I let out a quiet – and involuntary – gasp of recognition.
His head jerks up.
My instinct is to pretend that something else caused the exclamation. I fight it. “Kind of conceited, don’t you think?” I whisper, and I’m delirious that a good line escapes me.
His eyes widen. But he smiles as he neatly prints the word CAUGHT! underneath his sketch of a gnarled, spiny Joshua tree. I let out a snort of laughter that I turn into a cough. Professeur Hansen glances at me, but he doesn’t give it another thought. Phew.
Josh turns the page and draws our teacher, a teeny version with flyaway hair and the jaunty gleam of madness. Our classmates’ heads begin to fill the space around him. Mike and his bonehead friend, Dave; my snobby lab partner, Emily; and…Sanjita Devi. Who was once my friend. Who is now Emily’s friend.
Josh gives Sanjita her own page. He dresses her in a suit of armour without gloves. The suit is as polished as her exposed fingernails, but she’s looking down and away, as if she’s afraid that we can see through the steel to what’s really underneath.
It gives me the chills. He tilts it in my direction for approval.
“Wow,” I whisper. “Yes.”
Professeur Hansen doesn’t hear it, but Sanjita turns around in her seat to glare at me. Her mouth forms a perfect circle of surprise. Few people know about my crush, but she’s one of them. In the corner of my eye, Josh discreetly turns the page. I hold Sanjita’s gaze. She recedes, battle lost. I clutch my necklace for comfort.
A moment later, Josh extends a slender arm across the aisle. He crooks a finger. I hold out the compass on its long, antique chain, and as he leans forward to take it, his hand carelessly brushes against mine. Or…not carelessly? He cradles the compass in his palm, studying it, head mere inches from my own and…citrus. His shampoo. Oranges, maybe tangerines.
“Ahem.”
We startle, and Josh drops the necklace. It swings back against my chest and lands with an audible thump. Professeur Hansen has surprised us from behind. The other students laugh, having seen the set-up. It’s always amusing when he catches someone not paying attention. Except when that someone is you. He comically raps the back of Josh’s chair. “As fascinating as Mademoiselle Martin’s necklace is, I assure you that the philosophies of Rousseau are far more likely to appear on next week’s test.”
“Yes, sir.” Josh looks apologetic. But not fazed.
“You there.” Professeur Hansen smacks my desktop with his fist, eliciting more laughter. “You can do better than this riff-raff.” He gestures towards Josh.
I’ve sunk into the deepest depths of my seat. They’re waiting for me to reply. The whole class is waiting.
“I know I can.” Josh’s expression is deadpan. “She’s a terrible influence.”
Even the professeur laughs at that. Satisfied, he pushes up his glasses on his nose and launches back into the lesson. My eyes stay glued to him for the rest of the period. When the bell rings, Josh hands me a sheet of spiral-notebook paper. He’s drawn my compass perfectly, down to the filigree on the needle. Underneath it, he’s written: WHY DOES SHE WEAR IT EVERY DAY?
It shakes me to the core.
I place it beneath the cover of my textbook and try to play it cool, try to swallow the thrill of possessing something that he made. And the absolute wonder that he noticed. I move towards the exit, glancing over my shoulder with a smile. I hope it looks flirtatious. “I wear it so that I won’t get lost, of course.”
“Is that something that happens often?” he asks.
There’s a traffic jam at the door. Josh is directly behind me, and when I turn my head to reply, his own smile is lopsided – unquestionably flirtatious – and I can no longer remember my name or my country or even my place in the universe.
“I’m over here,” Kurt says.
Not only am I still staring at Josh, but I’ve also turned the wrong way down the hall. The stupidity blush is immediate. I lower my head and double back.
Amazingly, Josh follows.
“We’re going to the cafeteria,” Kurt tells him. “You’re never there. Where do you eat?” It sounds like an interrogation.
Josh’s smile wavers. “Uh, my room. Usually. Not always.”
“You’ll get detention. We aren’t allowed to leave campus while school is in session.”
