I have a lifetime"s worth of experience shaking off Kurt"s wonder-killing abilities, so his response doesn"t bother me. Especially because, despite a summer of disappointments and backtracking...
I, Isla Martin, am now living in Joshua Wa.s.serstein"s last place of residence.
These were his walls. This was his ceiling. That black grease mark on the skirting board, the one right above the electrical outlet? He probably made that. For the rest of the year, I will have the same view of the same street outside of the same window. I will sit in his chair, bathe in his shower, and sleep in his bed.
His bed.
I trace a finger along the st.i.tching of my quilt. It"s an embroidered map of Manhattan. When I"m in Manhattan, I sleep underneath a quilt that"s an embroidered map of Paris. But underneath this blanket and underneath these sheets, there"s a sacred s.p.a.ce that once belonged to Josh. He dreamed here. I want this to mean something.
My door bursts back open.
"My room is bigger than yours," Hattie says. "This is like a prison cell."
Yeah. I"m gonna have to fix that door.
"True," Kurt says, because the rooms in Residence Lambert are the size of walk-in closets. "But how many roommates were you a.s.signed? Two? Three?"
This is my sister"s first year attending SOAP the School of America in Paris. When I was a freshman, our older sister, Gen, was a senior. Now I"m the senior, and Hattie is the freshman. She"ll be living in the undercla.s.s dormitory down the street. Students in Grivois have roommates, tons of supervision, and enforced curfews. Here in Lambert, we have our own rooms, one Residence Director, and significantly more freedom.
Hattie glowers at Kurt. "At least I don"t have to hide from my roommates."
"Don"t be an a.s.srabbit," he says.
Last year when I was in this dorm, and he was still in Grivois he slept in my bed more often than his own, because he couldn"t get along with his roommates. But I didn"t mind. We"ve been sharing beds since before we could talk. And Kurt and I are strictly friends. There"s none of that he"s-my-best-friend-but-we"re-secretly-in-love bulls.h.i.t. A relationship with him would feel incestuous.
Hattie narrows her eyes. "Everyone"s waiting in the lobby for dinner." She"s referring to both his parents and ours. "Hurry up." She slams my door. It pops back open, but she"s already gone.
I haul myself off the bed. "I wish my parents could"ve sent her to boarding school in Belgium. They speak French there, too."
Kurt sits up. "That"s a joke, right?"
It is. It"s important to my parents that my sisters and I receive a portion of our education in France. We"re dual citizens. We all received our early schooling in America, and we"ve all been sent here for high school. It"s our choice where to go next. Gen chose Smith College in Ma.s.sachusetts. I"m not sure where I want to live, but soon I"ll be applying to both la Sorbonne here in Paris and Columbia back in New York.
Kurt pulls up the hood of his favourite charcoal-grey sweatshirt, even though it"s warm outside. I grab my room key, and we leave. It takes both of his hands to yank my door closed. "You really do need to talk to Nate about that." He nods to our Residence Director"s apartment, only two doors down.
Okay. So Josh"s old room does have its drawbacks. It"s also located on the ground floor so it"s loud. Extra loud, actually, because it"s also located beside the stairwell.
"There he is," Kurt says.
I a.s.sume he means Nate, but I follow his gaze and grind to a halt.
Him.
Josh is waiting for the elevator in the lobby. In less than a second, an entire summer of daydreaming and planning and rehearsing explodes into nothingness. I close my eyes to steady myself. I"m dizzy. It physically hurts to look at him. "I can"t breathe."
"Of course you can breathe," Kurt says. "You"re breathing right now."
Josh looks alone.
I mean, he is alone, but...he looks alone. He"s carrying a cloth grocery bag and staring at the elevator, completely detached from the crowd behind him. Kurt drags me towards the lobby. The elevator dings, the door opens, and Josh pushes back its old-fashioned gate. Students and parents bustle in behind him way too many people for such a small s.p.a.ce and as we pa.s.s by, he flinches at being shoved into a corner. But the flinch is just that, one quick moment, before his expression slides back into indifference.
The crowd jostles and smashes b.u.t.tons and someone"s dad forces the gate shut, but that"s when an odd thing happens. Josh looks out over the sea of pa.s.sengers and through the metal cage. And his eyes go from blank to seeing. They see me.
The elevator door closes.
Chapter four.
The head of school is finishing up her usual first-day, post-breakfast, welcome-back speech. Kurt and I are in the back of the courtyard, nestled between two trees pruned like giant lollipops. The air smells faintly of iron. The school looms over us, all grey stone and cascading vines and heavy doors. Our cla.s.smates loom before us.
There are twenty-five students per grade here always one hundred students in total and it"s difficult to get accepted. You have to have excellent grades, high test scores, and several letters of recommendation. It helps to have connections. Gen got in because Maman knew someone in the administration, I got in because of Gen, and Hattie got in because of me. It"s cliquey like that.
It"s also expensive. You have to come from money to attend.
