Aaliya and the French Kiss- UPDATED! - Page 2

around Amanda, who just stands there like she's

Queen of the Threshold. The girl must be a junior. I

don't recognize her from the circle of desks in senior

English. "God, did you fall in?" Amanda asks. The girl's

pale skin turns pink.

"She was just using the restroom," I say.

Amanda sashays onto the tile, her fuzzy purple

slippers slapping against her heels. She yanks the door

shut. "Does it look like I care? Skunk Girl?"

One week into school, and I'm knee-deep in

Fancy International Education.

Professeur Cole's syllabus is free of the usual

Shakespeare and Steinbeck, and instead, we're focusing

on translated works. Every morning she hosts the

discussion of Like Water for Chocolate as if we were a

book club and not some boring, required class.

So English is excellent.

On the other hand, my French teacher is clearly

illiterate. How else to explain the fact that despite the

name of our textbook"Level One French"Professeur

Gillet insists on speaking in French only? She also calls

on me a dozen times a day. I never know the answer.

Dave calls her Madame Guillotine. This is also

excellent.

He's taken the class before, which is helpful but

obviously not really helpful, as he failed it the first goround.

Dave has shaggy hair and pouty lips, and the

peculiar combination of tan skin and freckles. Several

girls have a crush on him. He's also in my history class.

I'm with the juniors, because the seniors take

government, and I've already studied it. So I sit

between Dave and Rizwan.

Rizwan is quiet and reserved in class, but outside of

it, his sense of humor is similar to St. Clair's. It's easy

to understand why they're such good friends. Shazia

says they idolize each other, Rizwan because of St. Clair's

innate charisma, and St. Clair because Rizwan is an

astounding artist. I rarely see Rizwan without his brush

pen or sketchbook. His work is incredible"thick bold

strokes and teeny exquisite details"and his fingers are

mostly stained with ink.

But the most notable aspect of my new education

is the one that takes place outside of class.The one

never mentioned in the glossy brochures. And that is

this: attending boarding school is like living inside a

high school. I can't get away. Even when I'm in my

bedroom, my ears are blasted by pop music, fistfights

over washing machines, and drunk dancing in the

stairwell. Shazia claims it'll settle down once the

novelty wears off for the juniors, but I'm not holding

my breath.

However.

It's Friday night, and Rsidence Lambert has

cleared out. My classmates are hitting the bars, and I

have peace for the first time. If I close my eyes, I can

almost believe I'm back home. Except for the opera.

The Opera Diva sings most evenings at the restaurant

across the street. For someone with such a huge voice,

she's surprisingly small. She's also one of those people

who shaves her eyebrows and draws them back on with

a pencil. She looks like an extra from The Rocky Horror

Picture Show.

Bridge calls as I'm watching Rushmore from the

comfort of my mini-bed. It's the film that launched Wes

Anderson. Wes is amazing, a true auteur involved in

every aspect of production, with a trademark style

recognizable in any frame"wistful and quirky,

deadpan and dark. Rushmore is one of my favorites.

It's about a guy named Max Fischer who is obsessed

with, among many things, the private school that

kicked him out. What would my life be like if I were as

passionate about SOAP as Max is about Rushmore

Academy? For starters, I probably wouldn't be alone in

my bedroom covered in white pimple cream.

"Aaallliiiyyyaaa," Bridge says. "I haaate

themmm."

She didn't get section leader in band. Which is

lame, because everyone knows she's the most talented

drummer in school. The percussion instructor gave it

to Kevin Quiggley, because he thought the guys on the

drumline wouldn't respect Bridge as a leader"because

she's a girl.

Yeah, well, now they won't. Jerk.

So Bridge hates band and hates the instructor

and hates Kevin, who is a twerp with a

disproportionately large ego. "Just wait," I say. "Soon

you'll be the next Meg White or Sheila E., and Kevin

Quiggley will brag about how he knew you back when.

And then when he approaches you after some big

show, expecting special treatment and a backstage

pass? You can sashay right past him without so much

as a backward glance."

I hear the weary smile in her voice. "Why'd you

move away again, Banana?"

"Because my father is made of suck."

"The purest strain, dude."

We talk until three a.m., so I don't wake up until

early afternoon. I scramble to get dressed before the

cafeteria closes. It's only open for brunch on Saturdays

and Sundays. It's quiet when I arrive, but Aayat and

Rizwan and St. Clair are seated at their usual table.

The pressure is on. They've teased me all week,

because I've avoided anything that requires ordering.

I've made excuses ("I'm allergic to beef," "Nothing

tastes better than bread," "Ravioli is overrated"), but I

can't avoid it forever. Monsieur Boutin is working the

counter again. I grab a tray and take a deep breath.

"Bonjour, uh . . . soup? Sopa? S'il vous plat?"

"Hello" and "please." I've learned the polite

words first, in hopes that the French will forgive me for

butchering the remainder of their beautiful language. I

point to the vat of orangey-red soup. Butternut squash,

I think. The smell is extraordinary, like sage and

autumn. It's early September, and the weather is still

warm. When does fall come to Paris?

"Ah! Soupe," he gently corrects.

"S, soupe. I mean, oui. Oui!" My cheeks burn.

"And, um, the uh"chicken-salad-green-bean thingy?"