Josh’s smile disappears altogether.
“You should join us sometime.” I say it quickly, because I’m embarrassed about Kurt. He’s so rigid. And awkward. But the shame that follows these traitorous thoughts is instantaneous. “Or now. Or, you know, whenever.”
As if I’m any less awkward.
My best friend frowns. It’s not that he doesn’t like Josh. But this invitation would mean a change in our routine, and Kurt is a creature of habit.
Unfortunately, Josh catches the expression. He crosses his arms – uneasiness in every line of his body – and turns back to me. “Yeah, maybe. Sometime.”
My blood ices.
Sébastien.
He was my first, last, and only boyfriend. He attends another school nearby. We dated last winter, and I thought he was a decent guy until I introduced him to Kurt. Sébastien was uncomfortable around Kurt. This made Sébastien aggressive, which intensified Kurt’s nervous habits, which turned Sébastien cruel. Which made me dump Sébastien.
Josh knows that Kurt has high-functioning autism. Everyone here knows. When a stranger misinterprets Kurt’s behaviour as rudeness and reacts poorly, I can usually forgive them. But when someone who knows him doesn’t even want to try to understand him?
No. I can’t forgive that.
My heart plummets with dead weight. “Well. Thanks for the drawing.”
Kurt pulls down his hoodie – laundered the evening of the soup incident, no longer stained – and his sandy hair sticks out in a hundred directions. “You finally saw your portrait? The one from summer?”
I glance at Josh, and he takes a step backwards. “No,” I tell Kurt. “It was a drawing he made in class. Just now.”
Josh rubs the side of his neck. “I should get going.”
“But I wanna see the drawing of you.” Kurt turns towards Josh. They’re both tall, about the same height, but Kurt is broader, and his stare is forceful. “Do you have it?”
“N–no,” Josh says. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t.”
“It’s okay. Maybe some other time.” I press my lips together.
Josh crosses his arms again, and his muscles tighten. “It’s just that I don’t have that sketchbook here. In France. That’s all. Otherwise I’d show you.” And then he rushes away. We watch him until he disappears from view.
“Was that weird?” Kurt asks. “I think that turned weird.”
“Yeah. It was weird.”
But it wasn’t. It was a moment of truth buried inside a lie. I saw Josh’s sketchbook less than an hour ago. He wanted to get away from us. Or, more likely, he wanted to get away from Kurt. My chest constricts. It’s sudden and painful, but I hold back my tears. I don’t want to have to explain them.
After lunch, I resume the habit of not looking at Josh. It’s easier now.
It’s also not easier.
I think he likes me. I don’t even know how that’s possible, but I do know that it doesn’t matter any more. It can’t matter. In physics, I feel his stare – a string as delicate and gossamer as a spider’s web, gently tugging at the back of my skull. I imagine snipping it loose with a pair of sharp scissors. I don’t know if he’ll try to talk to me after class, and I don’t know what I should say if he does. When the bell rings, I bolt.
He’s not at school the next day. I don’t know why.
I don’t see Josh over the weekend. I remove his drawing from my government textbook and carefully place it inside the top drawer of my desk. I open the drawer. Shut it. Open it. Shut it. Open it, and touch it, and worship it.
Slam it shut and feel so disloyal to Kurt.
Open it again.
Josh is back
on Monday. In English, I feel him glancing at me repeatedly. When I finally lift my eyes and look across the circle, he gives me the softest smile.
Oh, it melts me.
The rest of the day is filled with these tiny moments. Another warm smile here, a friendly wave there. Something has changed…but what? On Tuesday, he asks me if I’ve read the new Joann Sfar. I haven’t, but I’m stunned that he remembers our freshman-year, one-sided conversation. And then he’s gone again.
Wednesday.
Thursday.
Friday.
Where is he?
