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.

“Annnnn-uhhhhhh,” Bridge says. “I haaaaate themmmm.”

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’l be the next MegWhite 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 Rashmi and Josh 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 all ergic 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 plaît? ”

“Hel o” 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 smel is extraordinary, like sage and autumn. It’s early September, and the weather is stil warm. When does fal come to Paris?

“Ah! Soupe, ” he gently corrects.

“Sí, soupe. I mean, oui. Oui!” My cheeks burn. “And, um, the uh—chicken-salad-green-bean thingy?”

Monsieur Boutin laughs. It’s a jol y, bowl-ful -of-jel y, 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 smal 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, ANNA?” St. Clair hol ers 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’l 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 El ie’s. That’s probably why he hasn’t changed his clothes. He rides the métro to her col ege every night, and they hang out there.

Rashmi and Mer have been worked up, like maybe El ie thinks she’s too good for them now.

“You know, Anna,” Rashmi says, “most Parisians understand English.You don’t have to be so shy.”

Yeah. Thanks for pointing that out now.

Josh puts his hands behind his head and tilts back his chair. His shirtsleeves rol up to expose a skul -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, though sort of comical on his long, skinny arm. “That’s true,” he says. “I barely speak a word, and I get by.”

“That’s not something I’d brag about.” Rashmi wrinkles her nose, and Josh snaps forward in his chair to kiss it.

“Christ, 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 El ie