Monsieur Boutin laughs. It's a jolly, bowl-full-of jelly,

Santa Claus laugh. "Chicken and haricots verts,

oui.You know, you may speek Ingleesh to me. I

understand eet vairy well."

My blush deepens. Of course he'd speak English

in an American school. And I've been living on stupid

pears and baguettes for five days. He hands me a bowl

of soup and a small plate of chicken salad, and my

stomach rumbles at the sight of hot food.

"Merci," I say.

"De rien. You're welcome. And I 'ope you don't

skeep meals to avoid me anymore!" He places his hand

on his chest, as if brokenhearted. I smile and shake my

head no. I can do this. I can do this. I can"

"NOW THAT WASN'T SO TERRIBLE, WAS IT,

AALIYA?" St. Clair hollers from the other side of the

cafeteria.

I spin around and give him the finger down low,

hoping Monsieur Boutin can't see. St. Clair responds by

grinning and giving me the British version, the V-sign

with his first two fingers. Monsieur Boutin tuts behind

me with good nature. I pay for my meal and take the

seat next to St. Clair. "Thanks. I forgot how to flip off

the English. I'll use the correct hand gesture next time."

"My pleasure. Always happy to educate." He's

wearing the same clothing as yesterday, jeans and a

ratty T-shirt with Napoleon's silhouette on it. When I

asked him about it, he said Napoleon was his hero.

"Not because he was a decent bloke, mind you. He was

an arse. But he was a short arse, like meself."

I wonder if he slept at Sanam's. That's probably

why he hasn't changed his clothes. He rides the mtro

to her college every night, and they hang out there.

Aayat and Shazia have been worked up, like maybe Sanam

thinks she's too good for them now.

"You know, Aaliya," Aayat says, "most Parisians

understand English. You don't have to be so shy."

Yeah. Thanks for pointing that out now.

Rizwan puts his hands behind his head and tilts

back his chair. His shirtsleeves roll up to expose a

skull-and-crossbones tattoo on his upper right arm. I

can tell by the thick strokes that it's his own design.

The black ink is dark against his pale skin. It's an

awesome tattoo. "That's true," he says. "I barely speak a

word, and I get by."

"That's not something I'd brag about." Aayat

wrinkles her nose, and Rizwan snaps forward in his chair

to kiss it.

"Allah!, there they go again." St. Clair scratches

his head and looks away.

"Have they always been this bad?" I ask, lowering

my voice.

"No. Last year they were worse."

"Yikes. Been together long, then?"

"Er, last winter?"

"That's quite a while."

He shrugs and I pause, debating whether I want

to know the answer to my next question. Probably not,

but I ask anyway. "How long have you and Sanam been

dating?"

St. Clair thinks for a moment. "About a year now,

I suppose." He takes a sip of coffee"everyone here

seems to drink it"then slams down the cup with a

loud CLUNK that startles Aayat and Riz. "Oh, I'm

sorry," he says. "Did that bother you?"

He turns to me and opens his brown eyes wide in

exasperation. I suck in my breath. Even when he's

annoyed, he's beautiful. Comparing him to Rehan isn't

even possible. St. Clair is a different kind of attractive,

a different species altogether.

"Change of subject." He points a finger at me. "I

thought southern belles were supposed to have

southern accents."

I shake my head. "Only when I talk to my

mom.Then it slips out because she has one. Most

people in Atlanta don't have an accent. It's pretty

urban. A lot of people speak gangsta, though," I add

jokingly.

"Fo' shiz," he replies in his polite English accent.

I spurt orangey-red soup across the table. St.

Clair gives a surprised ha-HA kind of laugh, and I'm

laughing, too, the painful kind like abdominal

crunches. He hands me a napkin to wipe my chin. "Fo'.

Shiz." He repeats it solemnly.

Cough cough. "Please don't ever stop saying that.

It's too"" I gasp. "Much."

"You oughtn't to have said that. Now I shall have

to save it for special occasions."

"My birthday is in February." Cough choke

wheeze. "Please don't forget."

"And mine was yesterday," he says.

"No, it wasn't."

"Yes. It was." He mops the remainder of my

spewed lunch from the tabletop. I try to take the

napkins to clean it myself, but he waves my hand away.

"It's the truth," Rizwan says. "I forgot, man. Happy

belated birthday."

"It wasn't really your birthday, was it? You

would've said something."

"I'm serious. Yesterday was my eighteenth

birthday." He shrugs and tosses the napkins onto his

empty tray. "My family isn't one for cakes and party

hats."

"But you have to have cake on your birthday," I

say. "It's the rules. It's the best part." I remember the

Star Wars cake Mom and Bridge and I made for Sameer

last summer. It was lime green and shaped like Yoda's

head. Bridge even bought cotton candy for his ear hair.

"This is exactly why I never bring it up, you

know."

"But you did something special last night, right? I

mean, Sanam took you out?"

He picks up his coffee, and then sets it back

down again without drinking. "My birthday is just

another day. And I'm fine with that. I don't need the

cake, I promise."

"Okay, okay. Fine." I raise my hands in surrender.

"I won't wish you happy birthday. Or even a belated

happy Friday."

"Oh, you can wish me happy Friday." He smiles

again. "I have no objection to Fridays."

"Speaking of," Aayat says to me. "Why didn't

you go out with us last night?"

"I had plans. With my friend. Rida."

All three of them stare, waiting for further

explanation.

"Phone plans."

