To: Anna Oliphant
From: Étienne St. Clair
Subject: Are you awake yet?
Wake up. Wake up wake up wake up.
To: Étienne St. Clair
From: Anna Oliphant
Subject: Re: Are you awake yet?
I’m awake! Seany started jumping on my bed, like, three hours ago. We’ve been opening presents and eating sugar cookies for breakfast. Dad gave me a gold ring shaped like a heart. “For Daddy’s sweetheart,” he said. As if I’m the type of girl who’d wear a heart-shaped ring.
FROM HER FATHER. He gave Seany tons of Star Wars stuff and a rock polishing kit, and I’d much rather have those. I can’t believe Mom invited him here for Christmas. She says it’s because their divorce is amicable (um, no) and Seany and I need a father figure in our lives, but all they ever do is fight. This morning it was about my hair. Dad wants me to dye it back, because he thinks I look like a “common prostitute,” and Mom wants to re-bleach it. Like either of them has a say. Oops, gotta run. My grandparents just arrived, and Granddad is bellowing for his bonnie lass. That would be me.
P.S. Love the picture. Mrs. Claus is totally checking out your butt. And it’s Merry Christmas, weirdo.
To: Anna Oliphant
From: Étienne St. Clair
Subject: HAHAHA!
Was it a PROMISE RING? Did your father give you a PROMISE RING?
To: Étienne St. Clair
From: Anna Oliphant
Subject: Re: HAHAHA!
I am so not responding to that.
To: Anna Oliphant
From: Étienne St. Clair
Subject: Uncommon Prostitutes
I have nothing to say about prostitutes (other than you’d make a terrible prostitute, the profession is much too unclean), I only wanted to type that. Isn’t it odd we both have to spend Christmas with our fathers? Speaking of unpleasant matters, have you spoken with Bridge yet? I’m taking the bus to the hospital now. I expect a full breakdown of your Christmas dinner when I return. So far today, I’ve had a bowl of muesli. How does Mum eat that rubbish? I feel as if I’ve been gnawing on lumber.
To: Étienne St. Clair
From: Anna Oliphant
Subject: Christmas Dinner
MUESLI? It’s Christmas, and you’re eating CEREAL?? I’m mentally sending you a plate from my house. The turkey is in the oven, the gravy’s on the stovetop, and the mashed potatoes and casseroles are being prepared as I type this. Wait. I bet you eat bread pudding and mince pies or something, don’t you? Well, I’m mentally sending you bread pudding. Whatever that is. No, I haven’t talked to Bridgette. Mom keeps bugging me to answer her calls, but winter break sucks enough already. (WHY is my dad here? SERIOUSLY. MAKE HIM LEAVE. He’s wearing this giant white cable-knit sweater, and he looks like a pompous snowman, and he keeps rearranging the stuff in our kitchen cabinets. Mom is about to kill him. WHICH IS WHY SHE SHOULDN’T INVITE HIM OVER FOR HOLIDAYS.) Anyway. I’d rather not add to the drama.
P.S. I hope your mom is doing better. I’m so sorry you have to spend today in a hospital. I really do wish I could send you both a plate of turkey.
To: Anna Oliphant
From: Étienne St. Clair
Subject: Re: Christmas Dinner
YOU feel sorry for ME? I am not the one who has never tasted bread pudding. The hospital was the same. I won’t bore you with the details. Though I had to wait an hour to catch the bus back, and it started raining. Now that I’m at the flat, my father has left for the hospital. We’re each making stellar work of pretending the other doesn’t exist.
P.S. Mum says to tell you “Merry Christmas.” So Merry Christmas from my mum, but Happy Christmas from me.
To: Étienne St. Clair
From: Anna Oliphant
Subject: SAVE ME
Worst. Dinner. Ever. It took less than five minutes for things to explode. My dad tried to force Seany to eat the green bean casserole, and when he wouldn’t, Dad accused Mom of not feeding my brother enough vegetables. So she threw down her fork, and said that Dad had no right to tell her how to raise her children. And then he brought out the “I’m their father” crap, and she brought out the “You abandoned them” crap, and meanwhile, the WHOLE TIME my half-deaf Nanna is shouting, “WHERE’S THE SALT! I CAN’T TASTE THE CASSEROLE! PASS THE SALT!” And then Granddad complained that Mom’s turkey was “a wee dry,” and she lost it. I mean, Mom just started screaming.
