aloha ppls!! hope u all r doing well!! ITS RAINING!! Oh i just love rains!!! so here u go with the next chptr!! happy reading!!:):)
chapter four
The H-through-P line moves slowly. The guy
ahead of me is arguing with the guidance counselor. I
glance at A-through-G, and see Shazia (Khan)
and Aayat (Hussain) have already received their class
schedules and exchanged them for comparison.
"But I didn't ask for theater, I asked for
computer science."
The squat counselor is patient. "I know, but
computer science didn't fit with your schedule, and
your alternate did. Maybe you can take computer
science next""
"My alternate was computer programming."
Hold it. My attention snaps back. Can they do
that? Put us in a class we didn't ask for? I will die"
DIE"if I have to take gym again.
"Actually, Zeeshan." The counselor sifts through
her papers. "You neglected to fill out your alternate
form, so we had to select the class for you. But I think
you'll find""
The angry boy snatches his schedule from her
hands and stalks off. Yikes. It's not like it's her fault. I
step forward and say my name as kindly as possible, to
make up for the jerk who just left. She gives a dimpled
smile back. "I remember you, sweetie. Have a nice first
day." And she hands me a half sheet of yellow paper.
I hold my breath while I scan it. Phew. No
surprises. Senior English, calculus, beginning French,
physics, European history, and something dubiously
called "La Vie."
When I registered, the counselor described "Life"
as a senior-only class, similar to a study hall but with
occasional guest speakers who will lecture us about
balancing checkbooks and renting apartments and
baking quiches. Or whatever. I'm just relieved Mom let
me take it. One of the decent things about this school
is that math, science, and history aren't required for
seniors. Unfortunately, Mom is a purist and refused to
let me graduate without another year of all three.
"You'll never get into the right college if you take
ceramics," she warned, frowning over my orientation
packet.
Thanks, Mom. Send me away for some culture in
a city known for its art and make me suffer through
another math class. I shuffle toward Shazia and
Aayat, feeling like the third wheel but praying for
some shared classes. I'm in luck. "Three with me and
four with Aay!" Shazia beams and hands back my
schedule. Her rainbow-colored plastic rings click
against each other.
Aay. What an unfortunate nickname. They
gossip about people I don't know, and my mind
wanders to the other side of the courtyard, where Abdullah waits with Rizwan in Q-through-Z. I wonder if I have
any classes with him.
I mean, them. Classes with them.
The rain has stopped, and Rizwan kicks a puddle in
Zain's direction. Abdullah laughs and says something
that makes them both laugh even harder. Suddenly I
register that Zain is a bit shorter than Josh. It's odd I didn't notice earlier, but he doesn't
carry himself like a short guy.I mean he is not too short, but a little shorter as compared to Rizwan. just a little. Most are shy or
defensive, or some messed-up combination of the two,
but Zain is confident and friendly and"
"Jeez, stare much?"
"What?" I jerk my head back, but Aayat's not
talking to me. She's shaking her head at Shazia, who
looks as sheepish as I feel.
"You're burning holes into Abdullah's head. It's
not attractive."
"Shut up." But Shazia smiles at me and shrugs.
Well. That settles that. As if I needed another
reason not to lust. Boy Wonder is officially off-limits.
"Don't say anything to him," she says. "Please."
"Of course," I say.
"Because we're obviously just friends."
"Obviously."
We mill around until the head of school arrives
for her welcome speech. The head is graceful and
carries herself like a ballerina. She has a long neck, and
her snow-white hair is pulled into a tidy knot that
makes her look distinguished rather than elderly. The
overall effect is Parisian, although I know from my
acceptance letter she's from Chicago. Her gaze glides
across us, her one hundred handpicked pupils.
"Welcome to another exciting year at the School of
America in Paris. I'm pleased to see so many familiar
faces, and I'm even happier to see the new ones."
Apparently school speeches are one thing France
can't improve.
"To the students who attended last year, I invite
you all to give a warm welcome to your new freshman
class and to the new upperclassmen, as well."
A smattering of polite applause. I glance around,
and I'm startled to find St. Clair looking at me. He claps
and lifts his hands in my direction. I blush and jerk
away.
