I did it. I did it!

My relief is so profound that I hardly notice my feet carve their way into my favorite row. The theater is almost empty. Three girls around my age are in the back, and an elderly couple sits in front of me, sharing a box of candy. Some people are finicky about going to the theater alone, but I’m not. Because when the lights go down, the only relationship left in the room is the one between the movie and me.

I sink into the springy chair and lose myself in the previews. French commercials are interspersed between them, and I have fun trying to guess what

they’re for before the product is shown. Two men chase each other across the Great Wal of China to advertise clothing. A scantily clad woman rubs

herself against a quacking duck to sel furniture. A techno beat and a dancing silhouette want me to what? Go clubbing? Get drunk?

I have no idea.

And then Mr. Smith Goes to Washington begins. James Stewart plays a naive, idealistic man sent into the Senate, where everyone believes they can

take advantage of him. They think he’l fail and be driven out, but Stewart shows them all. He’s stronger than they gave him credit for, stronger than they are. I like it.

I think about Josh. I wonder what kind of senator his father is.

The dialogue is translated across the bottom of the screen in yel ow. The theater is silent, respectful, until the first gag. The Parisians and I laugh

together. Two hours speed by, and then I’m blinking in a streetlamp, lost in a comfortable daze, thinking about what I might see tomorrow.

“Going to the movies again tonight?” Dave checks my page number and flips his French textbook open to the chapter about family. As usual, we’ve

paired up for an exercise in conversational skil s.

“Yup. The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. You know, to get into the holiday spirit.” Hal oween is this weekend, but I haven’t seen any decorations here.

That must be an American thing.

“The original or the remake?” Professeur Gil et marches past our desks and Dave quickly adds, “Je te présente ma famille. Jean-Pierre est ... l’oncle.”

“Um. What?”

“Quoi, ” Professeur Gil et corrects. I expect her to linger, but she moves on. Phew.

“Original, of course.” But I’m impressed he knew it was remade.

“That’s funny, I wouldn’t have taken you for a horror fan.”

“Why not?” I bristle at the implication. “I appreciate any well -made film.”

“Yeah, but most girls are squeamish about that sort of thing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” My voice rises, and Madame Guil otine jerks her head up from across the room. “Marc est mon ... frère,” I say,

glancing down at the first French word I see. Brother. Marc is my brother. Whoops. Sorry, Sean.

Dave scratches his freckled nose. “You know. The chick suggests a horror movie to her boyfriend so she can get all scared and cling onto him.”

I groan. “Please. I’ve seen just as many scared boyfriends leave halfway through a movie as scared girlfriends—”

“And how many movies will this make this week anyway, Oliphant? Four? Five?”

Six actual y. I saw two on Sunday. I’ve settled into a routine: school, homework, dinner, movie. I’m slowly making my way across the city, theater by

theater.

I shrug, not will ing to admit this to him.

“When are you gonna invite me along, huh? Maybe I like scary movies, too.”

I pretend to study the family tree in my textbook. This isn’t the first time he’s hinted at this sort of thing. And Dave is cute, but I don’t like him that way. It’s hard to take a guy seriously when he stil tips over backward in his chair, just to annoy a teacher.

“Maybe I like going alone. Maybe it gives me time to think about my reviews.” Which is true, but I refrain from mentioning that usual y I’m not alone.

Sometimes Meredith joins me, sometimes Rashmi and Josh. And, yes, sometimes St. Clair.

“Right.Your reviews.” He yanks my spiral notebook out from underneath Level One French.

“Hey! Give that back!”

“What’s your website again?” Dave flips through the pages as I try to grab it. I don’t take notes while watching the films; I’d rather hold off until I’ve had time to think about them. But I like to jot down my first impressions afterward.

“Like I’d tell you. Give it back.”

“What’s the deal with these, anyway? Why don’t you go to the movies for fun, like a normal person?”

“It is fun. And I’ve told you before, it’s good practice. And I can’t see classics like these on the big screen back home.” Not to mention I can’t see them in such glorious silence. In Paris, no one talks during a movie. Heaven help the person who brings in a crunchy snack or crinkly cel ophane.

“Why do you need to practice? It’s not like it’s hard or something.”

“Yeah? I’d like to see you write a six-hundred-word review about one. ‘I liked it. It was cool. There were explosions.’” I snatch again at my notebook, but he holds it above his head.

He laughs. “Five stars for explosions.”

“Give. That. BACK!”

A shadow fal s over us. Madame Guil otine hovers above, waiting for us to continue. The rest of the class is staring. Dave lets go of the notebook, and I shrink back.

“Um ... très bien, David, ” I say.

“When you ’ave finished zis fascinating dee-scussion, plizz return to ze task at ’and.” Her eyes narrow. “And deux pages about vos familles, en français, pour lundi matin.”