And it freaked Seany out, and he ran to his room crying, and when I checked on him, he was UNWRAPPING A CANDY CANE!! I have no idea where it came from. He knows he can’t eat Red Dye #40! So I grabbed it from him, and he cried harder, and Mom ran in and yelled at ME, like I’d given him the stupid thing. Not, “Thank you for saving my only son’s life, Anna.” And then Dad came in and the fighting resumed, and they didn’t even notice that Seany was still sobbing. So I took him outside and fed him cookies, and now he’s running around in circles, and my grandparents are still at the table, as if we’re all going to sit back down and finish our meal.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY FAMILY? And now Dad is knocking on my door. Great. Can this stupid holiday get any worse??
To: Anna Oliphant
From: Étienne St. Clair
Subject: SAVING YOU
I’m teleporting to Atlanta. I’m picking you up, and we’ll go someplace where our families can’t find us. We’ll take Seany. And we’ll let him run laps until he tires, and then you and I will take a long walk. Like Thanksgiving. Remember? And we’ll talk about everything BUT our parents . . . or perhaps we won’t talk at all. We’ll just walk. And we’ll keep walking until the rest of the world ceases to exist.
I’m sorry, Anna. What did your father want? Please tell me what I can do.
To: Étienne St. Clair
From: Anna Oliphant
Subject: Sigh. I’d love that.
Thank you, but it was okay. Dad wanted to apologize. For a split second, he was almost human. Almost. And then Mom apologized, and now they’re washing dishes and pretending like nothing happened. I don’t know. I didn’t mean to get all drama queen, when your problems are so much worse than mine. I’m sorry.
To: Anna Oliphant
From: Étienne St. Clair
Subject: Are you mad?
My day was boring. Your day was a nightmare. Are you all right?
To: Étienne St. Clair
From: Anna Oliphant
Subject: Re: Are you mad?
I’m okay. I’m just glad I have you to talk to.
To: Anna Oliphant
From: Étienne St. Clair
Subject: So . . .
Does that mean I can call you now?
chapter twenty-nine
In the history of terrible holidays, this ranks as the worst ever. Worse than the Fourth of July when Granddad showed up to see the fireworks in a kilt and insisted on singing “Flower of Scotland” instead of “America the Beautiful.” Worse than the Halloween when Trudy Sherman and I both went to school dressed as Glinda the Good Witch, and she told everyone her costume was better than mine, because you could see my purple “Monday” panties through my dress AND YOU TOTALLY COULD.
I’m not talking to Bridgette. She calls every day, but I ignore her. It’s over. The Christma
s gift I bought her, a tiny package wrapped in red-and-white-striped paper, has been shoved into the bottom of my suitcase. It’s a model of Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris. It was part of a model train set, and because of my poor language skills, St. Clair spent fifteen minutes convincing the shopkeeper to sell the bridge to me separately.
I hope I can return it.
I’ve only been to the Royal Midtown 14 once, and even though I saw Hercules, Toph was there, too. And he was like, “Hey, Anna. Why won’t you talk to Bridge?” and I had to run into the restroom. One of the new girls followed me in and said she thinks Toph is an insensitive douchebag motherhumping assclown, and that I shouldn’t let him get to me. Which was sweet, but didn’t really help.
Afterward, Hercules and I watched the latest cheesy Christmas movie and made fun of the actors’ matching holiday sweaters. He told me about the mysterious package of roast beef he found in theater six, and he said he’s been enjoying my website. He thinks my reviews are getting better. At least that was nice.