The head keeps talking. Focus, Aaliya. Focus. But I
feel his stare as if it were the heat of the sun. My skin
grows moist with sweat. I slide underneath one of the
immaculately pruned trees. Why is he staring? Is he
still staring? I think he is. Why why why? Is it a good
stare or a bad stare or an indifferent stare?
But when I finally look, he's not staring at me at
all. He's biting his pinkie nail.
The head wraps up, and Aayat bounds off to
join the guys. Shazia leads me inside for English. The
professeur hasn't arrived yet, so we choose seats in the
back. The classroom is smaller than what I'm used to,
and it has dark, gleaming trim and tall windows that
look like doors. But the desks are the same, and the
whiteboard and the wall-mounted pencil sharpener. I
concentrate on these familiar items to ease my nerves.
"You'll like Professeur Cole," Shazia says.
"She's hilarious, and she always assigns the best
books."
"My dad is a novelist." I blurt this without
thinking and immediately regret it.
"Really? Who?"
"J. Ashley." That's his pen name. I guess
Haider wasn't romantic enough.
"Who?"
The humiliation factor multiplies. "The Decision?
The Entrance? They were made into movies. Forget it,
they all have vague names like that""
She leans forward, excited. "No, my mom loves
The Entrance!"
I wrinkle my nose.
"They aren't that bad. I watched The Entrance
with her once and totally cried when that girl died of
leukemia."
"Who died of leukemia?" Aayat plops her
backpack down next to me. St. Clair trails in behind her
and takes the seat in front of Meredith.
"Aaliya's dad wrote The Entrance," Shazia says.
I cough. "Not something I'm proud of."
"I'm sorry, what's The Entrance?" Aayat asks.
"It's that movie about the boy who helps deliver
the baby girl in the elevator, and then he grows up to
fall in love with her," Shazia says as St. Clair leans
back in his chair and nabs her schedule. "But the day
after their engagement, she's diagnosed with
leukemia."
"Her father pushes her down the aisle in a
wheelchair," I continue. "And then she dies on the
honeymoon."
"Ugh," Aayat and St. Clair say together.
Enough embarrassment. "Where's Rizwan?" I ask.
"He's a junior," Aayat says, as if I should have
known this already. "We dropped him off at pre-calc."
"Oh." Our conversation hits a dead end. Lovely.
"Three classes together, Shaz. Give us yours." St.
Clair leans back again and steals my half sheet. "Ooo,
beginning French."
"Told you."
"It's not so bad." He hands back my schedule and
smiles. "You'll be reading the breakfast menu without
me before you know it."
Hmm, maybe I don't want to learn French.
Argh! Boys turn girls into such idiots.
"Bonjour tous." A woman wearing a bold
turquoise dress strides in and smacks her coffee cup
down on the podium. She's youngish, and she has the
blondest hair I've ever seen on a teacher. "For the""
Her eyes scan the room until they land on me.
What? What did I do?
"For the singular person who doesn't know me,
je m'appelle Professeur Cole." She gives an exaggerated
curtsy, and the class laughs. They swivel around to
stare.
"Hello," I say in a tiny voice.
Suspicions confirmed. Out of the twenty-five
people present"the entire senior class"I'm the only
new student. This means my classmates have yet
another advantage over me, because every one of them
is familiar with the teachers. The school is so small
that each subject is taught by the same professeur in
all four grades.
I wonder what student left to vacate my
position? Probably someone cooler than me. Someone
with dreadlocks and pinup girl tattoos and connections
in the music industry.
"I see the janitorial staff has ignored my wishes
once again," Professeur Cole says. "Everyone up. You
know the drill."
I don't, but I push my desk when everyone else
starts pushing theirs. We arrange them in a big circle.
It's odd to see all of my classmates at the same time. I
take the opportunity to size them up. I don't think I
stand out, but their jeans and shoes and backpacks are
more expensive than mine. They look cleaner, shinier.
No surprise there. My mom is a high school
biology teacher, which doesn't give us a lot of extra
spending money. Dad pays for the mortgage and helps
with the bills, but it's not enough, and Mom is too
proud to ask for more. She says he'd refuse her anyway
and just go buy another elliptical machine.
