“Be my guest.”

St. Clair stands so suddenly that his chair clatters over.

“Where are you going?” Mer asks.

“Nowhere.” He stalks away, leaving us in surprised silence. After a moment, Rashmi leans forward. She raises her dark eyebrows. “You know, Josh

and I saw them fighting a couple nights ago.”

“Who? St. Clair and Dave?” Mer asks.

“No, St. Clair and El ie. That’s what this is about, you know.”

“It is?” I ask.

“Yeah, he’s been on edge all week,” Rashmi says.

I think about it. “That’s true. I’ve heard him pacing his room. He never used to do that.” It’s not like I make a point of listening, but now that I know that St.

Clair lives above me, I can’t help but notice his comings and goings.

Josh gives me a weird look.

“Where did you see them?” Mer asks Rashmi.

“In front of the Cluny métro.We were gonna say hi, but when we saw their expressions, we went the other way. Definitely not a conversation I wanted to interrupt.”

“What were they fighting about?” Mer asks.

“Dunno. Couldn’t hear them.”

“It’s her. She’s so different now.”

Rashmi frowns. “She thinks she’s so much better than us, now that she’s at Parsons.”

“And the way she dresses,” Mer says, with an unusual bitter streak. “Like she thinks she’s actual y Parisian.”

“She was always that way.” Rashmi huffs.

Josh is stil quiet. He polishes off the éclair, wipes the white fluff from his fingers, and pul s out his sketchbook. The way he focuses on it, deflecting Meredith and Rashmi’s conversation, is . . . purposeful. I get the feeling he knows more about St. Clair’s situation than he’s letting on. Do guys talk about things like that with each other? Could it be possible?

Are St. Clair and El ie breaking up?

Chapter fourteen

Don’t y’al think it’s kind of a cliché to have a picnic in a graveyard on Hal oween?”

The five of us—Mer, Rashmi, Josh, St. Clair, and I—are traipsing through the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, located on a hil side overlooking Paris. It’s

like a miniature city itself. Wide pathways act as roads through neighborhoods of elaborate tombs. They remind me of tiny Gothic mansions with their

arched doorways and statuary and stained-glass windows. A stone wal with guardsmen and iron gates runs the perimeter. Mature chestnuts stretch their

branches overhead and wave their last remaining golden leaves.

It’s a quieter city than Paris, but no less impressive.

“Hey , did y’al hear Anna say ‘y’al ’?” Josh asks.

“Oh my God, I so did not.”

“You so did,” Rashmi says. She adjusts the pack on her shoulders and fol ows Mer down yet another path. I’m glad my friends know their way around,

because I’m lost. “I told you you’ve got an accent.”

“It’s a cemetery, not a graveyard,” St. Clair says.

“There’s a difference?” I ask, thankful for an opportunity to ignore The Couple.

“A cemetery is a plot of land set specifical y aside for burial, while a graveyard is always located in a churchyard. Of course, now the words are

practical y interchangeable, so it doesn’t really matter—”

“You know more useless crap, St. Clair. Good thing you’re so darn cute,” Josh says.

“I think it’s interesting,” Mer says.

St. Clair smiles. “At least ‘cemetery’ sounds classier. And you must admit—this place is pretty classy. Or, I’m sorry.” He turns back to me. “Would you

rather be at the Lambert bash? I hear Dave Higgenbottom is bringing his beer bong.”

“Higgenbaum.”

“That’s what I said. Higgenbum.”

“Oh, leave him alone. Besides, by the time this place closes, we’l stil have plenty of time to party.” I rol my eyes at this last word. None of us have plans to attend, despite what I told Dave yesterday at lunch.

St. Clair nudges me with a tal thermos. “Perhaps you’re upset because he won’t have the opportunity to woo you with his astonishing knowledge of

urban street racing.”

I laugh. “Cut it out.”

“And I hear he has exquisite taste in film. Maybe he’l take you to a midnight showing of Scooby-Doo 2.”

I whack St. Clair with my bag, and he dodges aside, laughing.

“Aha! Here it is!” Mer cal s out, having located the appropriate patch of greenery. She unrol s a blanket onto the smal lawn while Rashmi and I unpack

tiny apples and prosciutto sandwiches and stinky cheeses from our backpacks. Josh and St. Clair chase each other around the nearby monuments. They

remind me of the little French schoolboys I see in our neighborhood. all they need are the matching woolen sweaters.

Mer pours everyone coffee from St. Clair’s thermos, and I sip happily, enjoying the pleasant warmth that spreads throughout my body. I used to think

coffee was bitter and disgusting, but like everyone else, I’m up to several cups a day. We tear into the food and, like magic, the guys are back. Josh sits cross-legged next to Rashmi, while St. Clair scoots between Meredith and me.

“You have leaves in your hair.” Mer giggles and pul s one of the brown skeletons from St. Clair’s locks. He takes it from her, crunches it to dust, and

blows it into her curls. They laugh, and my gut twinges.