It was also nice when Dad left. He kept grilling me about French monuments and making these irritating calls to his publicist.We were all relieved to see him go.The only consistent bright spot has been St. Clair. We talk every day—calls, emails, texts. It doesn’t escape my attention that when Toph and I were separated, our communications fizzled out, but now that I’m not seeing St. Clair every day, we talk even more.
Which makes me feel worse about Toph. If we’d been better friends, we would have kept in contact. It was dumb to think there was a chance we might make it. I can’t believe Matt, of all people, was the one to point out how poorly I handled it. And, honestly, now that I’ve had time to reflect on it, Toph isn’t even that huge of a loss. It only hurts so much to think about him because of Bridgette. How could she keep this a secret from me? Her betrayal is infinitely more painful.
I didn’t have anywhere to go this New Year’s, so Seany and I are staying in. Mom went out with some work friends. I order a cheese pizza, and we watch The Phantom Menace. This is how much I want to prove to my brother I love him—I’ll sit through Jar Jar-freaking-Binks. Afterward, he drags out the action figures while we watch the Times Square countdown on television. “Pkschoo! Pkschoo!” Han Solo fires at my Storm Trooper before ducking behind a sofa cushion for cover.
“It’s a good thing I wore my laser-proof jacket,” I say, marching forward.
“There’s no such thing as a laser-proof jacket!You’re DEAD!” Han goes running across the back of the couch. “YEHH-AHHHH!”
I pick up Queen Amidala. “Han, you’re in danger! Go the other way! The Storm Trooper is wearing his laser-proof jacket.”
“An-nuhhhh, stop! Pkschoo pkschoo!”
“Fine,” Amidala says. “Leave it to a woman to do a man’s work.” She bashes the Storm Trooper’s head with her own. “GHHNNOOOO!” He falls off the couch.
Han jumps down to the carpet and begins shooting again.
I pick up young Obi-Wan. “Ooo, Amidala. You look radiant. Kiss kiss kiss.”
“No!” Seany snatches Obi-Wan from my hand. “No kissing.”
I pull another figure from Seany’s toy box. It’s a Sand Person, the one Bridgette must have bought him. Oh, well. “Ooo, Amidala. Kiss kiss kiss.”
“Sand People don’t kiss! They ATTACK! RARRRRR!” He steals this one, too, but then pauses to examine its bumpy little head. “Why aren’t you talking to Bridge?” he asks suddenly. “Did she hurt your feelings?”
I’m startled. “Yes, Sean. She did something that wasn’t very nice.”
“Does that mean she’s not going to babysit me anymore?”
“No, I’m sure she will. She likes you.”
“I don’t like her.”
“Sean!”
“She made you cry.You cry all the time now.” He throws the Sand Person in the bottom of his box. “Do you still have the one you bought me?”
I smile. I get my backpack and start to hand the toy over, but something nags at me. Sigh. “You can have this on one condition. You have to be nice to her. It’s either Bridgette or Granddad, those are Mom’s only babysitting options. And Granddad’s getting too old for this.” I gesture toward the pile of discarded action figures.
“Okay,” he says shyly. I give him the package, and he cradles it. “Thank you.”
The kitchen phone rings. Mom checking up on us, no doubt. Seany gets up to answer it while I look for a suitable new boyfriend for Amidala. “I don’t understand you,” he says. “Please speak English.”
“Sean? Who is it? Just hang up.” Aha! Luke Skywalker! The one missing a hand, but oh well. Amidala and Luke kiss. Wait. Isn’t she his mom? I toss Luke aside, as if he’s personally offended me, and dig through the box again.
“Your voice is weird.Yeah, she’s here.”
“Sean?”
“Is this her BOYFRIEND?” My brother laughs maniacally.
I lunge into the kitchen and grab the phone. “Hello? St. Clair?” There’s laughter on the other end of the line. Seany sticks out his tongue, and I push him away by his head. “GO. AWAY.”
“Sorry?” the voice on the phone says.
“I was talking to Sean. Is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“How’d you get this number?”
“Well, you see, there’s this book. It has white pages. And it has all of these phone numbers listed inside it. It’s also online.”
“Is that your booooy-friend?” Seany asks directly over the receiver.
