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.
Chapter thirteen
U n place s’il vous plaît.”
One place, please. I double-checked my pronunciation before stepping up to the box office and sliding over my euros.The woman sel ing tickets
doesn’t blink, just rips my ticket in half and hands me the stub. I accept it graciously and stammer my thanks. Inside the theater, an usher examines my
stub. She tears it slightly, and I know from watching my friends that I’m supposed to give her a smal tip for this useless tradition. I touch the Canadian patch for luck, but I don’t need it. The handoff is easy.