Isla and the Happily Ever After
Page 16

He clasps his hands on top of his desk. “Actually.” Josh lowers his voice and leans in. “The situation isn’t all bad.”
I crinkle my nose. “It’s not?”
He stares at me. He stares harder.
“Oh.” My gaze drops in a sheepish sort of pleasure. “Um. How much detention did you receive?”
Josh sits back again, resuming his slouch. “Only three weeks, but—”
That snaps my head back up.
“Including Saturdays.” Another shrug. “It’s not a big deal, I can use the time to work. But I’m also on my final warning. Didn’t take long,” he adds.
My heart stops – literally stops – for a full beat. “Final warning? As in expulsion?”
“Seriously. Not a big deal.” But my panic must be showing, because he scoots forward in his seat. “Let’s just say that for a ‘final’ warning? It’s not my first.”
I wait. I have no idea how he can be so calm about this.
“Last year,” he explains. “In fact, I was on my final warning once in the winter and once in the spring. So, somehow, I got two. This is number three.”
“Well…be careful.” It sounds so lame. “I mean, the leaves haven’t even changed, and you wouldn’t want to miss that. Though they are prettier in New York—”
“I’ll be careful.” His voice is deliberate. He smiles.
I fiddle with a curl in my hair.
Two desks away, Emily Middlestone leans over. She’s wearing a pair of designer glasses that I’m sure are fake. “You know, that’d be really stupid if you got kicked out in your last year of school.”
Josh’s expression wipes blank. “Yeah, Emily. That would be stupid.”
Professeur Cole bursts into the room and grinds to a halt. “Am I late?” she asks Josh.
He shakes his head once. “Nope.”
“Well. How fortunate that you have finally learned how to tell the time.” But her smile is sly. She marches up to her podium, and I take my seat.
The one directly across from Josh.
We glance at each other with more openness throughout the week, but there’s still a shyness between us, an unwillingness to look or talk for too long. Our relationship has yet to be solidified. Anticipation – of something – hovers in the air. At night, it takes me hours to fall asleep. I place the beer stein on top of my mini-fridge, beside my bed, so that I can see it from my pillow. Proof that he’s thinking about me, too.
He doesn’t visit my room. His afternoon detention runs until dinner, and he still isn’t eating in the cafeteria. And then, after dinner, opposite-sex visitation hours are over. He’s cut back on rule breaking, and apparently that’s one he’s not willing to risk any more. So I continue my usual schedule of homework and studying, and I try to bite back the analysing. Kurt has been giving me dirty looks.
On Thursday, before government, Josh removes a pen from between his teeth. “So. Saturday. I’m out of detention at eighteen hours. Anytime you want to meet after that…”
Paris runs on a twenty-four-hour clock. Eighteen hours is six p.m. My stomach butterflies emerge from their chrysalises. “Yeah?”
He points the pen at me. “You know that because you asked me out, you’re the one who has to pick the place, right?”
Throat. Dry.
Dry throat.
All of the dryness in my throat.
Josh places the pen back between his teeth and then immediately takes it out again. “Whatever you suggest.” He grins. “I’ll say yes. You’ll definitely get a yes. If that helps.”
My response is another hot blush.
The rest of my school week is spent in freak-out mode, a situation that leaves me with a new-found respect for guys. Sébastien planned and organized most of our dates. It’s an alarmingly high-pressure job. Kurt reminds me that it’ll be Nuit Blanche. White Night. A night that never grows dark. The first Saturday of every October, museums and galleries open their doors for free until dawn. The tradition started in Saint Petersburg, Russia, travelled here, and has continued to spread around the world. But – even speaking as someone used to its decadence – there’s still no greater city than Paris for an all-night festival.
I’m not the only one watching the clock. At precisely vingt et une heures – just as the numbers on my phone tick from 20:59 to 21:00 – I hear a sound that’s instantly recognizable: two light knocks, down low. My nerve endings jolt. Yesterday, I told Josh when to arrive but not where we’re going. Mainly because I hadn’t figured it out yet.
Three years of anxiety flood throughout my body. What if I’m wrong? What if this isn’t what I’ve always wanted?
What if it is?
I open the door.
Josh is knee-bucklingly sexy. It’s the first cool night of autumn, and he’s dressed in a striking wool coat. The collar is turned up in that self-confident yet unkempt way that only artists can pull off. I’ve seen him wear this coat before, this beautiful going-on-a-date coat, but this is the first time that he has worn this coat for me.
“Youlookamazing.”
But the words tumble from his lips, not mine.
I’m wearing a swishy dress, and my hair is in neat, pretty waves. My mouth is painted red. Maman once told me to place the boldest colour where I want people to look. I bite my bottom lip. “Thanks. You do, too.”
Josh tucks his hands into his pockets. His shoulders rise nervously.
My breathing is shallow. Like I can’t get enough oxygen. “So I thought we’d go to the Pompidou? They have an exhibition of this weird photographer from Finland. He’s supposed to be totally nuts, and I thought it might be interesting, but I don’t know, maybe that’s stupid, we can do something else if you want—”
“No.”
Blood rises to my cheeks. “No?”
“I meant we should go. That sounds cool.”
“Oh.” I swallow the goose egg that’s been stuck in my throat. “Okay. Good.”
There’s a long pause. Josh takes an exaggerated step to the side. “Unfortunately, you will have to leave your room.”
I laugh, and it sounds like I’ve been sucking helium. “Right. Been a while since I’ve been on one of these. A date. I forgot how they worked.” I close the door behind me, internally exploding with humiliation. We’re only two steps down the hall before my door jack-in-the-boxes back open.