was fighting. "Where have you been?" Rashmi asked. "You said you'd be home three hours ago!"
Josh rolled his eyes. "Out.We've been out. Someone had to help him-"
"And you call that helping? He's completely wasted. Catatonic. And you! God,you smell like car exhaust and armpits-"
"He couldn't drink alone."
"You were supposed to be watching out for him! What if something happened?"
"Beer. Liquor. Thatsswhat happened. Don't be such a prude,Rash.
Anna?"
"Yeah?"
He pauses. "Never mind."
"What?"
"Nothing."
But his tone is definitely not nothing. I turn to him, and his eyes are closed. His skin is pale and tired. "What?" I ask again,sitting up. St. Clair opens his eyes, noticing I've moved. He struggles,trying to sit up, too, and I help him. When I pull away, he clutches my hand to stop me.
"I like you," he says.
My body is rigid.
"And I don't mean as a friend."
It feels like I'm swallowing my tongue. "Uh. Um. What about-?" I pull my hand away from his. The weight of her name hangs heavy and unspoken.
"It's not right.It hasn't been right, not since I met you." His eyes close again,and his body sways.
He's drunk. He's just drunk.
Calm down,Anna. He's drunk, and he's going through a crisis. There is NO WAY he knows what he's talking about right now. So what do I do? Oh my God, what am I supposed to do?
"Do you like me?" St. Clair asks. And he looks at me with those big brown eyes-which,okay,are a bit red from the drinking and maybe from some crying-and my heart breaks.
Yes,St. Clair.I like you.
But I can't say it out loud, because he's my friend. And friends don't let other friends make drunken declarations and expect them to act upon them the next day.
Then again...it's St. Clair. Beautiful, perfect,wonderful-
And great.That's just great.
He threw up on me.
She's probably just tired of seeing you miserable.Like we all are," I add. "I'm sure...I'm sure she's as crazy about you as ever."
"Hmm." He watches me put away my own shoes and empty the contents of my pockets. "What about you?" he asks, after a minute.
"What about me?"
St. Clair examines his watch. "Sideburns. You'll be seeing him next month."
He's reestablishing...what? The boundary line? That he's taken, and I'm spoken for? Except I'm not. Not really.
But I can't bear to say this now that he's mentioned Ellie. "Yeah,I can't wait to see him again. He's a funny guy, you'd like him.I'm gonna see his band play at Christmas. Toph's a great guy, you'd really like him. Oh. I already said that,didn't I? But you would. He's really...funny."
Shut up,Anna. Shut.Up.
St. Clair unbuckles and rebuckles and unbuckles his watchband.
"I'm beat," I say. And it's the truth. As always, our conversation has exhausted me. I crawl into bed and wonder what he'll do.Lie on my floor? Go back to his room? But he places his watch on my desk and climbs onto my bed. He slides up next to me. He's on top of the covers, and I'm underneath. We're still fully dressed,minus our shoes, and the whole situation is beyond awkward.
He hops up.I'm sure he's about to leave,and I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed,but...he flips off my light.My room is pitch-black. He shuffles back toward my bed and smacks into it.
"Oof," he says.
"Hey,there's a bed there."
"Thanks for the warning."
"No problem."
"It's freezing in here.Do you have a fan on or something?"
"It's the wind.My window won't shut all the way.I have a towel stuffed under it, but it doesn't really help."
He pats his way around the bed and slides back in. "Ow," he says.
"Yes?"
"My belt.Would it be weird..."
I'm thankful he can't see my blush. "Of course not." And I listen to the slap of leather as he pulls it out of his belt loops.He lays it gently on my hardwood floor.
"Um," he says. "Would it be weird-"
"Yes."
"Oh,piss off.I'm not talking trousers. I only want under the blankets. That breeze is horrible." He slides underneath,and now we're lying side by side. In my narrow bed. Funny,but I never imagined my first sleepover with a guy being,well,a sleepover.
"All we need now are Sixteen Candles and a game of Truth or Dare."
He coughs. "Wh-what?"
"The movie,pervert.I was just thinking it's been a while since I've had a sleepover."
A pause. "Oh."
"..."
"..."
"St. Clair?"
"Yeah?"
"Your elbow is murdering my back."
"Bollocks.Sorry." He shifts,and then shifts again,and then again,until we're comfortable.One of his legs rests against mine.Despite the two layers of pants between us,I feel naked and vulnerable. He shifts again and now my entire leg, from calf to thigh, rests against his. I smell his hair. Mmm.
NO!
I swallow,and it's so loud.He coughs again. I'm trying not to squirm. After what feels like hours but is surely only minutes,his breath slows and his body relaxes.I finally begin to relax, too. I want to memorize his scent and the touch of his skin-one of his arms, now against mine-and the solidness os his body.No matter what happens,I'll remember this for the rest of my life.
I study his profile.His lips,his nose, his eyelashes.He's so beautiful.
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