Aaaaaand way to make it worse.
But Josh glances at me with a smile. “The head called me into her office, because she wanted to make sure that we ‘get off to the right start’ this year. But she didn’t give me detention. Not yet.”
I have no idea how I’m supposed to respond.
“Actually,” he says, “I’m going to Munich.”
I freeze, mid-step. It’s against school rules to leave the city without permission, never mind the entire country. Someone bumps into me from behind. I stumble forward, and Josh reaches out to grab me, but I’ve already steadied myself. His hand hesitates in the space between us. And then it returns to his pocket.
I kind of wish that I’d fallen.
“So, um. Munich. This weekend?”
Josh is studying me, making sure that I’m really okay. “Yeah. Oktoberfest.”
I frown. “Even though it’s still September?”
“Ah, but most of the festival happens this month. Misleading, I know.” He grins, and there’s an enticing flash of dimples. My insides go wobbly. “But I want to visit as many countries as possible before graduation. And I’ve never been to Germany.”
“And you’re travelling alone?” I’m impressed. Maybe even awed.
“Yep. My train leaves in the morning.”
Kurt appears on the opposite side of the street. He’s checking his phone, no doubt preparing to text because I’m a full minute late. I shout his name. He pulls down his hoodie and brushes the hair from his eyes, thrown to discover me with Josh.
I shuffle my feet against the kerb. “Well. This is my stop.”
Josh kicks the kerb once, too. “Maybe sometime I can join you guys for dinner?”
Ohmygod. “I am such an assweed.”
He bursts into laughter.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry! Would you like to have dinner with us?”
He’s still laughing. “I was only teasing.”
“Please.” I clasp a hand around my compass. “Eat with us.”
“It’s okay. I really do need to pick up a brush before tomorrow. Besides” – he glances at Kurt – “I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“You wouldn’t be imposing.”
But Josh is already walking backwards down the side street. He’s still facing me. “See you in a few days,” he shouts. “Enjoy your raw fish.”
“Enjoy your schnitzel!”
I laugh at the unexpected perverseness of our final exchange as Kurt pops up over my shoulder. His brow wrinkles. “Why was he here? How did that happen?”
Josh turns around. I admire the back side of his physique as the street lamps illuminate him, one after another. His figure grows smaller. He reaches a curve in the road and looks over his shoulder. One hand raises in a wave. I mirror the gesture, and he vanishes.
“I don’t know.” I’m mystified. “I was alone in my room. And then he was there.”
It’s Sunday – just before midnight – and I’m curled in bed with Joann Sfar, when there are two knocks against my door. The sound is so soft that I’m not sure I actually heard it. My mind races to Josh, but I push it away as improbable. Kurt? No, he’d text. Maybe it was next door. Or maybe it was a practical joke; it wouldn’t be the first.
I wait for a voice.
Nothing.
I settle back into my book, warily, when I hear it again. Knock-knock. Low to the ground. I’m still gripping the hard cover, which might make a serviceable weapon, as I climb out of bed and tiptoe forward. “Hello?” I whisper.
“It’s me,” the other side says. “Josh.”
He adds his name, because he does not yet realize that I’d recognize his voice anywhere, under any circumstance. I’ve had this fantasy before: Midnight. Him. Here. My heartbeat accelerates. I shake out my pillow-limp hair and take a steadying breath. It doesn’t work. I turn the handle silently, but my hand trembles.
“Hi,” he says. His face is close to mine, as if his cheek, or maybe his ear, had been pressed against the wood.
“Hi,” I reply.
Josh leans against the doorframe. His body is several inches lower to the ground, which makes our eyes nearly level. We study each other in silence. He looks different this close. He looks real. Complete, somehow. I glance down the hallway. It’s dark and empty. This fantasy is definitely familiar…until he holds up a beer stein.
I frown, but it clicks only a second later. “You went! You really did go.”
Josh lifts the stein in a mock cheers. “I did.”
I smile. “How was it?”