There may be some truth to that.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur. I like
Professeur Cole, and my math teacher, Professeur
Babineaux, is nice enough. He's Parisian, and he
waggles his eyebrows and spits when he talks.To be
fair, I don't think the spitting is a French thing. I think
he just has a lisp. It's hard to tell with the accent.
After that, I have beginning French. Professeur
Gillet turns out to be another Parisian. Figures. They
always send in native speakers for foreign language
classes. My Spanish teachers were always rolling their
eyes and exclaiming, "Aye, dios mio!" whenever I raised
my hand. They got frustrated when I couldn't grasp a
concept that seemed obvious to them.
I stopped raising my hand.
As predicted, the class is a bunch of freshmen.
And me. Oh, and one junior, the angry scheduling guy
from this morning. He introduces himself
enthusiastically as Dave, and I can tell he's as relieved
as I am to not be the only upperclassman.
Maybe Dave is pretty cool after all.
At noon, I follow the stampede to the cafeteria. I
avoid the main line and go straight to the counter with
the choose-your-own fruit and bread, even though the
pasta smells amazing. I'm such a wuss. I'd rather
starve than try to order in French. "Oui, oui!" I'd say,
pointing at random words on the chalkboard. Then
Chef Handlebar would present me with something
revolting, and I'd have to buy it out of shame. Of course
I meant to order the roasted pigeon! Mmm! Just like
Nanna's.
Shazia and her friends are lounging at the
same table as this morning. I take a deep breath and
join them. To my relief, no one looks surprised.
Shazia asks St. Clair if he's seen his girlfriend yet. He
relaxes into his chair. "No, but we're meeting tonight."
"Did you see her this summer? Have her classes
started? What's she taking this semester?" She keeps
asking questions about Sanam to which he gives short
replies. Rizwan and Aayat are making out"I can
actually see tongue"so I turn to my bread and grapes.
How biblical of me.
The grapes are smaller than I'm used to, and the
skin is slightly textured. Is that dirt? I dip my napkin in
water and dab at the tiny purple globes. It helps, but
they're still sort of rough. Hmm. St. Clair and Shazia
stop talking. I glance up to find them staring at me in
matching bemusement. "What?"
"Nothing," he says. "Continue your grape bath."
"They were dirty."
"Have you tried one?" she asks.
"No, they've still got these little mud flecks." I
hold one up to show them. St. Clair plucks it from my
fingers and pops it into his mouth. I'm hypnotized by
his lips, his throat, as he swallows.
I hesitate. Would I rather have clean food or his
good opinion?
He picks up another and smiles. "Open up."
I open up.
The grape brushes my lower lip as he slides it in.
It explodes in my mouth, and I'm so startled by the
juice that I nearly spit it out. The flavor is intense,
more like grape candy than actual fruit. To say I've
tasted nothing like it before is an understatement.
Shazia and St. Clair laugh. "Wait until you try them
as wine," she says.
St. Clair twirls a forkful of pasta. "So. How was
French class?"
The abrupt subject change makes me shudder.
"Professeur Gillet is scary. She's all frown lines." I tear
off a piece of baguette. The crust crackles, and the
inside is light and springy. Oh, man. I shove another
hunk into my mouth.
Shazia looks thoughtful. "She can be
intimidating at first, but she's really nice once you get
to know her."
"Shaz is her star pupil," St. Clair says.
Aayat breaks apart from Josh, who looks dazed
by the fresh air. "She's taking advanced French and
advanced Spanish," she adds.
"Maybe you can be my tutor," I say to Shazia
"I stink at foreign languages. The only reason this place
overlooked my Spanish grades was because the head
reads my father's dumb novels."
"How do you know?" she asks.
I roll my eyes. "She mentioned it once or twice in
my phone interview." She kept asking questions about
casting decisions for The Lighthouse. Like Dad has any
say in that. Or like I care. She didn't realize my
cinematic tastes are a bit more sophisticated.
"I'd like to learn Italian," Shazia says. "But they
don't offer it here. I want to go to college in Rome next
year. Or maybe London. I could study it there, too."
"Surely Rome is a better place to study Italian?" I
ask.
"Yeah, well." She steals a glance at St. Clair. "I've
always liked London."
Poor Shaz. She's got it bad.
"What do you want to do?" I ask him. "Where are
you going?"
