To: Anna Oliphant
From: James Ashley
Subject: Gentle Reminder
Hel o, honey. It's been a while since we've spoken. Have you checked your voice mail? I've cal ed several times, but I assume you're busy
exploring Paree. well , this is just a gentle reminder to cal your dear old dad and tell him how your studies are going. Have you mastered French
yet? Tasted foie gras? What exciting museums have you visited? Speaking of exciting, I'm sure you've heard the good news. The Incident
debuted at number one on the NY Times! Looks like I've stil got the magic touch. I'm leaving for a southeastern tour next week, so I'l see your brother soon and give him your best. Keep laser-focused on school, and I'l 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 cliché. Obviously, you've never read one of his novels." I pause. "I can't believe he has the nerve to say he'l '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 El ie's school.
Actual y, 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.
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
fil 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 thril ing 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 El ie. 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 careful y. I decide to ask him a question before he can ask me one. "How's your assignment going?" My team in La Vie actual y
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 real y talented. Is that what you want to do? For a living, I mean?"
"I'm working on a graphic novel."
"Real y? 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 real y 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 pul s it off and yanks it down over her head. Her two black braids stick out comical y from underneath. "Looks great on you. Real y 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 actual y 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 stairwel .
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 hal way. 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 pul s 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 Bel .
But St. Clair's room is tidy. His bed is made, and there's only one smal 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 wal s 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 all owance, but he's
refused, saying I need to learn to live within my means.
Which is difficult when he doesn't give me enough means to begin with.
"Whatever happened with her and that band?" he asks, changing the subject. "Is she going to be their drummer?"
"Yeah, their first practice is this weekend."
"It's that one guy's band—Sideburns, right?"
St. Clair knows Toph's name. He's trying to get a rise out of me, so I ignore it. "Yeah. So what do you have for me?"
"It's right here." He hands me a yel ow padded envelope from his desk, and my stomach dances like it's my birthday. I rip the package open. A smal
patch fal s to the floor. It's the Canadian flag.
I pick it up. "Um. Thanks?"
He tosses his hat onto his bed and rubs his hair. It flies up in all different directions. "It's for your backpack, so people won't think you're American.
Europeans are much more forgiving of Canadians."
I laugh. "Then I love it. Thank you."
"You aren't offended?"
"No, it's perfect."
"I had to order it online, that's why it took so long. Didn't know where I could find one in Paris, sorry." He fishes through a desk drawer and pul s out a safety pin. He takes the tiny maple leaf flag from my hands and careful y pins it to the pocket of my backpack. "There. You're official y Canadian. Try not to abuse your new power."
Whatever. I'm total y going out tonight."
"Good." He slows down. "You should."
We're both standing stil . He's so close to me. His gaze is locked on mine, and my heart pounds painful y 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 stil staring at me.
He bites his thumbnail before replying. His voice is odd. "No. My mum did."
"Real y? Wow, they're good. Real y, real y . . . 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 real y 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 stil interested in me."
St. Clair edges closer. "Does he stil cal ?"
"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 El ie."
"Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I don't know. If you aren't doing any—"
I open his door. "So I'l 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.