"But you've been out this week?" St. Clair asks.

"You've actually left campus?"

"Sure." Because I have. To get to other parts of

campus.

St. Clair raises his eyebrows. "You are such a

liar."

"Let me get this straight." Rizwan places his hands

in prayer position. His fingers are slender, unlike the rest

of his muscular body, and he has a black ink splotch on one

index finger. "You've been in Paris for an entire week

and have yet to see the city? Any part of it?"

"I went out with my parents last weekend. I saw

the Eiffel Tower." From a distance.

"With your parents, brilliant. And your plans for

tonight?" St. Clair asks. "Washing some laundry,

perhaps? Scrubbing the shower?"

"Hey. Scrubbing is underrated."

Aayat furrows her brow. "What are you gonna

eat? The cafeteria will be closed." Her concern is

touching, but I notice she's not inviting me to join her

and Rizwan. Not that I'd want to go out with them

anyway. As for dinner, I'd planned on cruising the

dorm's vending machine. It's not well stocked, but I

can make it work.

"That's what I thought," St. Clair says when I

don't respond. He shakes his head. His dark messy hair

has a few curls in it today. It's quite breathtaking,

really. If there were an Olympics competition in hair,

St. Clair would totally win, hands down. Ten-point-oh.

Gold medal.

I shrug. "It's only been a week. It's not a big

deal."

"Let's go over the facts one more time," Rizwan

says. "This is your first weekend away from home?"

"Yes."

"Your first weekend without parental

supervision?"

"Yes."

"Your first weekend without parental supervision

in Paris? And you want to spend it in your bedroom?

Alone?" He and Aayat exchange pitying glances. I

look at St. Clair for help, but find him staring at me

with his head tilted to the side.

"What?" I ask, irritated. "Soup on my chin? Green

bean between my teeth?"

St. Clair smiles to himself. "I like your stripe," he

finally says. He reaches out and touches it lightly. "You

have perfect hair.

The party people have left the dorm. I munch on

vending machine snacks and update my website. So far

I've tried: a Bounty bar, which turned out to be the

same thing as a Mounds, and a package of madeleines,

shell-shaped cakes that were stale and made me

thirsty. Together they've raised my blood sugar to a

sufficient working level.

Since I have no new movies to review for Femme

Film Freak (as I'm severed from everything good and

pure and wonderful about America"the cinema), I

fiddle with the layout. Create a new banner. Edit an old

review. In the evening, Bridge emails me:

Went with Bilal and Cherrie M (for meretricious) to the

movies last night. And guess what? Rehan asked about

you!! I told him you're great BUT you're REALLY

looking forward to your December visit. I think he got

the hint. We talked about his band for a minute (still no

shows, of course) but Bilal was making faces the whole

time, so we had to go. You know how he feels about

Rehan. OH! And Cherrie tried to talk us into seeing your

dad's latest tearjerker. I KNOW.

You suck. Come home. Bridge Meretricious. Showily

attractive but cheap or insincere. Yes! That is so

Cherrie. I just hope Bridge didn't make me sound too

desperate, despite my longing for Rehan to email me.

And I can't believe Bilal is still weird around him, even

though we're not dating anymore. Everyone likes Rehan.

Well, sometimes he annoys the managers, but that's

because he tends to forget his work schedule. And call

in sick.

I read her email again, hoping for the words

Rehan says he's madly in love with you, and he'll wait for

all eternity to appear. No such luck. So I browse my

favorite message board to see what they're saying

about Dad's new film. The reviews for The Decision

aren't great, despite what it's raking in at the box

office. One regular, clock work orange 88, said this: It

sucked balls. Dirty balls. Like I-ran-a-mile-in-July-while wearing-

leather-pants balls.

Sounds about right.

After a while I get bored and do a search for Like

Water for Chocolate. I want to make sure I haven't

missed any themes before writing my essay. It's not

due for two weeks, but I have a lot of time on my

hands right now. Like, all night.

Blah blah blah. Nothing interesting. And I'm just

about to recheck my email when this passage leaps

from the screen: Throughout the novel, heat is a symbol

for sexual desire. Tita can control the heat inside her

kitchen, but the fire inside of her own body is a force of

both strength and destruction.

"Aaliya?" Someone knocks on my door, and it

startles me out of my seat.

No. Not someone. ZAIN.

I'm wearing an old Mayfield Dairy T-shirt,

complete with yellow-and-brown cow logo, and hot

pink flannel pyjamas bottoms covered in giant

strawberries. I am not even wearing a bra.

"Aaliya, I know you're in there. I can see your

light."

"Hold on a sec!" I blurt. "I'll be right there." I grab

my black hoodie and zip it up over the cow's face

before wrenching open the door. "Hisorryaboutthat.

Come in."

I open the door wide but he stands there for a

moment, just staring at me. I can't read the expression

on his face. Then he breaks into a mischievous smile

and brushes past me.

"Nice strawberries."

"Shut up."

"No, I mean it. Cute."

And even though he doesn't mean it like I-wantto-

leave-my-girlfriend-and-start-dating-you cute,

something flickers inside of me. The "force of strength

and destruction" Tita de la Garza knew so well. St. Clair

stands in the center of my room. He scratches his head,

and his T-shirt lifts up on one side, exposing a slice of

bare stomach. Oh Gosh! Just a tinest of this heavenly sight one can tell that this boy has got 6 pack abs! Real abs! n taut as well!!

