Part 3 (2/2)
”Is she allowed to go back to her room?” I ask.
Hattie fumes. ”G.o.d, Isla.”
”What?”
”Stop being such a freaking mom!”
Her favourite accusation strikes with unexpected force. The shout reverberates around the room. I'm blinking back tears as I turn to the nurse. ”I- I'm sorry.”
”It's all right.” But her eyes remain wary. ”Hattie, I'm almost done with your paperwork. You'll be able to leave in just a minute.”
It's a dismissal for me, too. I rush towards the exit, head ducked, straight past Josh in the waiting room. There's no doubt that he overheard everything. I'm barrelling through the door when he says in a loud and clear voice, ”Your sister's kind of a b.i.t.c.h, huh?”
I stop.
My love for him quadruples.
When I turn around, he grimaces. ”I shouldn't have said that.”
”No!” I say it too quickly. ”I mean, she is. Thank you,” I add for good measure.
Josh grins. It's wide and relieved and reveals a rarely seen pair of dimples. I could live inside those dimples for the rest of my life. ”Do you, uh...” he says. But I don't think he had a question to begin with.
I tilt my head.
The head of school's door opens, and we both jump. She leans out. ”Monsieur Wa.s.serstein. Has it already been three months? It's as if you never left.” But her voice is droll, almost amused. ”Come in.”
Josh's expression falls back into that familiar blankness. He stands slowly and hefts his bag over his shoulder. As he disappears into her office, he gives me one last glance. His face is unreadable. The head of school follows his gaze and discovers me by the exit.
”Isla.” She's surprised. ”Is your sister feeling any better?”
I nod.
”Good. Good,” she says again.
She's delaying, searching my face for something, but I don't know what. I hope Josh will be okay. I glance at her office door. When I look back, she's frowning as if she's just found trouble.
Chapter five.
The next few days are unsettling.
Josh is aware of me.
Whenever he enters a room, an unmistakable ma.s.s of chaotic energy enters with him. It rattles the air between us. It buzzes and hums. And every time we surrender every time our eyes meet in a flash of nerve a shock wave jolts throughout my entire system. I feel frayed. Excited. Unravelled.
And then...I'll lose the transmission. His signal will go cold.
I don't understand what's happening.
In calculus and physics, we're separated by alphabetical order. In English, we're stuck where we sat on the first day, on opposite sides of that circle. But our government teacher waited until today, Thursday, to pa.s.s out his seating chart. Josh arrived late, saw it being handed around and sat down beside me. Just like that.
He still hasn't said a word.
Professeur Hansen paces the front of the cla.s.sroom, lecturing with wild gestures about the US Declaration of Independence and the French Declaration des droits de l'homme et du citoyen. Josh and I are in the back. He opens his bag, and I catch a glimpse of his sketchbook. He removes a cheap spiral notebook instead. In the past, I've watched him create elaborate ill.u.s.trations related to our lesson plans, but today his work is abstract. Dense patterns and cl.u.s.ters and whorls and- I let out a quiet and involuntary gasp of recognition.
His head jerks up.
My instinct is to pretend that something else caused the exclamation. I fight it. ”Kind of conceited, don't you think?” I whisper, and I'm delirious that a good line escapes me.
His eyes widen. But he smiles as he neatly prints the word CAUGHT! underneath his sketch of a gnarled, spiny Joshua tree. I let out a snort of laughter that I turn into a cough. Professeur Hansen glances at me, but he doesn't give it another thought. Phew.
Josh turns the page and draws our teacher, a teeny version with flyaway hair and the jaunty gleam of madness. Our cla.s.smates' heads begin to fill the s.p.a.ce around him. Mike and his bonehead friend, Dave; my sn.o.bby lab partner, Emily; and...Sanjita Devi. Who was once my friend. Who is now Emily's friend.
Josh gives Sanjita her own page. He dresses her in a suit of armour without gloves. The suit is as polished as her exposed fingernails, but she's looking down and away, as if she's afraid that we can see through the steel to what's really underneath.
It gives me the chills. He tilts it in my direction for approval.
”Wow,” I whisper. ”Yes.”
Professeur Hansen doesn't hear it, but Sanjita turns around in her seat to glare at me. Her mouth forms a perfect circle of surprise. Few people know about my crush, but she's one of them. In the corner of my eye, Josh discreetly turns the page. I hold Sanjita's gaze. She recedes, battle lost. I clutch my necklace for comfort.
A moment later, Josh extends a slender arm across the aisle. He crooks a finger. I hold out the compa.s.s on its long, antique chain, and as he leans forward to take it, his hand carelessly brushes against mine. Or...not carelessly? He cradles the compa.s.s in his palm, studying it, head mere inches from my own and...citrus. His shampoo. Oranges, maybe tangerines.
”Ahem.”
We startle, and Josh drops the necklace. It swings back against my chest and lands with an audible thump. Professeur Hansen has surprised us from behind. The other students laugh, having seen the set-up. It's always amusing when he catches someone not paying attention. Except when that someone is you. He comically raps the back of Josh's chair. ”As fascinating as Mademoiselle Martin's necklace is, I a.s.sure you that the philosophies of Rousseau are far more likely to appear on next week's test.”
”Yes, sir.” Josh looks apologetic. But not fazed.
”You there.” Professeur Hansen smacks my desktop with his fist, eliciting more laughter. ”You can do better than this riff-raff.” He gestures towards Josh.
I've sunk into the deepest depths of my seat. They're waiting for me to reply. The whole cla.s.s is waiting.
”I know I can.” Josh's expression is deadpan. ”She's a terrible influence.”
Even the professeur laughs at that. Satisfied, he pushes up his gla.s.ses on his nose and launches back into the lesson. My eyes stay glued to him for the rest of the period. When the bell rings, Josh hands me a sheet of spiral-notebook paper. He's drawn my compa.s.s perfectly, down to the filigree on the needle. Underneath it, he's written: WHY DOES SHE WEAR IT EVERY DAY?
It shakes me to the core.
I place it beneath the cover of my textbook and try to play it cool, try to swallow the thrill of possessing something that he made. And the absolute wonder that he noticed. I move towards the exit, glancing over my shoulder with a smile. I hope it looks flirtatious. ”I wear it so that I won't get lost, of course.”
”Is that something that happens often?” he asks.
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