When my father was only nineteen, he built an overdrive pedal called the Cherry Bomb for guitarists. It was red and revolutionary and turned him from the son of a Nebraskan farmer into a very wealthy man. It"s one of the most copied pedals ever, but musicians still pay top dollar for the original. His company"s name is Martintone, and even though he still tinkers with pedals, as an adult he works mainly as a studio engineer.
"I have one final announcement." The head"s voice is as poised as her snow-white chignon. She"s American, but she could easily pa.s.s for French.
Kurt studies a map on his phone. "I"ve found a better route to the Treehouse."
"Oh, yeah? After all this time?" I"m scanning the courtyard for Josh. Either he slept in or he"s already skipping. I planned my outfit carefully, because it"s the first day in months when I know I"ll see him. My style tends to be rather feminine, and today I"m wearing a dress patterned with tiny Swiss dots. It has a scoop neck and a short hem, both of which help me look taller, but I"ve added a pair of edgy Parisian heels to keep me from looking too innocent or vanilla. I can"t imagine Josh falling for someone vanilla.
Not that Josh would ever fall for me.
But I wouldn"t want to ruin any chance.
Even though I don"t have a chance.
But just in case I do.
Even though I don"t.
"But I"ll let him tell you in his own words," the head says, continuing a sentence whose beginning I did not hear. She moves aside, and a short figure with a shaved head steps forward. It"s Nate, our Residence Director. This is his third year here. He"s also American, but he"s young, working on his doctorate, and known for being lax with the rules yet firm enough to keep us under control. The kind of person that everybody likes.
"Hey, guys." Nate shifts as if his own skin were the wrong fit. "It"s come to the faculty"s attention-" He glances at the head and changes his story. "It"s come to my attention that the situation in Lambert got a little out of hand last year. I am, of course, referring to the habit of opposite-s.e.x students hanging out in each other"s rooms. As you know, we have a strict policy-"
The student body snickers.
"We have a strict policy that ladies and gentlemen are only allowed to visit each other with their doors propped open."
"Isla." Kurt is annoyed. "You"re not looking at my phone."
I shake my head and nudge him to pay attention. This can"t be good.
"Things will be different this year, uppercla.s.smen. To remind you of the rules-" Nate rubs his head and waits for the gossip to stop. "One. If a member of the opposite s.e.x is in your room, your door must be open. Two. Members of the opposite s.e.x must be gone from your room by nightfall according to the weekday and weekend hours listed in your official school handbook. This means that, three, there will be no spending the night. Are we clear? The consequences to breaking these rules are big, you guys. Detention. Suspension. Expulsion."
"So, what, you"ll be doing random room checks?" a senior named Mike shouts.
"Yes," Nate says.
"That"s unconst.i.tutional!" Mike"s sidekick Dave shouts.
"Then it"s a good thing we"re in France." Nate steps back into the gathered faculty and shoves his hands into his pockets. He"s clearly aggravated by this new ha.s.sle in his life. The crowd breaks as abruptly as his announcement, and everyone is griping as we make our way towards first period.
"Maybe it won"t apply to us," I say, hoping to convince myself. "Nate knows we"re just friends. And shouldn"t there be exemptions for friends who are in no way interested in each other"s bodies?"
Kurt"s mouth grows small and tight. "He didn"t say anything about exemptions."
Because of our grade difference, our only period together is lunch. I head towards senior English alone and take my usual seat beside the leaded-gla.s.s windows. The cla.s.sroom looks the same dark wooden trim, empty whiteboards, chairs-attached-to-desks though it still carries that feeling of summer emptiness.
Where is Josh?
Professeur Cole arrives as she always does, just as the bell is ringing. We have the same professeurs for each subject every year. She"s loud for a teacher, friendly and approachable. "Bonjour a tous." Professeur Cole smacks down her coffee cup on the podium and looks around. "Good. No new students, no need for an introduction. Ah, pardon." She pauses. "One empty desk. Who"s missing?"
The door creaks open with her answer.
"Monsieur Wa.s.serstein. Of course the empty desk is yours." But she winks as he slips into the remaining desk beside the door.
Josh looks tired, but...even tired looks good on him. He"s wearing a dark blue T-shirt with artwork that I don"t recognize, no doubt something obscure from the indie comic world. It fits him well a bit tightly and when he reaches for a copy of the syllabus, his sleeve creeps up to reveal the tattoo on his upper right arm.
I love his tattoo.
It"s a skull and crossbones, but it"s whimsical and simple and clean. Clearly his own design. He got it our soph.o.m.ore year, despite the fact that minors in France are required to have parental approval. Which I seriously doubt he had. Which, I"m somewhat ashamed to admit, makes it even s.e.xier. My heart pounds feverishly in my ears. I glance around the room, but the other girls appear to be at ease. Why doesn"t he have the same effect on them that he has on me? Don"t they see him?
Professeur Cole makes us push our desks into a circle. She"s the only teacher here who forces us to look at one another during cla.s.s. I take my seat again, and suddenly Josh"s desk is opposite my own.
My head jerks down. My hair shields my face. I"ll never be able to talk to him about that night in New York.