“Crowded. Loud.” He sounds depleted. “A fairground with wall-to-wall frat boys and drunken parents trying to escape from their own bratty children. Mike and Dave would’ve fit right in.”
“Yikes. That bad, huh?”
“It’s safe to say that I’ll be selecting a new destination next weekend.”
“Germany’s loss.”
The corner of his mouth lifts into a smile. He holds out the stein, and I tuck my book underneath my arm to accept it. The stein is made out of traditional earthenware, heavy and gaudy and carved, with a pointed tin lid.
I laugh. “This is really, really hideous.”
“They all were. And the ones in the beer tents were even worse, plain glass with this badly designed Oktoberfest logo. At least this one has a sword fight. See the tiny knights in front of the Bavarian castle? It was the most adventurous one I could find.”
And that’s when I realize…this is a gift. Josh picked this out for me. Suddenly, the stein is beautiful. I clutch it against my chest. “Thank you.”
He nods at my book. “How is it?”
“Good. You can borrow it. If you want.”
Josh looks down at his sneakers, and then back up, and then back down. “You know that I like you. Right?”
My heart pounds so hard that he can probably feel the reverberations. But – for once – the words fall easily from my lips. “So stay here next weekend. Go out with me.”
Chapter eight
Josh isn’t in school the next day. He has three more days off for a holiday that he doesn’t celebrate. I wish I could get away with it, but the idea of potentially missing an important class or being late on an assignment makes me break out in hives. But I understand that his priorities are elsewhere – his art. So I’m shocked when I enter first period on Tuesday, and he’s slouched at his desk…a full five minutes before the bell rings.
A rush of adrenalin removes any last trace of morning sleepiness. “What are you doing here?” I hug a notebook to my chest, glowing with happiness.
“H–hey.” He sits up straighter. “Yeah. Funny story.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Perhaps the head of school grew suspicious about the length of my absence. Perhaps she called my parents. Perhaps my parents confirmed that we don’t celebrate Sukkoth.”
My shoulders fall. “Perhaps you have a shit-ton of detention?”
Josh shrugs, but it’s a shrug of affirmation.
“That sucks. I’m sorry.”
He clasps his hands on top of his desk. “Actually.” Josh lowers his voice and leans in. “The situation isn’t all bad.”
I crinkle my nose. “It’s not?”
He stares at me. He stares harder.
“Oh.” My gaze drops in a sheepish sort of pleasure. “Um. How much detention did you receive?”
Josh sits back again, resuming his slouch. “Only three weeks, but—”
That snaps my head back up.
“Including Saturdays.” Another shrug. “It’s not a big deal, I can use the time to work. But I’m also on my final warning. Didn’t take long,” he adds.
My heart stops – literally stops – for a full beat. “Final warning? As in expulsion?”
“Seriously. Not a big deal.” But my panic must be showing, because he scoots forward in his seat. “Let’s just say that for a ‘final’ warning? It’s not my first.”
I wait. I have no idea how he can be so calm about this.
r />
“Last year,” he explains. “In fact, I was on my final warning once in the winter and once in the spring. So, somehow, I got two. This is number three.”
“Well…be careful.” It sounds so lame. “I mean, the leaves haven’t even changed, and you wouldn’t want to miss that. Though they are prettier in New York—”
“I’ll be careful.” His voice is deliberate. He smiles.
I fiddle with a curl in my hair.
Two desks away, Emily Middlestone leans over. She’s wearing a pair of designer glasses that I’m sure are fake. “You know, that’d be really stupid if you got kicked out in your last year of school.”
Josh’s expression wipes blank. “Yeah, Emily. That would be stupid.”
Professeur Cole bursts into the room and grinds to a halt. “Am I late?” she asks Josh.
He shakes his head once. “Nope.”
“Well. How fortunate that you have finally learned how to tell the time.” But her smile is sly. She marches up to her podium, and I take my seat.
The one directly across from Josh.