Foomp! My inner fire ignites.

"It's really . . . er . . . clean," he says.

Fizz. Flames extinguished.

"Is it?" I know my room is tidy, but I haven't even

bought a proper window cleaner yet. Whoever cleaned

my windows last had no idea how to use a bottle of

Windex. The key is to only spray a little at a time. Most

people spray too much and then it gets in the corners,

which are hard to dry without leaving streaks or lint

behind"

"Yes. Alarmingly so."

St. Clair wanders around, picking up things and

examining them like I did in Shazia's room. He

inspects the collection of banana and elephant

figurines lined up on my dresser. He holds up a glass

banana and raises his dark eyebrows in question.

"It's my nickname."

"Banana?" He shakes his head. "Sorry, I don't

see it."

"Aaliya Haider. Banana Elephant Haider.' My friend

collects those for me, and I collect toy bridges and

sandwiches for her. Her name is Rida

Khan," I add.

St. Clair sets down the glass banana and

wanders to my desk. "So can anyone call you

Elephant?"

"Banana Elephant. And no. Definitely not."

"I'm sorry," he says. "But not for that."

"What? Why?"

"You're fixing everything I set down." He nods at

my hands, which are readjusting the banana. "It

wasn't polite of me to come in and start touching your

things."

"Oh, it's okay," I say quickly, letting go of the

figurine. "You can touch anything of mine you want."

He freezes. A funny look runs across his face

before I realize what I've said. I didn't mean it like that.

Not that that would be so bad.

But I like Rehan, and St. Clair has a girlfriend. And

even if the situation were different, Shaz still has dibs.

I'd never do that to her after how nice she was my first

day. And my second. And every other day this week.

Besides, he's just an attractive boy. Nothing to

get worked up over. I mean, the streets of Europe are

filled with beautiful guys, right? Guys with grooming

regimens and proper haircuts and stylish coats. Not

that I've seen anyone even remotely as good-looking as

Monsieur Zain St. Clair. Abdullah. But still.

He turns his face away from mine. Is it my

imagination, or does he look embarrassed? But why

would he be embarrassed? I'm the one with the idiotic

mouth.

"Is that your boyfriend?" He points to my

laptop's wallpaper, a photo of my coworkers and me

goofing around. It was taken before the midnight

release of the latest fantasy-novel-to-film adaptation.

Most of us were dressed like elves or wizards. "The one

with his eyes closed?"

"WHAT?" He thinks I'd date a guy like Hercules?

Hercules is an assistant manager. He's ten years older

than me and, yes, that's his real name. And even

though he's sweet and knows more about Japanese

horror films than anyone, he also has a ponytail.

A ponytail.

"Aaliya, I'm kidding. This one. Sideburns." He

points to Rehan, the reason I love the picture so much.

Our heads are turned into each other, and we're

wearing secret smiles, as if sharing a private joke.

"Oh. Uh . . . no. Not really. I mean, Rehan was my

almost-boyfriend. I moved away before ..." I trail off,

uncomfortable. "Before much could happen."

St. Clair doesn't respond. After an awkward

silence, he puts his hands in his pockets and rocks

back on his heels. "Provide for all."

"What?" I'm startled.

"Tout pourvoir." He nods at a pillow on my

bed.The words are embroidered above a picture of a

unicorn. It was a gift from my grandparents, and the

motto and crest are for the Haider clan. A long time

ago, my grandfather moved to America to marry my

grandmother, but he's still devoted to all things

Scottish. He's always buying Sameer and me things

decorated with the clan tartan (blue-and-greencheckered,

with black and white lines). For instance, my

bedspread.

"Yeah, I know that's what it means. But how did

you know?"

"Tout pourvoir. It's French."

Excellent. The Haider clan motto, drilled into

my head since infancy, turns out to be in FRENCH, and

I didn't even know it. Thanks, Granddad. As if I didn't

already look like a moron. But how was I supposed to

know a Scottish motto would be in French? I thought

they hated France. Or is that just the English?

Argh, I don't know. I always assumed it was in

Latin or some other dead language.

"Your brother?" St. Clair points above my bed to

the only picture I've hung up. Sameer is grinning at the

camera and pointing at one of my mother's research

turtles, which is lifting its neck and threatening to take

away his finger. Mom is doing a study on the lifetime

reproductive habits of snapping turtles and visits her

brood in the Chattahoochee River several times a

month. My brother loves to go with her, while I prefer

the safety of our home. Snapping turtles are mean.

"Yep. That's Sameer."

"That's a little Irish for a family with tartan

bedspreads."

I smile. "It's kind of a sore spot. My mom loved

the name, but Granddad"my father's father"

practically died when he heard it. He was rooting for

Maohammed or Ewan or Abdul instead."

St. Clair laughs. "How old is he?"

"Seven. He's in the second grade."

"That's a big age difference."

"Well, he was either an accident or a last-ditch

effort to save a failing marriage. I've never had the

nerve to ask which."

Wow. I can't believe I just blurted that out.

He sits down on the edge of my bed. "Your

parents are divorced?"

I hover by my desk chair, because I can't sit next

to him on the bed. Maybe when I'm used to his

presence, I might be able to manage that particular

feat. But not yet. "Yeah. My dad left six months after

Sameer was born."

"I'm sorry." And I can tell he means it. "Mine are

separated."