Chapter six
An old man with a busted piano is playing “La Vie en rose” on the street outside my window. He hauls it around this part of the city, from one corner to another, but I’ve never seen how he moves it. It’s early evening on Friday, and the tinkly, fractured music is a bizarre contrast to the rough, powerful memoir I’m reading about being lost at sea.
There are two knocks against my door.
“Just kick it,” I shout from bed. “I haven’t gotten it fixed yet.”
I turn the page of my book, and the door gently swings open, sans kick. I glance up. A double take, and I’m scrambling to my feet. “I’m sorry, I thought you were—”
“Kurt,” Josh says.
“Yeah.”
We stare at each other.
Ohdeargod, he’s attractive. He looks recently showered, and his clothes seem even more carefully put together than usual. Behind his casual American attire, I can always still spot his artist’s eye. His T-shirts and jeans fit, he wears the right colours, the right shoes, the right belt. It’s subtle. But he never just throws something on.
“How did you know this was my room?” I finally ask.
“I saw you come in here the other day while I was waiting for the elevator. It caught my attention, because…this used to be mine.” Josh glances around, taking everything in. This must be strange for him.
It’s strange for me.
Along with the quilt of Manhattan, my bed is mounded with soft pillows and cosy blankets. I’ve squeezed in a skinny, antique bookcase that overflows with adventure books of all kinds – novels, non-fiction, comics. I have a curvy glass lamp and sheer lace curtains and, instead of posters on my walls, I’ve hung scarves and jewellery. My closet is jam-packed with clothing, and I have an additional chest of drawers wedged beneath the school’s chest of drawers. Indulgent bath products line the corners of my tiny sink and equally tiny shower. My desk is organized with special nooks for homework, and my pens, pencils and highlighters are arranged like bouquets in matching vases.
“I knew that,” I admit. “That this was yours.”
Josh raises his dark eyebrows. “Why didn’t you say something?”
I can only shrug, but he nods as if he understands. And I think he does. He places his hands in his pockets, nervous and unsure.
“You’re still in the hallway.” I shake my head. “Come in.”
He does, and the door swings shut behind him.
“Careful!” I grab a textbook and shove it underneath to prop it back open. “Nate’s enforcing the new rules, you know.”
Immediately, I feel like a dork.
But Josh looks confused, and I realize he doesn’t understand because he missed Nate’s speech. I fill him in. “And I don’t want to get in trouble,” I add. “Because then he might not allow Kurt in here any more, and we’ve already been caught once.” It happened during a room check on the second day. We got off with a warning, but we’ve spent most of our afternoons since at the Treehouse, our secret refuge across the river.
Josh rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. Of course.”
He wants to leave.
I flush with panic. I don’t know why he’s here, but I do know that my heart will break if he goes. I gesture towards the desk chair. He takes it. I can barely contain my exhale of relief. I sit across from him on the edge of the bed. I smooth my wrinkled skirt. I stare at my coral-painted toenails.
“It’s prettier in your hands,” he says at last. “The room. Mine always gets messy.”
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and then I look down and let it fall forward again. “Thanks.” I force my eyes to meet his. Hazel. My stomach twists. “My mother is a window dresser. She always tells me that small spaces can still be beautiful.”
“Hard to get smaller than these rooms.”
“You know those crazy holiday department-store displays that people actually wait in line to see? She does them for Bergdorf Goodman.”
“Those are a big deal.” He leans forward, impressed. “Your mom is French, right?”
My heart skips as it does every time he remembers something about me. “Yeah. She started working here, moved there for a better internship, met my dad, and…stayed.”
Josh smiles. “I like that.”
“How did your parents meet?”
“Law school. Yale. Boring story.”
“I’m sure it’s not boring to them.”
He laughs, but my own smile fades. “Where have you been this week?” I ask. “Were you sick?”
“No. I’m fine.” But he sits back again, and his expression becomes impenetrable. “It’s Sukkoth.”
Sue-coat. “Sorry?”
“The Jewish holiday?”
The humiliation blush is instant. Ohmygod.
“I’m off from school until next Thursday,” he continues.