We glance at each other with more openness throughout the week, but there’s still a shyness between us, an unwillingness to look or talk for too long. Our relationship has yet to be solidified. Anticipation – of something – hovers in the air. At night, it takes me hours to fall asleep. I place the beer stein on top of my mini-fridge, beside my bed, so that I can see it from my pillow. Proof that he’s thinking about me, too.
He doesn’t visit my room. His afternoon detention runs until dinner, and he still isn’t eating in the cafeteria. And then, after dinner, opposite-sex visitation hours are over. He’s cut back on rule breaking, and apparently that’s one he’s not willing to risk any more. So I continue my usual schedule of homework and studying, and I try to bite back the analysing. Kurt has been giving me dirty looks.
On Thursday, before government, Josh removes a pen from between his teeth. “So. Saturday. I’m out of detention at eighteen hours. Anytime you want to meet after that…”
Paris runs on a twenty-four-hour clock. Eighteen hours is six p.m. My stomach butterflies emerge from their chrysalises. “Yeah?”
He points the pen at me. “You know that because you asked me out, you’re the one who has to pick the place, right?”
Throat. Dry.
Dry throat.
All of the dryness in my throat.
Josh places the pen back between his teeth and then immediately takes it out again. “Whatever you suggest.” He grins. “I’ll say yes. You’ll definitely get a yes. If that helps.”
My response is another hot blush.
The rest of my school week is spent in freak-out mode, a situation that leaves me with a new-found respect for guys. Sébastien planned and organized most of our dates. It’s an alarmingly high-pressure job. Kurt reminds me that it’ll be Nuit Blanche. White Night. A night that never grows dark. The first Saturday of every October, museums and galleries open their doors for free until dawn. The tradition started in Saint Petersburg, Russia, travelled here, and has continued to spread around the world. But – even speaking as someone used to its decadence – there’s still no greater city than Paris for an all-night festival.
I’m not the only one watching the clock. At precisely vingt et une heures – just as the numbers on my phone tick from 20:59 to 21:00 – I hear a sound that’s instantly recognizable: two light knocks, down low. My nerve endings jolt. Yesterday, I told Josh when to arrive but not where we’re going. Mainly because I hadn’t figured it out yet.
Three years of anxiety flood throughout my body. What if I’m wrong? What if this isn’t what I’ve always wanted?
What if it is?
I open the door.
Josh is knee-bucklingly sexy. It’s the first cool night of autumn, and he’s dressed in a striking wool coat. The collar is turned up in that self-confident yet unkempt way that only artists can pull off. I’ve seen him wear this coat before, this beautiful going-on-a-date coat, but this is the first time that he has worn this coat for me.
“Youlookamazing.”
But the words tumble from his lips, not mine.
I’m wearing a swishy dress, and my hair is in neat, pretty waves. My mouth is painted red. Maman once told me to place the boldest colour where I want people to look. I bite my bottom lip. “Thanks. You do, too.”
Josh tucks his hands into his pockets. His shoulders rise nervously.
My breathing is shallow. Like I can’t get enough oxygen. “So I thought we’d go to the Pompidou? They have an exhibition of this weird photographer from Finland. He’s supposed to be totally nuts, and I thought it might be interesting, but I don’t know, maybe that’s stupid, we can do something else if you want—”
“No.”
Blood rises to my cheeks. “No?”
“I meant we should go. That sounds cool.”
“Oh.” I swallow the goose egg that’s been stuck in my throat. “Okay. Good.”
There’s a long pause. Josh takes an exaggerated step to the side. “Unfortunately, you will have to leave your room.”
I laugh, and it sounds like I’ve been sucking helium. “Right. Been a while since I’ve been on one of these. A date. I forgot how they worked.” I close the door behind me, internally exploding with humiliation. We’re only two steps down the hall before my door jack-in-the-boxes back open.
Josh slams it shut with a move that’s both calculated and knowing. “Oh, man. It really is too bad that some asshole broke your lock.”
Finally, I laugh. Genuine and normal sounding. And then my date says the best thing that he could possibly say: “It’s okay. I haven’t been on one of these in a while either.”
