St. Clair tucks the tips of his fingers into his pockets and kicks the cobblestones with the toe of his boots. "Wel ?" he final y asks.
"Thank you." I'm stunned. "It was real y sweet of you to bring me here."
"Ah, well ." He straightens up and shrugs—that ful -bodied French shrug he does so well —and reassumes his usual, assured state of being. "Have to
start somewhere. Now make a wish."
"Huh?" I have such a way with words. I should write epic poetry or jingles for cat food commercials.
He smiles. "Place your feet on the star, and make a wish."
"Oh. Okay, sure." I slide my feet together so I'm standing in the center. "I wish—"
"Don't say it aloud!" St. Clair rushes forward, as if to stop my words with his body, and my stomach flips violently. "Don't you know anything about
making wishes? You only get a limited number in life. Fal ing stars, eyelashes, dandelions—"
"Birthday candles."
He ignores the dig. "Exactly. So you ought to take advantage of them when they arise, and superstition says if you make a wish on that star, it'l come true." He pauses before continuing. "Which is better than the other one I've heard."
"That I'l die a painful death of poisoning, shooting, beating, and drowning?"
"Hypothermia, not drowning." St. Clair laughs. He has a wonderful, boyish laugh. "But no. I've heard anyone who stands here is destined to return to
Paris someday. And as I understand it, one year for you is one year too many. Am I right?"
I close my eyes. Mom and Seany appear before me. Bridge. Toph. I nod.
"Al right, then. So keep your eyes closed. And make a wish."
I take a deep breath. The cool dampness of the nearby trees fil s my lungs. What do I want? It's a difficult question.
I want to go home, but I have to admit I've enjoyed tonight. And what if this is the only time in my entire life I visit Paris? I know I just told St. Clair that I don't want to be here, but there's a part of me—a teeny, tiny part—that's curious. If my father cal ed tomorrow and ordered me home, I might be
disappointed. I stil haven't seen the Mona Lisa. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Walked beneath the Arc de Triomphe.
So what else do I want?
I want to feel Toph's lips again. I want him to wait. But there's another part of me, a part I real y, really hate, that knows even if we do make it, I'd stil move away for col ege next year. So I'd see him this Christmas and next summer, and then . . . would that be it?
And then there's the other thing.
The thing I'm trying to ignore. The thing I shouldn't want, the thing I can't have.
And he's standing in front of me right now.
So what do I wish for? Something I'm not sure I want? Someone I'm not sure I need? Or someone I know I can't have?
Screw it. Let the fates decide.
I wish for the thing that is best for me.
How's that for a generalization? I open my eyes, and the wind is blowing harder. St. Clair pushes a strand of hair from his eyes. "Must have been a
good one," he says.
On the way back, he leads me to a walk-up sandwich stand for a late-night snack. The yeasty smel is mouthwatering, and my stomach growls in
anticipation. We order panini, sandwiches pressed flat on a hot gril . St. Clair gets his stuffed with smoked salmon and ricotta cheese and chives. I order Parma ham and Fontina cheese and sage. He cal s it fast food, but what we're handed looks nothing like the limp sandwiches from Subway.
St. Clair helps with the euro situation. Thankful y, euros are easy to understand. Bil s and cents come in nice, even denominations. We pay and strol
down the street, enjoying the night. Crunching through the crusty bread. Letting the warm, gooey cheese run down our chins.
I moan with pleasure.
"Did you just have a foodgasm?" he asks, wiping ricotta from his lips.
"Where have you been all my life?" I ask the beautiful panini. "How is it possible I've never had a sandwich like this before?"
He takes a large bite. "Mmmph grmpha mrpha," he says, smiling. Which I'm assuming translates to something like, "Because American food is crap."
"Mmmph mrga grmpha mmrg," I reply. Which translates to, "Yeah, but our burgers are pretty good."
We lick the paper our sandwiches were wrapped in before throwing them away. Bliss. We're almost back to the dormitory , and St. Clair is describing the time he and Josh received detention for throwing chewing gum at the painted ceiling—they were trying to give one of the nymphs a third nipple—when
my brain begins to process something. Something odd.
We have just passed the third movie theater in one block.
Granted, these are smal theaters. One-screeners, most likely. But three of them. In one block! How did I not notice this earlier?
Oh. Right. The cute boy.
"Are any of those in English?" I interrupt.
St. Clair looks confused. "Pardon?"
"The movie theaters. Are there any around here that play films in English?"
He cocks an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you don't know."
"What? Don't know what?"
He's gleeful to know something I don't. Which is annoying considering we're both aware that he knows everything about Parisian life, whereas I have
the savvy of a chocolate croissant. "And I was under the impression that you were some kind of cinema junkie."
