homework. And he defends me. Like last week in physics when Amanda cal ed me la moufette in a nasty way and held her nose as I walked by her desk, St. Clair told her to “bugger off” and threw tiny wads of paper into her hair for the rest of class.

I looked up the word later, and it means “skunk.” So original.

But then, just as I feel those twinges again, he disappears. I’l be staring out my window after dinner, watching the sanitation workers tidy the street in their bright green uniforms, when he’l emerge from our dorm and vanish toward the métro.

Toward El ie.

Most nights I’m studying in the lobby with our other friends when he comes home. He’l plop down beside me and crack a joke about whatever drunken

junior is hitting on the girl behind the front desk. (There’s always a drunken junior hitting on the girl behind the front desk.) And is it my imagination, or is his hair more disheveled than usual?

The thought of St. Clair and El ie doing— things—makes me more jealous than I care to admit. Toph and I email, but the messages have never been

more than friendly. I don’t know if this means he’s stil interested or if it means he’s not, but I do know that emailing is not the same as kissing. Or things.

The only one who understands the St. Clair situation is Mer, but I can’t say anything to her. Sometimes I’m afraid she might be jealous of me. Like I’l catch her watching the two of us at lunch, and when I ask her to pass me a napkin, she’l kind of chuck it at me instead. Or when St. Clair doodles bananas and elephants into the margins of my homework, she’l grow rigid and silent.

Maybe I’m doing her a favor. I’m stronger than she is, since I haven’t known him as long. Since he’s always been off-limits. I mean, poor Mer. Any girl

faced with daily attention from a gorgeous boy with a cute accent and perfect hair would be hard-pressed not to develop a big, stinking, painful, all -thetime, all -consuming crush.

Not that that’s what’s happening to me.

Like I said. It’s a relief to know it won’t happen. It makes things easier. Most girls laugh too hard at his jokes and find excuses to gently press his arm.

To touch him. Instead, I argue and rol my eyes and act indifferent. And when I touch his arm, I shove it. Because that’s what friends do.

Besides, I have more important things on my mind: movies.

I’ve been in France for a month, and though I have ridden the elevators to the top of La Tour Eiffel (Mer took me while St. Clair and Rashmi waited

below on the lawn—St. Clair because he’s afraid of fal ing and Rashmi because she refuses to do anything touristy), and though I have walked the viewing

platform of L’Arc de Triomphe (Mer took me again, of course, while St. Clair stayed below and threatened to push Josh and Rashmi into the insane traffic

circle), I stil haven’t been to the movies.

Actual y, I have yet to leave campus alone. Kind of embarrassing.

But I have a plan. First, I’l convince someone to go to a theater with me. Shouldn’t be too difficult; everyone likes the movies. And then I’l take notes on everything they say and do, and then I’l be comfortable going back to that theater alone. And one theater is better than no theaters.

“Rashmi. What are you doing tonight?”

We’re waiting for La Vie to begin. Last week we learned about the importance of eating local y grown food, and before that, how to write a col ege

application essay.Who knows what they’l drag out today? Meredith and Josh are the only ones not here, Josh because he’s a junior, and Mer because

she’s taking that extra language class, advanced Spanish. For fun. Craziness.

Rashmi taps her pen against her notebook. She’s been working on her essay to Brown for two weeks now. It’s one of the only universities to offer an

Egyptology degree, and the only one she wants to attend. “You don’t understand,” she said, when I’d asked why she hadn’t finished it yet. “Brown turns

away eighty percent of its applicants.”

But I doubt she’l have any problems. She hasn’t received less than an A on anything this year, and the majority were perfect scores. I’ve already mailed in my col ege applications. It’l be a while before I hear back, but I’m not worried. They weren’t Ivy League.

I’m trying to be friendly, but it’s tricky. Last night, while I was petting her rabbit, Isis, Rashmi reminded me twice not to tell anyone about her, because animals are against dorm rules. As if I’d tattle. Besides, it’s not like Isis is a secret. The smel of bunny pee outside her door is unmistakable.

“Nothing, I guess,” she says, in response to my question about her evening.

I take a deep breath to steady my nerves. It’s ridiculous how difficult a question can be when the answer means so much. “Wanna go to the movies?

They’re showing It Happened One Night at Le Champo.” Just because I haven’t gone out doesn’t mean I haven’t pored over the glorious Pariscope.

“They’re showing what? And I’m not gonna tell you how badly you just butchered that theater’s name.”

“It Happened One Night. Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert. Won five Academy Awards. It was a big deal.”

“In what century?”

“Ha ha. Honestly, you’l like it. I hear it’s great.”

Rashmi rubs her temples. “I don’t know. I don’t real y like old movies. The acting is so, ‘Hey buddy, ol’ pal. Let’s go wear our hats and have a big