been dating?”
St. Clair thinks for a moment. “About a year now, I suppose.” He takes a sip of coffee—everyone here seems to drink it—then slams down the cup with
a loud CLUNK that startles Rashmi and Josh. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says. “Did that bother you?”
He turns to me and opens his brown eyes wide in exasperation. I suck in my breath. Even when he’s annoyed, he’s beautiful. Comparing him to Toph
isn’t even possible. St. Clair is a different kind of attractive, a different species altogether.
“Change of subject.” He points a finger at me. “I thought southern bel es were supposed to have southern accents.”
I shake my head. “Only when I talk to my mom.Then it slips out because she has one. Most people in Atlanta don’t have an accent. It’s pretty urban. A lot of people speak gangsta, though,” I add jokingly.
“Fo’ shiz,” he replies in his polite English accent.
I spurt orangey-red soup across the table. St. Clair gives a surprised ha-HA kind of laugh, and I’m laughing, too, the painful kind like abdominal
crunches. He hands me a napkin to wipe my chin. “Fo’. Shiz.” He repeats it solemnly.
Cough cough. “Please don’t ever stop saying that. It’s too—” I gasp. “Much.”
“You oughtn’t to have said that. Now I shal have to save it for special occasions.”
“My birthday is in February.” Cough choke wheeze. “Please don’t forget.”
“And mine was yesterday,” he says.
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Yes. It was.” He mops the remainder of my spewed lunch from the tabletop. I try to take the napkins to clean it myself, but he waves my hand away.
“It’s the truth,” Josh says. “I forgot, man. Happy belated birthday.”
“It wasn’t real y your birthday, was it? You would’ve said something.”
“I’m serious. Yesterday was my eighteenth birthday.” He shrugs and tosses the napkins onto his empty tray. “My family isn’t one for cakes and party
hats.”
“But you have to have cake on your birthday,” I say. “It’s the rules. It’s the best part.” I remember the StarWars cake Mom and Bridge and I made for Seany last summer. It was lime green and shaped likeYoda’s head. Bridge even bought cotton candy for his ear hair.
“This is exactly why I never bring it up, you know.”
“But you did something special last night, right? I mean, El ie took you out?”
He picks up his coffee, and then sets it back down again without drinking. “My birthday is just another day. And I’m fine with that. I don’t need the cake, I promise.”
“Okay, okay. Fine.” I raise my hands in surrender. “I won’t wish you happy birthday. Or even a belated happy Friday.”
“Oh, you can wish me happy Friday.” He smiles again. “I have no objection to Fridays.”
“Speaking of,” Rashmi says to me. “Why didn’t you go out with us last night?”
“I had plans. With my friend. Bridgette.”
Al three of them stare, waiting for further explanation.
“Phone plans.”
“But you’ve been out this week?” St. Clair asks. “You’ve actual y left campus?”
“Sure.” Because I have. To get to other parts of campus.
St. Clair raises his eyebrows. “You are such a liar.”
“Let me get this straight.” Josh places his hands in prayer position. His fingers are slender, like the rest of his body, and he has a black ink splotch on one index finger. “You’ve been in Paris for an entire week and have yet to see the city? Any part of it?”
“I went out with my parents last weekend. I saw the Eiffel Tower.” From a distance.
“With your parents, bril iant. And your plans for tonight?” St. Clair asks. “Washing some laundry, perhaps? Scrubbing the shower?”
“Hey. Scrubbing is underrated.”
Rashmi furrows her brow. “What are you gonna eat? The cafeteria will be closed.” Her concern is touching, but I notice she’s not inviting me to join her
and Josh. Not that I’d want to go out with them anyway. As for dinner, I’d planned on cruising the dorm’s vending machine. It’s not well stocked, but I can make it work.
“That’s what I thought,” St. Clair says when I don’t respond. He shakes his head. His dark messy hair has a few curls in it today. It’s quite breathtaking, real y. If there were an Olympics competition in hair, St. Clair would total y win, hands down. Ten-point-oh. Gold medal.
I shrug. “It’s only been a week. It’s not a big deal.”
“Let’s go over the facts one more time,” Josh says. “This is your first weekend away from home?”
“Yes.”
“Your first weekend without parental supervision?”
“Yes.”
“Your first weekend without parental supervision in Paris? And you want to spend it in your bedroom? Alone?” He and Rashmi exchange pitying
glances. I look at St. Clair for help, but find him staring at me with his head tilted to the side.
“What?” I ask, irritated. “Soup on my chin? Green bean between my teeth?”
St. Clair smiles to himself. “I like your stripe,” he final y says. He reaches out and touches it lightly. “You have perfect hair.”
Chapter seven
The party people have left the dorm. I munch on vending machine snacks and update my website. So far I’ve tried: a Bounty bar, which turned out to be the same thing as a Mounds, and a package of madeleines, shel -shaped cakes that were stale and made me thirsty. Together they’ve raised my blood