“But most of them do,” Josh adds.
“But most of them not very well .” Rashmi looks pointedly at him.
“You’l learn the language of food first. The language of love.” Josh rubs his bel y like a skinny Buddha. “Oeuf. Egg. Pomme. Apple. Lapin. Rabbit.”
“Not funny.” Rashmi punches him in the arm. “No wonder Isis bites you. Jerk.”
I glance at the chalkboard again. It’s stil in French. “And, um, until then?”
“Right.” Beautiful Hal way Boy pushes back his chair. “Come along, then. I haven’t eaten either.” I can’t help but notice several girls gaping at him as we wind our way through the crowd. A blonde with a beaky nose and a teeny tank top coos as soon as we get in line. “Hey, St. Clair. How was your summer?”
“Hal o, Amanda. Fine.”
“Did you stay here, or did you go back to London?” She leans over her friend, a short girl with a severe ponytail, and positions herself for maximum cle**age exposure.
“I stayed with me mum in San Francisco. Did you have a good holiday?” He asks this politely, but I’m pleased to hear the indifference in his voice.
Amanda flips her hair, and suddenly she’s Cherrie Mil iken. Cherrie loves to swish her hair and shake it out and twirl it around her fingers. Bridgette is convinced she spends her weekends standing before oscil ating fans, pretending to be a supermodel, but I think she’s too busy soaking her locks in seaweed papaya mud wraps in that never-ending quest for perfect sheen.
“It was fabulous.” Flip, goes her hair. “I went to Greece for a month, then spent the rest of my summer in Manhattan. My father has an amazing penthouse that overlooks Central Park.”
Every sentence she says has a word that’s emphasized. I snort to keep from laughing, and Beautiful Hal way Boy gets a strange coughing fit.
“But I missed you. Didn’t you get my emails?”
“Er, no. Must have the wrong address. Hey.” He nudges me. “It’s almost our turn.”He turns his back onAmanda,and she and her friend exchange frowns.
“Time for your first French lesson. Breakfast here is simple and consists primarily of breads—croissants being the most famous, of course.This means no sausage, no scrambled eggs.”
“Bacon?” I ask hopefully.
“Definitely not.” He laughs. “Second lesson, the words on the chalkboard. Listen careful y and repeat after me. Granola. ” I narrow my eyes as he widens his in mock innocence. “Means ‘granola,’ you see. And this one? Yaourt? ”
“Gee, I dunno.Yogurt?”
“A natural!You say you’ve never lived in France before?”
“Har. Bloody. Har.”
He smiles. “Oh, I see. Known me less than a day and teasing me about my accent.What’s next? Care to discuss the state of my hair? My height? My trousers?”
Trousers. Honestly.
The Frenchman behind the counter barks at us. Sorry, Chef Pierre. I’m a little distracted by this English French American Boy Masterpiece. Said boy asks rapidly, “Yogurt with granola and honey, soft-boiled egg, or pears on brioche?”
I have no idea what brioche is. “Yogurt,” I say.
He places our orders in perfect French. At least, it sounds impeccable to my virgin ears, and it relaxes Chef Pierre. He loses the glower and stirs the granola and honey into my yogurt. A sprinkling of blueberries is added to the top before he hands it over.
“Merci, Monsieur Boutin.”
I grab our tray. “No Pop-Tarts? No Cocoa Puffs? I’m, like, total y offended.”
“Pop-Tarts are Tuesdays, Eggo waffles are Wednesdays, but they never, ever serve Cocoa Puffs. You shal have to settle for Froot Loops Fridays instead.”
“You know a lot about American junk food for a British dude.”
“Orange juice? Grapefruit? Cranberry?” I point to the orange, and he pul s two out of the case. “I’m not British. I’m American.”
I smile. “Sure you are.”
“I am.You have to be an American to attend SOAP, remember?”
“Soap?”
“School of America in Paris,” he explains. “SOAP.”
Nice. My father sent me here to be cleansed.
We get in line to pay, and I’m surprised by how efficiently it runs. My old school was all about cutting ahead and incensing the lunch ladies, but here everyone waits patiently. I turn back just in time to catch his eyes flicker up and down my body. My breath catches. The beautiful boy is checking me out.
He doesn’t realize I’ve caught him. “My mum is American,” he continues smoothly. “My father is French. I was born in San Francisco, and I was raised in London.”
Miraculously, I find my voice. “A true international.”
He laughs. “That’s right. I’m not a poseur like the rest of you.”
I’m about to tease him back when I remember: He has a girlfriend. Something evil pokes the pink folds of my brain, forcing me to recal my conversation with Meredith last night. It’s time to change the subject. “What’s your real name? Last night you introduced yourself as—”
“St. Clair is my last name. Étienne is my first.”
“Étienne St. Clair.” I try to pronounce it like him, all foreign and posh.
“Terrible, isn’t it?”
I’m laughing now. “Étienne is nice. Why don’t people cal you that?”
“Oh, ‘Étienne is nice.’ How generous of you.”
Another person gets in line behind us, a tiny boy with brown skin, acne, and a thick mat of black hair. The boy is excited to see him, and he smiles back.