I shiver and tuck my hands underneath my arms.

"Then I'm sorry, too. That sucks."

"It's all right. My father's a bas***d."

"So is mine. I mean, obviously he is, if he left us

when Sameer was a baby. Which he totally did. But it's

also his fault I'm stuck here. In Paris."

"I know."

He does?

"Shaz told me. But I guarantee you that my father

is worse. Unfortunately, he's the one here in Paris,

while my mum is alone, thousands of miles away."

"Your dad lives here?" I'm surprised. I know his

dad is French, but I can't imagine someone sending

their child to boarding school when they live in the

same city. It doesn't make sense.

"He owns an art gallery here and another in

London. He divides his time between them."

"How often do you see him?"

"Never, if I can help it." St. Clair turns sullen, and

it dawns on me that I have no idea why he's even here.

I say as much.

"I didn't say?" He straightens up. "Oh. Well. I

knew if someone didn't come and physically drag you

outside, you'd never leave. So we're going out."

A strange mix of butterflies and churning erupts

in my stomach. "Tonight?"

"Tonight."

"Right." I pause. "And Sanam?"

He falls back, and now he's lying down on my

bed. "Our plans fell through." He says this with a vague

wave of his hand, in a way that keeps me from

inquiring further.

I gesture at my pajama bottoms. "I'm not exactly

dressed for it."

"Come on, Aaliya. Do we honestly have to go

through this again?"

I give him a doubtful look, and the unicorn

pillow flies at my head. I slam it back, and he grins,

slides off the bed, and smacks me full force. I grab for

it but miss, and he hits me again twice before letting

me catch it. St. Clair doubles over in laughter, and I

whack him on the back. He tries to reclaim it, but I

hold on and we wrestle back and forth until he lets go.

The force throws me onto the bed, dizzy and sweaty.

St. Clair flops down beside me, breathing heavily.

He's lying so close that his hair tickles the side of my

face. Our arms are almost touching. Almost. I try to

exhale, but I no longer know how to breathe. And then

I remember I'm not wearing a bra.

And now I'm paranoid.

"Okay." He's panting. "Here's the""pant pant"

"plan."

I don't want to feel this way around him. I want

things to be normal. I want to be his friend, not

another stupid girl holding out for something that will

never happen. I force myself up. My hair has gone all

crazy and staticky from the pillow fight, so I grab an

elastic band off my dresser to pull it back.

"Put on some proper trousers," he says. "And I'll

show you Paris."

"That's it? That's the plan?"

"The whole shebang."

"Wow. Shebang.' Fancy."

St. Clair grunts and chucks the pillow at me. My

phone rings. It's probably my mom; she's called every

night this week. I swipe my cell off my desk, and I'm

about to silence the ringer when the name flashes up.

My heart stops.

Rehan.

I hope you're wearing a beret." This is how Rehan

greets me.

I'm already laughing. He called! Rehan called!

"Not yet." I pace the short length of my room.

"But I could pick one up for you, if you'd like. Get your

name stitched onto it. You could wear it instead of

your name tag."

"I could rock a beret." There's a grin in his voice.

"No one can rock a beret. Not even you."

St. Clair is still lying on my bed. He props up his

head to watch me. I smile and point to the picture on

my laptop. Rehan, I mouth.

St. Clair shakes his head.

Sideburns.

Ah, he mouths back.

"So your sister came in yesterday." Rehan always

refers to Bridge as my sister. We're the same height

with the same slender build, and we both have long,

stick-straight hair, although hers is black and mine is

brown. And, as people who spend tons of time together

are prone to do, we talk the same. Though she uses

bigger words. And her arms are sculpted from the

drumming. And I have the little gap between my teeth, while

she had braces. In other words, she's like me, but

prettier and smarter and more talented.

"I didn't know she was a drummer," he says. "She

any good?"

"The best."

"Are you saying that because she's your friend,

or because she's actually decent?"

"She's the best," I repeat. From the corner of my

eye, I see St. Clair glance at the clock on my dresser.

"My drummer abandoned ship. Think she'd be

interested?"

Last summer Rehan started a punk band, the

Penny Dreadfuls. Many member changes and

arguments over lyrical content have transpired, but no

actual shows. Which is too bad. I bet Rehan looks good

behind a guitar.

"Actually," I say, "I think she would. Her jerkwad

percussion instructor just passed her up as section

leader, and she has some rage to funnel." I give him her

number. Rehan repeats it back as St. Clair taps an

imaginary wristwatch. It's only nine, so I'm not sure

what his rush is. Even I know that's early for Paris. He

clears his throat loudly.

"Hey, I'm sorry. I need to go," I say.

"Is someone there with you?"

"Uh, yeah. My friend. He's taking me out

tonight."

A beat. "He?"

"He's just a friend." I turn my back to St. Clair.

"He has a girlfriend." I squeeze my eyes shut. Should I

have said that?

"So you're not gonna forget about us? I mean ..."

He slows down. "Us here in Atlanta? Ditch us for some

Frenchie and never return?"

My heart thrums. "Of course not. I'll be back at

Christmas."

"Good. Okay, Annabel Lee. I should get back to

work anyway. Hercules is probably pissed I'm not

covering the door. Ciao."

"Actually," I say. "It's au revoir."

"Whatever." He laughs, and we hang up.

St. Clair gets up from the bed. "Jealous

boyfriend?"