My smile triples in size.
Josh grins. “Just give me your hand.”
“W–what?”
“Your hand,” he repeats. “Give it to me.”
I extend my shaking right hand. And – in a moment that is a hundred dreams come true – Joshua Wasserstein laces his fingers through mine. A staggering shock of energy shoots straight into my veins. Straight into my heart.
“There,” he says. “I’ve been waiting a long time to do that.”
Not nearly as long as I’ve been waiting.
Chapter nine
The Centre Pompidou is the modern-art museum, a huge box of a building that looks as if it’s been turned inside out. Its inner structure is exposed and colour-coded: green pipes for plumbing; blue for heating and cooling; yellow for electricity; and red for safety. The bold primary colours clash with the noble grey elegance of the rest of the city. For some reason, that makes me like it even more.
I wouldn’t have minded the walk here – my sushi place is right around the corner, not to mention the Treehouse – but Josh took one look at my heels and led me straight to the nearest taxi stand. I am wearing my tallest pair. He’s still over half a foot taller than I am, but I know I can reach his lips if he tries. I hope he tries.
The museum’s lobby is silver metal and blinding neon. As we pass the information desk, Josh takes my hand again. Our palms are sweaty. It’s heaven. We ride the crowded escalators up, up, up beside a wall of steel and glass. The glittering streets of Paris stretch all the way to the horizon. We talk about the shiny little nothings we see – people and cars and cathedrals, even la Tour Eiffel – but it’s not that we don’t have anything meaningful to say. The feeling is that we have everything to say.
And where do you begin with everything?
We switch escalators from level four to five, and I ride backwards on the stair above him. Our eyes are level. We’re laughing, I’m not even sure why, and he’s holding both of my hands now, and – suddenly – he’s leaning in.
This is the moment.
Josh hesitates. He second-guesses himself and pulls back. I lean forward to say the timing is right, I’m ready, let’s do this thing, and his smile returns and our eyes are closing and his nose is bumping against mine and – blip!
We ju
mp. His pocket blips again.
“Sorry,” he says, flustered. “Sorry.” Our hands unclasp, and he pulls out his phone to silence it. And then he bursts into an unexpected laugh.
Everything inside of me is throbbing. “What is it?”
“He got a job.” Josh shakes his head. “He really got one.” He holds up the screen, and a snapshot of a guy with mussed hair and a polyester vest grins back at me. He’s giving the V sign, the English finger. It’s his best friend, Étienne St. Clair.
I smile, despite our thwarted kiss. “Where’s St. Clair going to school now?” For reasons unknown to me, Josh’s friend goes by his last name.
“California. Berkeley. He said he was getting a job at a movie theatre, but I didn’t believe him.” Josh shakes his head again as we grab the final escalator. “He’s never worked a day in his life.”
“Have you?” Because not many people who’ve been to our school have.
Josh frowns. He’s ashamed of his answer, and it comes out like a one-word confession. “No.”
“Me neither.” We both hold the guilt of privilege.
Josh glances at his phone again. I lean in and examine the picture closer. “Oof. That’s one seriously ugly uniform. Does anyone look good in maroon polyester?”
He cracks a smile.
The escalator ends. Josh types a quick reply, silences his phone, and returns it to his pocket. I wonder if he told St. Clair about our date. I wonder if I’m newsworthy.
We head towards the galleries, but the mob inside the top-floor restaurant gives us pause. The tables have been removed, and an army of svelte models in frizzy white wigs, white lipstick, and marionette circles of white blush are manoeuvring trays of champagne through the swarm of bodies. Josh turns to me and cocks his head. “Shall we?”
“Why, yes.” I respond with a matching twinkle. “I believe we shall.”
We slip inside, and he grabs two flutes as the first tray whizzes by. We’re the youngest people here, by far. It must be a private party. The clamour of excited voices and the outlandish, kaleidoscopic music make the room unusually loud for Paris. “It’s like New Year’s Eve in here,” I shout.