St. Clair shrugs. It's slow and full-bodied,
surprisingly French. The same shrug the waiter at the
restaurant last night gave me when I asked if they
served pizza. "Don't know. It depends, though I'd like
to study history." He leans forward, like he's about to
share a naughty secret. "I've always wanted to be one
of those blokes they interview on BBC or PBS specials.
You know, with the crazy eyebrows and suede elbow
patches."
Just like me! Sort of. "I want to be on the classic
movies channel and discuss Hitchcock and Capra with
Robert Osborne. He hosts most of their programs. I
mean I know he's an old dude, but he's so freaking
cool. He knows everything about film."
"Really?" He sounds genuinely interested.
"St. Clair's head is always in history books the
size of dictionaries," Shazia interrupts. "It's hard to
get him out of his room."
"That's because Sanam's always in there," Aayat
says drily.
"You're one to talk." He gestures toward Rizwan.
"Not to mention . . . Henri."
"Henri!" Shazia says, and she and St. Clair
burst into laughter.
"One frigging afternoon, and you'll never let me
forget it." Aayat glances at Rizwan, who stabs his pasta.
"Who's Henri?" I trip over the pronunciation. Enree.
"This tour guide on a field trip to Versailles
sophomore year," St. Clair says. "Skinny little bugger,
but Aayat ditched us in the Hall of Mirrors and threw
herself at him""
"I did not!"
Shazia shakes her head. "They groped, like, all
afternoon. Full public display."
"The whole school waited on the bus for two
hours, because she forgot what time we were supposed
to meet back," he says.
"It was NOT two hours""
Shazia continues. "Professeur Hansen finally
tracked her down behind some shrubbery in the formal
gardens, and she had teeth marks all over her neck."
"Teeth marks!" St. Clair snorts.
Aayat fumes. "Shut up, English Tongue."
"Huh?"
"English Tongue," she says. "That's what we all
called you after your and Sanam's breathtaking display at
the street fair last spring." St. Clair tries to protest, but
he's laughing too hard. Shazia and Aayat continue
jabbing back and forth, but . . . I'm lost again. I wonder
if Bilal is a better kisser now that he has someone more
experienced to practice on. He was probably a bad
kisser because of me.
Oh, no.
I'm a bad kisser. I am, I must be.
Someday I'll be awarded a statue shaped like a
pair of lips, and it'll be engraved with the words
WORLD'S WORST KISSER. And Bilal will give a speech
about how he only dated me because he was desperate,
but I didn't put out, so I was a waste of time because
Cherrie Milliken liked him all along and she totally puts
out. Everyone knows it.
Oh God. Does Rehan think I'm a bad kisser?
It only happened once. My last night at the movie
theater was also the last night before I left for France.
It was slow, and we'd been alone in the lobby for most
of the evening. Maybe because it was my final shift,
maybe because we wouldn't see each other again for
four months, maybe because it felt like a last chance"
whatever the reason, we were reckless. We were brave.
The flirting escalated all night long, and by the time we
were told to go home, we couldn't walk away. We just
kept . . . drawing out the conversation.
And then, finally, he said he would miss me.
And then, finally, he kissed me under the
buzzing marquee.
And then I left.
"Aaliya? Are you all right?" someone asks.
The whole table is staring at me.
Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. "Um. Where's the
bathroom?" The bathroom is my favorite excuse for
any situation. No one ever inquires further once you
mention it.
"The toilets are down the hall." St. Clair looks
concerned but doesn't dare ask. He's probably afraid
I'll talk about tampon absorbency or mention the
dreaded P-word.
I spend the rest of lunch in a stall. I miss home
so much that it physically hurts. My head throbs, my
stomach is nauseous, and it's all so unfair. I never
asked to be sent here. I had my own friends and my
own inside jokes and my own stolen kisses. I wish my
parents had offered me the choice: "Would you like to
spend your senior year in Atlanta or Paris?"
Who knows? Maybe I would have picked Paris.
What my parents never considered is that I just
wanted a choice.
done with the 4th chptr!!! well most of u must b confused about the St. Clair= Zain= Abdullah thing!! The mystery and confusion about the surname thing will soon be cleared in the coming chptrs...
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