"I told you. He's not my boyfriend."

"But you like him."

I blush. "Well ... yeah."

St. Clair's expression is unreadable. Maybe

annoyed. He nods toward my door. "You still want to

go out?"

"What?" I'm confused. "Yeah, of course. Lemme

change first." I let him out, and five minutes later,

we're headed north. I've thrown on my favorite shirt, a

cute thrift-store find that hugs me in the right places,

and jeans and black canvas sneakers. I know sneakers

aren't very French"I should be wearing pointy boots

or scary heels"but at least they aren't white. It's true

what they say about white sneakers. Only American

tourists wear them, big ugly things made for mowing

grass or painting houses.

It's a beautiful night. The lights of Paris are

yellow and green and orange. The warm air swirls with

the chatter of people in the streets and the clink of

wineglasses in the restaurants. St. Clair has brightened

back up and is detailing the more gruesome aspects of

the Rasputin biography he finished this afternoon.

"So the other Russians give him this dose of

cyanide in his dinner, lethal enough to kill five men,

right? But it's not doing anything, so Plan B"they

shoot him in the back with a revolver. Which still

doesn't kill him. In fact, Rasputin has enough energy to

strangle one of them, so they shoot him three more

times. And he's still struggling to get up! So they beat

the bloody crap out of him, wrap him in a sheet, and

throw him into an icy river. But get this""

His eyes shimmer. It's the same look Mom gets

when she's talking about turtles, or Bridge gets when

she's talking about cymbals.

"During the autopsy, they discovered the actual

cause of death was hypothermia. From the river! Not

the poisoning or the shooting or the beating. Mother

Nature. And not only that, but his arms were found

frozen upright, like he'd tried to claw his way out from

underneath the ice."

"What? No""

Some German tourists are posing in front of a

storefront with peeling golden letters. We scoot around

them, so as not to wreck their picture. "It gets better,"

he says. "When they cremated his body, he sat up. No,

he did! Probably because the bloke who prepared his

body forgot to snip the tendons, so they shrank up

when he burned""

I nod my head in appreciation. "Ew, but cool. Go

on."

""which made his legs and body bend, but still."

St. Clair smiles triumphantly. "Everyone went mad

when they saw it."

"And who says history is boring?" I smile back,

and everything is perfect. Almost. Because this is the

moment we pass the entrance to SOAP, and now I'm

farther from the school than I've ever been before. My

smile wavers as I revert to my natural state of being:

nervous and weird.

"You know, thanks for that. The others always

shut me up long before"" He notices the change in my

demeanor and stops. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Yes, and has anyone ever told you that you are a

terrible liar? Horrid. The worst."

"It's just"" I hesitate, embarrassed.

"Yeeesss?"

"Paris is so . . . foreign." I struggle for the right

word. "Intimidating."

"Nah." He quickly dismisses me.

"Easy for you to say." We step around a dignified

gentleman stooping over to pick up after his dog, a

basset hound with a droopy stomach. Granddad

warned me that the sidewalks of Paris were littered

with doggie land mines, but it hasn't been the case so

far. "You've been acquainted with Paris your whole

life," I continue. "You speak fluent French, you dress

European ..."

"Pardon?"

"You know. Nice clothes, nice shoes."

He holds up his left foot, booted in something

scuffed and clunky. "These?"

"Well, no. But you aren't in sneakers. I totally

stick out. And I don't speak French and I'm scared of

the mtro and I should probably be wearing heels, but I

hate heels""

"I'm glad you're not wearing heels," Zain

interrupts. "Then you'd be taller than me."

"I am taller than you."

"Barely."

"Please. I've got three inches on you. And you're

wearing boots." i tease him jokingly! although he a tall but still i love to tease him about his 5 feet 10 inches height when i am only 5 feet 5 inches!

He nudges me with his shoulder, and I crack a

smile. "Relax," he says. "You're with me. I'm practically

French."

"You're English."

He grins. "I'm American."

"An American with a English accent. Isn't that,

like, twice as much for the French to hate?"

Zain rolls his eyes. "You ought to stop

listening to stereotypes and start forming your own

opinions."

"I'm not stereotyping."

"Really? Please, then, enlighten me." He points to

the feet of a girl walking ahead of us. She's yakking in

French on a cell phone. "What exactly are those?"

"Sneakers," I mumble.

"Interesting. And the gentlemen over there, on

the other side of the pavement. Would you care to

explain what the one on the left is wearing? Those

peculiar contraptions strapped to his feet?"

They're sneakers, of course. "But hey. See that

guy over there?" I nod toward a man in jean shorts and

a Budweiser T-shirt. "Am I that obvious?"

Zain squints at him. "Obviously what?

Balding? Overweight? Tasteless?"

"American."

He sighs melodramatically. "Honestly, Aaliya. You

must get over this."

"I just don't want to offend anyone. I hear they

offend easily."

"You're not offending anyone except me right

now."

"What about her?" I point to a middle-aged

woman in khaki shorts and a knit top with stars and

stripes on it. She has a camera strapped to her belt and

is arguing with a man in a bucket hat. Her husband, I

suppose.

"Completely offensive."

"I mean, am I as obvious as her?"

"Considering she's wearing the American flag, I'd

venture a no on that one." He bites his thumbnail.