I push him away again. “He’s a boy who’s a friend. Go watch the countdown.”
“What happened to your mobile?” St. Clair asks. “Did you forget to charge it?”
“I can’t believe it! That’s so unlike me.”
“I know, I was shocked to be sent to voice mail. But I’m glad to have your real number now. Just in case.”
The extra effort it took for him to call me makes me happy. “What are you up to? Shouldn’t you be out celebrating?”
“Eh. Mum wasn’t feeling well, so I’m staying in tonight. She’s sleeping, so I suppose I’ll be watching the countdown alone.” His mom came home from the hospital a few days ago.The situation has been up and down.
“What about Ellie?” The words fall out before I can stop them.
“I, er . . . talked to her earlier. It’s the New Year in Paris, after all. She went back the day after Christmas,” he adds.
I picture them making Amidala kissing noises over the phone. My heart sinks.
“She’s out partying.” His voice is sort of glum.
“Sorry to be your second choice.”
“Don’t be stupid. Third choice. Mum’s asleep, remember?” He laughs again.
“Thanks.Well, maybe I should hang up before my first choice falls asleep.” I glance at Seany, who has become quiet in the other room.
“Nonsense, I’ve only just called. But how is your man? He sounded good, even if he didn’t understand a word I said.”
“You do talk funny.” I smile. I love his voice.
“Speak for yourself, Atlanta. I’ve heard the southern accent slip out—”
“No!”
“Yes! Several times this week.”
I hmph, but my smile grows bigger. I’ve spoken with Meredith a few times over the break, too, but she’s never as much fun as St. Clair. I walk the phone into the living room, where Seany is curled up with my Sand Person. We watch the countdown together. I’m three hours ahead of St. Clair, but we don’t care.When my midnight hits, we toot imaginary horns and throw imaginary confetti.
And three hours later, when his midnight hits, we celebrate again.
And for the first time since coming home, I’m completely happy. It’s strange. Home. How I could wish for it for so long, only to come back and find it gone. To be here, in my technical house, and discover that home is now someplace different.
But that’s not quite right either.
I miss Paris, but it’s not home. It’s mo
re like . . . I miss this. This warmth over the telephone. Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place? Bridgette used to be home to me. Maybe St. Clair is my new home.
I mull this over as our voices grow tired and we stop talking. We just keep each other company. My breath. His breath. My breath. His breath.
I could never tell him, but it’s true.
This is home. The two of us.
chapter thirty
It saddens me how relieved I feel to be going back to France. The plane ride is quiet and long. It’s my first flight alone. By the time the plane lands at Charles de Gaulle, I’m anxious to get back to the School of America, even if it means navigating the métro by myself. It’s almost as if I’m not afraid of riding it anymore.
That can’t be right. Can it?
But the train ride back to the Latin Quarter is smooth and easy, and before I know it, I’m unlocking my door and unpacking my suitcase. Résidence Lambert rumbles pleasantly with the sound of other students arriving. I peek through my curtains at the restaurant across the street. No opera singer, but it’s only the afternoon. She’ll be back tonight. The thought makes me smile.
I call St. Clair. He arrived last night. The weather is unseasonably warm, and he and Josh are taking advantage of it.They’re hanging out on the steps of the Panthéon, and he says I should join them. Of course I will.
I can’t explain it, but as I stroll down my street, I’m suddenly racked with nerves. Why am I shaking? It’s only been two weeks, but what a peculiar two weeks. St. Clair has morphed from this confusing thing into my closest friend. And he feels the same way. I don’t have to ask him; I know it like I know my own reflection.
I stall and take the long way to the Panthéon. The city is beautiful.The gorgeous St-Etienne-du-Mont appears, and I think about St. Clair’s mother packing picnic lunches and drawing the pigeons. I try to picture him racing around here in a young schoolboy’s uniform, shorts and scabby knees, but I can’t. All I see is the person I know—calm and confident, hands in his pockets, strut in his step. The kind of person who radiates a natural magnetic field, who everyone is drawn to, who everyone is dazzled by.