Halfway through cla.s.s, the guy beside him asks a question. The temptation is too strong, so I steal the opportunity for another glance. Josh immediately looks up. Our eyes meet, and my cheeks burst into flames. I avert my gaze for the remainder of the hour, but his presence grows larger and larger. I can practically feel it pressing up against me.
Despite the fact that our schedule is, thus far, identical English, calculus, government I manage to evade him for the rest of the morning. It helps that he"s skilled at both disappearing between cla.s.ses and arriving late to them. Even when the next cla.s.s is literally across the hall. When the bell rings for lunch, it"s comforting to resume Kurt"s company. We take the back staircase, the one less travelled. It"s the Right Way.
"Did you speak to him?" he asks.
My sigh is long and forlorn. "No."
"Yeah. That sounds like you."
Kurt launches into something about a freshman in his computer programming cla.s.s, a girl who is tall and serene and already fluent in several internet languages totally his type but I"m only half paying attention. I know it"s dumb. I know there are more important things to think about on a first day back to school, including whatever it is my best friend is saying. But I like Josh so much that I actually feel miserable.
He has yet to make an appearance in the cafeteria, and it"s doubtful that he will now, because I saw him weaving through the crowd in the opposite direction. His friends graduated last year. All of them. If only I were courageous enough to invite him to sit with us at our table. But his friends were so much cooler than us.
Besides, Josh is aloof. Untouchable. We are not.
In the lunch line, Mike Reynard the senior who was the first to shout during Nate"s speech proves my point when he slams his tray into Kurt"s spine. A bowl of onion soup splashes its entire contents onto the back of his hoodie.
Mike pretends to look disgusted. "Watch it, r.e.t.a.r.d."
Kurt stares straight ahead in shock. A slice of baguette covered in melted Gruyere falls from his back to the floor with a splat. A soggy onion noiselessly follows.
My cheeks redden. "Jerk."
"Sorry, didn"t catch that," Mike says. Even though he did. He"s making fun of my soft voice.
I raise it so that he can hear me. "I said you"re an a.s.shole."
He smiles, an orthodontic row of unnaturally sharp teeth. "Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it, sweetheart?"
I clench the compa.s.s on the end of my necklace. Nothing. I am going to do nothing, and he knows it. Kurt shoves his hands into his hoodie"s pockets, which begin to shake. I know his hands are flapping. He makes a low sound, and I link my arm through his and lead him away, abandoning our food trays. Pretending like I don"t see Mike"s and Dave"s pantomimes or hear their cretinous guffaws.
In the quiet of the hall, Kurt races into the men"s room. I sit on a bench and listen to the tick of a gilded clock. Count the number of pear-shaped crystals on the chandeliers. Tap my heels against the marble floor. Our school is as grand and ostentatious as anything in Paris, but I wish it weren"t filled with such horrible, ent.i.tled weasels. And I know I"m just as privileged, but...it feels different when you live on the social ladder"s bottom rung.
Kurt reappears. His hoodie is balled in his arms, wet from scrubbing.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
He"s calm, but he"s still frowning with severe agitation. "Now I can"t wear it until it"s clean."
"No worries." I help him shove it into his bag. "First thing after school."
The lunch line is empty. "I had ze feeling you would return." The jolly, pot-bellied head chef removes our trays from behind the counter and slides them towards us. "Leek tart for mademoiselle, un croque-monsieur for monsieur."
I"m grateful for this gesture of kindness. "Merci, Monsieur Boutin."
"Zat boy iz no good." He means Mike. "You do not worry about him."
His concern is simultaneously embarra.s.sing and rea.s.suring. He swipes our meal cards, and then Kurt and I sit at our usual table in the far corner. I glance around. As predicted, Josh isn"t here, which is probably a good thing. But Hattie isn"t here either. Which is probably not.
This morning I saw her eating un mille-feuille and even though I don"t blame her for wanting to start the day with dessert I tried to stop her. I thought it might be dusted with powdered almonds, and she"s allergic to almonds. But my sister always does the opposite of whatever anyone wants her to do, even when it"s completely idiotic and potentially life threatening. We"re not supposed to have our phones out at school, so I sneak-text her: ARE YOU ALIVE?!
She doesn"t reply.
The day worsens. In physics, Professeur Wakefield pairs us alphabetically to our lab partner for the year. I get Emily Middlestone, who groans when it"s announced, because she is popular, and I am not. Sophie Vernet is paired with Josh.
I hate Sophie Vernet.
Actually, I"ve never given Sophie Vernet much thought, and she seems nice enough, but that"s the problem.
My last two cla.s.ses are electives. I"d like to say that I"m taking art history for my own betterment not so that I"ll have more to hypothetically converse about with Josh but that would be false. And I"m taking computer science, because it"ll look better on my transcripts than La Vie, the cla.s.s that I wish I could take. La Vie means "life", and it"s supposed to teach us basic life skills, but it"s better known as the school"s only goof-off cla.s.s. I have zero doubt it"s where Josh is currently located.
Professeur Fontaine, the computer science teacher, pauses by my desk while she"s handing out our first homework a.s.signment. Her chin is pointy, and her forehead is huge. She looks like a triangle. "I met your sister this morning."