I search for something intelligent to say, something I’ve picked up from living in New York, but my mind is blank. Sukkoth. That’s not a holiday people take off, is it? It can’t be. As my brow furrows, Josh’s eyes brighten. They look…almost hopeful. He shakes his head as if I’d asked the question aloud. “Nope. Most American Jews don’t take it off. And even then, it’s only the first two days.”
“But you’re taking an entire week?”
“I also took off last Friday, even though Yom Kippur didn’t start until sundown. Same thing, the day before Sukkoth.”
“But…why?”
He leans forward. “Because you’re the first person to question it.”
I’m not sure whether I’m more stunned by his deception or by being singled out. I laugh, but even to my ears, it sounds apprehensive. “Exactly how many holidays are you planning to take off?”
Josh grins. “All of them.”
“And you think you’ll get away with it?”
“I did last year. As the only student here of the Hebrew persuasion, the faculty feels uncomfortable questioning my religious observance.”
I laugh, but this time it’s for real. “You’re going to hell.”
“Then it’s a good thing I don’t believe in hell.”
“Right. That whole Jewish thing.”
“More like that whole atheist thing.” Josh sees my surprise and adds a verbal asterisk. “Don’t tell the press. My father can’t afford to lose the Jewish vote.” But he rolls his eyes as he says it.
“Your dad doesn’t practise, either?”
“No, he does. My parents both do, in that whole go-to-temple-twice-a-year way. But politics and media, can’t be too careful.” His tone suggests that he’s quoting something they’ve told him at least a thousand times.
I pause. And then I decide to push the subject one step further. “Your dad is running for re-election this year. That must be weird.”
“Not really. In our house, there’s always something that needs campaigning. It’s just a pain in the ass, that’s all.”
I expected this reaction. I’ve always assumed that the dark shadow he carries – the one that defies the rules and manipulates the system, the one that’s inked into the very skin of his arm – has something to do with his parents. But I know better than to keep questioning him. Kurt has given me both practice and patience when it comes to getting someone to open up. Because of this, I’m also skilled at subject changes.
“You know,” I tease, “you still haven’t told me why you’re here. You were…passing by? W
anted to brag about getting a week off from school?”
“Oh. Uh, right.” Josh sort of laughs and glances out my window. “I was just wondering if you wanted to go out.”
Holy.
Shit.
“I’m on my way to Album,” he continues, referring to a nearby comics shop. “Since we were talking about that new Sfar earlier, I thought if you weren’t busy, you might want to come along.”
…Oh.
My heart beats like a cracked-out drummer. Josh, don’t do that to a lady. I’m still clutching the book about the shipwreck, so I set it down to wipe my sweaty palms. “Sure. I’m meeting Kurt in two hours for dinner, but yeah. Sure.”
At the mention of Kurt, Josh winces slightly. Which makes me wince. But then, as if he’d been waiting for the opportunity, he leans over and nabs my book. Reads the back cover. And then holds it up along with a single raised eyebrow.
“I like stories about adventure. Especially if there’s some kind of disaster involved.”
The eyebrow remains arched.
I laugh. “I read the ones with happy endings, too.”
Josh gestures towards my shelves. “You read a lot.”
“Safer than going on a real adventure.”
Now he’s the one who laughs. “Maybe.”
Leave it to me to admit cowardice to the object of my long-time infatuation. I jump to my feet in embarrassment. “Speaking of adventure.”
Josh watches me remove a pair of platform sandals from underneath my bed. I turn my head to smile at him and catch his eyes dart from my cleavage to the ceiling. He closes them as if cursing himself. My pulse quickens, but I feign ignorance. I slide into my shoes. “Ready?”
He nods without meeting my gaze. I grab my bag, and we head for the door. He pulls out the textbook, pushes it across my floor, and shuts the door behind us.
It pops open.
He slams it again.
It pops open.
I yank it closed while tugging the handle down just so. We watch it. It stays.
Isla and the Happily Ever After Page 4