"What? Know what?"
St. Clair gestures around in an exaggerated circle, clearly loving this. "Paris . . . is the film appreciation . . . capital . . . of the world."
I stop dead. "You're kidding."
"I'm not.You'l never find a city that loves film more. There are hundreds, maybe even thousands, of theaters here."
My heart feels like it's fal ing inside my chest. I'm dizzy. It can't be true.
"More than a dozen in our neighborhood alone."
"What?"
"You honestly didn't notice?"
"No, I didn't notice! How come no one told me?" I mean, this should have been mentioned Day One, Life Skil s Seminars. This is very important
information here! We resume walking, and my head strains in every direction to read the posters and marquees. Please be in English. Please be in
English. Please be in English.
"I thought you knew. I would have said something." He final y looks apologetic. "It's considered pretty high art here. There are loads of first-run theaters, but even more—what do you cal them?—revival houses. They play the classics and run programs devoted to different directors or genres or obscure
Brazilian actresses or whatever."
Breathe, Anna, breathe. "And are they in English?"
"At least a third of them, I suppose."
A third of them! Of a few hundred—maybe even thousand!—theaters.
"Some American films are dubbed into French, but mainly those are the ones for children. The rest are left in English and given French subtitles. Here,
hold on." St. Clair plucks a magazine cal ed Pariscope from the racks of a newsstand and pays a cheerful man with a hooked nose. He thrusts the
magazine at me. "It comes out every Wednesday. 'VO' means version originale. 'VF' means version française, which means they're dubbed. So stick to VO. The listings are also online," he adds.
I tear through the magazine, and my eyes glaze over. I've never seen so many movie listings in my life.
"Christ, if I'd known that's all it took to make you happy, I wouldn't have bothered with the rest of this."
"I love Paris," I say.
"And I'm sure it loves you back."
He's stil talking, but I'm not listening. There's a Buster Keaton marathon this week. And another for teen slasher flicks. And a whole program devoted to 1970s car chases.
"What?" I realize he's waiting for an answer to a question I didn't hear. When he doesn't reply, I glance up from the listings. His gaze is frozen on a figure that has just stepped out of our dorm.
The girl is about my height. Her long hair is barely styled, but in a fashionable, Parisian sort of way. She's wearing a short silver dress that sparkles in the lamplight, and a red coat. Her leather boots snap and click against the sidewalk. She's looking back over her shoulder toward Résidence Lambert
with a slight frown, but then she turns and notices St. Clair. Her entire being lights up.
The magazine slackens in my hands. She can only be one person.
The girl breaks into a run and launches herself into his arms. They kiss, and she laces her fingers through his hair. His beautiful, perfect hair. My
stomach drops, and I turn from the spectacle.
They break apart, and she starts talking. Her voice is surprisingly low— sultry—but she speaks rapidly. "I know we weren't gonna see each other
tonight, but I was in the neighborhood and thought you might want to go to that club I was tell ing you about. You know, the one Matthieu recommended?
But you weren't there, so I found Mer and I've been talking to her for the last hour, and where were you? I cal ed your cel three times but it went straight to voice mail."
St. Clair looks disoriented. "Er. El ie, this is Anna. She hadn't left the dorm all week, so I thought I'd show her—"
To my amazement, El ie breaks into an ear-to-ear smile. Oddly enough, it's this moment I realize that despite her husky voice and Parisian attire, she's
sort of . . . plain. But friendly-looking.
That stil doesn't mean I like her.
"Anna! From Atlanta, right? Where'd you guys go?"
She knows who I am? St. Clair describes our evening while I contemplate this strange development. Did he tell her about me? Or was it Meredith? I hope it was him, but even if it was, it's not like he said anything she found threatening. She doesn't seem alarmed that I've spent the last three hours in the company of her very attractive boyfriend. Alone.
Must be nice to have that kind of confidence.
"Okay, babe." She cuts him off. "You can tell me the rest later. You ready to go?"
Did he say he'd go with her? I don't remember, but he nods his head. "Yeah. Yeah, let me grab my, er—" He glances at me, and then toward the
entrance of our dorm.
"What? You're already dressed to go out. You look great. C'mon." She tugs his arm, linking it to hers. "It was nice to meet you, Anna."
I find my voice. "Yeah. Nice to meet you, too." I turn to St. Clair, but he won't look at me properly. Fine. Whatever. I give him my best I-don't-care-that-you-have-a-girlfriend smile and a cheerful "Bye!"
He doesn't react. Okay, time to go. I bolt away and pul out my building key. But as I unlock the door, I can't help but glance back. St. Clair and El ie are striding into the darkness, arms stil linked, her mouth stil chattering.
As I pause there, St. Clair's head turns back to me. Just for a moment.