"Listen. I think I have a solution to your problem, but

you'll have to wait for it. Just promise you'll stop

asking me to compare you to fifty-year-old women, and

I'll take care of everything."

"How? With what? A French passport?"

He snorts. "I didn't say I'd make you French." I

open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off. "Deal?"

"Deal," I say uncomfortably. I don't care for

surprises. "But it better be good."

"Oh, it's good." And Zain looks so smug that

I'm about to call him on it, when I realize I can't see

our school anymore.

I don't believe it. He's completely distracted me.

It takes a moment for me to recognize the

symptoms, but my heels are bouncing and my stomach

is fluttering. I'm finally excited to be out! "So where are

we going?" I can't keep the eagerness from my voice.

"The Seine? I know it's up here somewhere. Are we

going to sit on the riverbank?"

"Not telling. Keep walking."

I let this pass. What's wrong with me? That's the

second time in one minute I've let him keep me in

suspense. "Oh! You have to see this first." He grabs my

arm and pulls me across the street. An angry scooter

honks its puny horn, and I laugh.

"Wait, what"" And then I'm knocked breathless.

We're standing in front of an absolute beast of a

cathedral. Four thick columns hold up a Gothic facade

of imposing statues and rose windows and intricate

carvings. A skinny bell tower stretches all the way into

the inky blackness of the night sky. "What is it?" I

whisper. "Is it famous? Should I know it?"

"It's my church."

"You go here?" I'm surprised. He doesn't seem

like the church-going type.

"No." He nods to a stone placard, indicating I

read it.

"Saint Clair du Mont. Hey! Saint Claire."

He smiles. "I've always been a bit proprietary

about it. Mum used to bring me here when I was young.

We'd take a picnic lunch and eat it right here on the

steps. Sometimes she'd bring her sketchbook, and

she'd draw the pigeons and the taxis."

"Your mother is an artist?" n u say its your church st. clair..n you use abdullah as well with your name.. i am confused by this whole St. Clair/ Abdullah -surname thing...

"A painter. Her work is in the New York MoMA. Well u ought to be confused. Well i am orginally an Abdullah- my biological father- Usman Abdullah. i was ten when he died in an accident and mom married a french guy with St.Clair as his surname, because she tought that i would be needing a dad in my life and she wanted to give me everything possible. so thats why i call it my church- St.Clair church. "

He sounds proud about his mom but i feel really sorry for whatever happened with his father and it must be difficult for him to get accustumed to his step dad..no doubt the wat he told me about his surname thing one could tell he didnt cared much about it, but somewhere deep inside i felt as if there is something else that he doesnt wants to share aand he loved his biological father a lot.. but somehow i decided to keep aside this thing for a while.., and I remember what Shaz once

said"that Zain admires Rizwan because he can draw

so well. And that Zain's father owns two art

galleries. And that St. Clair is taking studio art this

semester. I wonder aloud if he's also an artist.

He shrugs. "Not really. I wish I were. Mum didn't

pass on that particular talent, just the appreciation.

Rizwan is much better. So is Aayat, for that matter."

"You get along well with her, don't you? Your

mom?"

"I love me mum." He says this matter-of-factly,

with no trace of teenage shame.

We stand before the cathedral's double doors

and look up, and up, and up. I picture my own mom,

typing snapping turtle data into our home computer,

her usual evening activity. Except it's not nighttime in

Atlanta. Maybe she's grocery shopping. Wading in the

Chattahoochee River. Watching The Empire Strikes Back

with Sameer. I have no idea, and it bothers me.

At last, Zain breaks the silence. "Come along,

then. Loads to see."

The farther we go, the more crowded Paris gets.

He talks about his mom, how she makes chocolate chip

pancakes for dinner and tuna noodle casserole for

breakfast. How she painted every room of her flat a

different color of the rainbow. How she collects

misspellings of her name on junk mail. He says nothing

of his father-step father and the actual one as well.

We pass another enormous structure, this one

like the ruins of a medieval castle. "God, there's history

everywhere," I say. "What is that place? Can we go in?"

"It's a museum, and sure. But not tonight. I

believe it's closed," he adds.

"Oh. Yeah, of course." I try not to let my

disappointment show.

Zain is amused. "It's only the first week of

school. We have all the time in the world to visit your

museum.

We. For some reason, my insides squirm. Zain

and me. Me and Zain

Soon we enter an area even more touristy than

our own neighborhood, crammed with bustling

restaurants and shops and hotels. Street vendors

everywhere shout in English, "Couscous! You like

couscous?" and the roads are so narrow that cars can't

drive on them. We walk down the middle of the street

and through the jostling crowd. It feels like a carnival.

"Where are we?" I wish I didn't have to ask so many

questions.

"In between the rue St. Michel and the rue St.

Jacques."

I shoot him a look.

"Rue means street.' And we're still in the Latin

Quarter."

"Still? But we've been walking for""

"Ten? Fifteen minutes?" he teases.

Hmph. Obviously Londoners or Parisians or

whatever he is aren't used to the glory of car

ownership. I miss mine, even if it does have trouble

starting. And no air-conditioning. And a busted

speaker. I say this, and he smiles. "Wouldn't do you

any good even if you did have one. It's illegal to drive

here if you're under eighteen."

"You could drive us," I say.

"No, I couldn't."

"You said you had a birthday! I knew you were

lying, no one""

"That's not what I meant." Zain laughs. "I

don't know how to drive."

