Isla and the Happily Ever After
Page 7
In the quiet of the hall, Kurt races into the men’s room. I sit on a bench and listen to the tick of a gilded clock. Count the number of pear-shaped crystals on the chandeliers. Tap my heels against the marble floor. Our school is as grand and ostentatious as anything in Paris, but I wish it weren’t filled with such horrible, entitled weasels. And I know I’m just as privileged, but…it feels different when you live on the social ladder’s bottom rung.
Kurt reappears. His hoodie is balled in his arms, wet from scrubbing.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He’s calm, but he’s still frowning with severe agitation. “Now I can’t wear it until it’s clean.”
“No worries.” I help him shove it into his bag. “First thing after school.”
The lunch line is empty. “I had ze feeling you would return.” The jolly, pot-bellied head chef removes our trays from behind the counter and slides them towards us. “Leek tart for mademoiselle, un croque-monsieur for monsieur.”
I’m grateful for this gesture of kindness. “Merci, Monsieur Boutin.”
“Zat boy iz no good.” He means Mike. “You do not worry about him.”
His concern is simultaneously embarrassing and reassuring. He swipes our meal cards, and then Kurt and I sit at our usual table in the far corner. I glance around. As predicted, Josh isn’t here, which is probably a good thing. But Hattie isn’t here either. Which is probably not.
This morning I saw her eating un mille-feuille and – even though I don’t blame her for wanting to start the day with dessert – I tried to stop her. I thought it might be dusted with powdered almonds, and she’s allergic to almonds. But my sister always does the opposite of whatever anyone wants her to do, even when it’s completely idiotic and potentially life threatening. We’re not supposed to have our phones out at school, so I sneak-text her: ARE YOU ALIVE?!
She doesn’t reply.
The day worsens. In physics, Professeur Wakefield pairs us alphabetically to our lab partner for the year. I get Emily Middlestone, who groans when it’s announced, because she is popular, and I am not. Sophie Vernet is paired with Josh.
I hate Sophie Vernet.
Actually, I’ve never given Sophie Vernet much thought, and she seems nice enough, but that’s the problem.
My last two classes are electives. I’d like to say that I’m taking art history for my own betterment – not so that I’ll have more to hypothetically converse about with Josh – but that would be false. And I’m taking computer science, because it’ll look better on my transcripts than La Vie, the class that I wish I could take. La Vie means “life”, and it’s supposed to teach us basic life skills, but it’s better known as the school’s only goof-off class. I have zero doubt it’s where Josh is currently located.
Professeur Fontaine, the computer science teacher, pauses by my desk while she’s handing out our first homework assignment. Her chin is pointy, and her forehead is huge. She looks like a triangle. “I met your sister this morning.”
I didn’t even know Professeur Fontaine knew me. This school is way too small. I try to keep my voice nonchalant. “Oh, yeah?” When the sister in question is Hattie, whatever follows this statement is generally unpleasant.
“She was in the nurse’s office. Very ill.”
Hattie! I told you so.
Professeur Fontaine assures me that my sister isn’t dying, but she refuses to let me see for myself. When the final bell rings, I shoot a see-you-later text to Kurt, hurry towards the administration wing, push through its extravagantly carved wooden door, and—
My heart seizes.
Josh is slumped on the waiting room couch. His legs are stretched out so far and so low that they’re actually underneath the coffee table. His arms are crossed, but his eyebrows rise – perhaps involuntarily, for someone sitting with such purposeful displeasure – at the sight of me.
My response is another deep, flaming blush. Why can’t I have a normal face? Genetics are so unfair. I hasten towards the desk and ask the receptionist in French about Hattie. Without glancing up, she waves me towards the couch. A bracelet with a monogrammed charm jingles daintily from her wrist.
I can’t move. My stomach is in knots.
“Wait there,” she says, as if I didn’t understand her gesture. Another wave and another jingle.
Move, feet. Come on. Move!
She finally looks at me, more annoyed than concerned. My feet detach, and I plant one in front of the other like a wind-up doll until I’m sitting on the other side of the couch. The small couch. Love seat, really.
Josh is no longer in full recline. He sat up while my back was turned, and now he’s leaning forward with his elbows propped against his knees. He’s staring straight ahead at an oil painting of a haloed Jeanne d’Arc.
It is now officially more awkward to ignore him than to acknowledge his presence. I search for an opener – something elementary – but my throat remains thick and closed. His silence is a confirmation of my fears. That I was a mess in the café, that his help was given in pity, that he wouldn’t actively choose to interact with me and never will again—
Josh clears his throat.
It seems like a good sign. Good. “Good first day?” I ask.
A funny expression crosses his face. Was that a dumb question? Did it make me sound like his mother? Hattie is always accusing me of sounding like Maman.
“I’ve had better.” He nods towards the head of school’s office door.
“Oh.” But then I get it. “Oh! Sorry. I’m here for the nurse, so…I assumed…”
“It’s okay.” And he says it like it is.
I wonder why he was called to her office. Because he skipped her welcome-back speech? Because he was tardy to his classes? It seems harsh to punish him for these things on our first day. And, great, now we’ve been silent for at least twenty seconds.
Tell him. Tell him. Just tell him already!