"You're serious?" I can't help the evil grin that

spreads across my face. "You mean there's something I

know how to do that you don't?"

He grins back. "Shocking, isn't it? But I've never

had a reason. The transit systems here, in San

Francisco, in London"they're all perfectly sufficient."

"Perfectly sufficient. Ok now give it up i know you are telling a lie. I very well know that you can drive. do you?"

"CAUGHT!! Ya ! can and Shut up." He laughs again. "Hey, you know why

they call this the Latin Quarter?"

I raise an eyebrow.

"Centuries ago, the students at La Sorbonne"it

was back there." He gestures with his hand. "It's one of

the oldest universities in the world. Anyway, the

students were taught in, and spoke to each other in,

Latin. And the name stuck."

A moment of reserve. "That was it? The whole

story?"

"Yes. God, you're right. That was pants."

I sidestep another aggressive couscous vendor.

"Pants?"

"Rubbish. Crap. Shite."

Pants. Oh heavens, that's cute.

We turn a corner and"there it is"the River

Seine. The lights of the city bob in the ripples of the

water. I suck in my breath. It's gorgeous. Couples stroll

along the riverbank, and booksellers have lined up

dirty cardboard boxes of paperback books and old

magazines for browsing. A man with a red beard

strums a guitar and sings a sad song. We listen for a

minute, and Zain tosses a few euros into the man's

guitar case.

And then, as we're turning our attention back

toward the river, I see it Notre-Dame.

I recognize it from photographs, of course. But if

St-Clair is a cathedral, then it is nothing, NOTHING

compared to Notre-Dame. The building is like a great

ship steaming downriver. Massive. Monstrous. Majestic.

It's lit in a way that absurdly reminds me of Disney

World, but it's so much more magical than anything

Walt could have dreamed up. Mounds of green vines

spill down the walls and into the water, completing the

fairy tale.

I slowly exhale. "It's beautiful."

Zain is watching me.

"I've never seen anything like it." I don't know

what more to say.

We have to cross a bridge to get to it. I hadn't

realized it was built on an island. Zain tells me

we're walking to the le de la Cit, the Island of the

City, and it's the oldest district in all of Paris. The Seine

twinkles below us, deep and green, and a long boat

strung with lights glides underneath the bridge. I peer

over the edge. "Look! That guy is so trashed. He's

totally gonna fall off the bo"" I glance back and find

Zain toddling on the road, several feet away from

the edge of the bridge.

For a moment, I'm confused. Then it hits me.

"What? You aren't afraid of heights?"

Zain keeps his eyes forward, on the

illuminated figure of Notre-Dame. "I just can't fathom

why anyone would stand on a ledge when there's a

respectable amount of walking space right next to it."

"Oh, it's about walking space, is it?"

"Drop it, or I'll quiz you about Rasputin. Or French verb conjugation."

I lean over the side of the bridge and pretend to

wobble. Zain turns pale. "No! Don't!" He stretches

out his arms like he wants to save me, then clutches

his stomach like he's about to vomit instead.

"Sorry!" I jump away from the ledge. "I'm sorry, I

didn't realize it was so bad."

He shakes a hand, motioning for me to stop

talking. The other hand still clings to his queasy

stomach.

"I'm sorry," I say again, after a moment.

"Come on." Zain sounds peeved, as if I was

the one holding us back. He gestures to Notre-Dame.

"That's not why I brought you here."

I can't fathom anything better than Notre-Dame.

"We're not going inside?"

"Closed. Plenty of time to see it later,

remember?" He leads me into the courtyard, and I take

the opportunity to admire his backside. Callipygian.

There is something better than Notre-Dame.

"Here," he says.

We have a perfect view of the entrance"

hundreds and hundreds of tiny figures carved into

three colossal archways. The statues look like stone

dolls, each one separate and individualized. "They're

incredible," I whisper.

"Not there. Here." He points to my feet.

I look down, and I'm surprised to find myself

standing in the middle of a small stone circle. In the

center, directly between my feet, is a coppery-bronze

octagon with a star. Words are engraved in the stone

around it: POINT ZRO DES ROUTES DE FRANCE.

"Mademoiselle Haider. It translates to Point

zero of the roads of France.' In other words, it's the

point from which all other distances in France are

measured." Zain clears his throat. "It's the

beginning of everything."

I look back up. He's smiling.

"Welcome to Paris, Aaliya. I'm glad you've come."

Must be nice to have that kind of confidence.

"Okay, babe." She cuts him off. "You can tell me

the rest later. You ready to go?"

Did he say he'd go with her? I don't remember,

but he nods his head. "Yeah. Yeah, let me grab my, er"

" He glances at me, and then toward the entrance of

our dorm.

"What? You're already dressed to go out. You

look great. C'mon." She tugs his arm, linking it to hers.

"It was nice to meet you, Aaliya."

I find my voice. "Yeah. Nice to meet you, too." I

turn to Zain, but he won't look at me properly. Fine.

Whatever. I give him my best I-don't-care-that-youhave-

a-girlfriend smile and a cheerful "Bye!"

He doesn't react. Okay, time to go. I bolt away

and pull out my building key. But as I unlock the door,

I can't help but glance back. Zain and Sanam are

striding into the darkness, arms still linked, her mouth

still chattering.

As I pause there, Zain's head turns back to me. Just for a moment.