“Listen,” I blurt. “I’m really embarrassed about last June. I was taking a lot of medication, and I don’t remember much about that night, but I’m pretty sure you paid for my meal so I’d like to pay you back. And I’m sorry. For being weird. And thank you for walking me home. And for paying for my food.”
He waits until I’m done. “It’s okay,” he says again.
Kurt reappears. His hoodie is balled in his arms, wet from scrubbing.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He’s calm, but he’s still frowning with severe agitation. “Now I can’t wear it until it’s clean.”
“No worries.” I help him shove it into his bag. “First thing after school.”
The lunch line is empty. “I had ze feeling you would return.” The jolly, pot-bellied head chef removes our trays from behind the counter and slides them towards us. “Leek tart for mademoiselle, un croque-monsieur for monsieur.”
I’m grateful for this gesture of kindness. “Merci, Monsieur Boutin.”
“Zat boy iz no good.” He means Mike. “You do not worry about him.”
His concern is simultaneously embarrassing and reassuring. He swipes our meal cards, and then Kurt and I sit at our usual table in the far corner. I glance around. As predicted, Josh isn’t here, which is probably a good thing. But Hattie isn’t here either. Which is probably not.
This morning I saw her eating un mille-feuille and – even though I don’t blame her for wanting to start the day with dessert – I tried to stop her. I thought it might be dusted with powdered almonds, and she’s allergic to almonds. But my sister always does the opposite of whatever anyone wants her to do, even when it’s completely idiotic and potentially life threatening. We’re not supposed to have our phones out at school, so I sneak-text her: ARE YOU ALIVE?!
She doesn’t reply.
The day worsens. In physics, Professeur Wakefield pairs us alphabetically to our lab partner for the year. I get Emily Middlestone, who groans when it’s announced, because she is popular, and I am not. Sophie Vernet is paired with Josh.
I hate Sophie Vernet.
Actually, I’ve never given Sophie Vernet much thought, and she seems nice enough, but that’s the problem.
My last two classes are electives. I’d like to say that I’m taking art history for my own betterment – not so that I’ll have more to hypothetically converse about with Josh – but that would be false. And I’m taking computer science, because it’ll look better on my transcripts than La Vie, the class that I wish I could take. La Vie means “life”, and it’s supposed to teach us basic life skills, but it’s better known as the school’s only goof-off class. I have zero doubt it’s where Josh is currently located.
Professeur Fontaine, the computer science teacher, pauses by my desk while she’s handing out our first homework assignment. Her chin is pointy, and her forehead is huge. She looks like a triangle. “I met your sister this morning.”
I didn’t even know Professeur Fontaine knew me. This school is way too small. I try to keep my voice nonchalant. “Oh, yeah?” When the sister in question is Hattie, whatever follows this statement is generally unpleasant.
“She was in the nurse’s office. Very ill.”
Hattie! I told you so.
Professeur Fontaine assures me that my sister isn’t dying, but she refuses to let me see for myself. When the final bell rings, I shoot a see-you-later text to Kurt, hurry towards the administration wing, push through its extravagantly carved wooden door, and—
My heart seizes.
Josh is slumped on the waiting room couch. His legs are stretched out so far and so low that they’re actually underneath the coffee table. His arms are crossed, but his eyebrows rise – perhaps involuntarily, for someone sitting with such purposeful displeasure – at the sight of me.
My response is another deep, flaming blush. Why can’t I have a normal face? Genetics are so unfair. I hasten towards the desk and ask the receptionist in French about Hattie. Without glancing up, she waves me towards the couch. A bracelet with a monogrammed charm jingles daintily from her wrist.
I can’t move. My stomach is in knots.
“Wait there,” she says, as if I didn’t understand her gesture. Another wave and another jingle.
Move, feet. Come on. Move!
She finally looks at me, more annoyed than concerned. My feet detach, and I plant one in front of the other like a wind-up doll until I’m sitting on the other side of the couch. The small couch. Love seat, really.
Josh is no longer in full recline. He sat up while my back was turned, and now he’s leaning forward with his elbows propped against his knees. He’s staring straight ahead at an oil painting of a haloed Jeanne d’Arc.
It is now officially more awkward to ignore him than to acknowledge his presence. I search for an opener – something elementary – but my throat remains thick and closed. His silence is a confirmation of my fears. That I was a mess in the café, that his help was given in pity, that he wouldn’t actively choose to interact with me and never will again—
Josh clears his throat.
It seems like a good sign. Good. “Good first day?” I ask.
A funny expression crosses his face. Was that a dumb question? Did it make me sound like his mother? Hattie is always accusing me of sounding like Maman.
“I’ve had better.” He nods towards the head of school’s office door.
“Oh.” But then I get it. “Oh! Sorry. I’m here for the nurse, so…I assumed…”
“It’s okay.” And he says it like it is.
I wonder why he was called to her office. Because he skipped her welcome-back speech? Because he was tardy to his classes? It seems harsh to punish him for these things on our first day. And, great, now we’ve been silent for at least twenty seconds.
Tell him. Tell him. Just tell him already!
“Listen,” I blurt. “I’m really embarrassed about last June. I was taking a lot of medication, and I don’t remember much about that night, but I’m pretty sure you paid for my meal so I’d like to pay you back. And I’m sorry. For being weird. And thank you for walking me home. And for paying for my food.”
He waits until I’m done. “It’s okay,” he says again.
