“I feel it coming, but I can't stop it.PANIC.They left me.My parents actually left me! IN FRANCE!Meanwhile, Paris is oddly silent.Even the opera singer has packed it in for the night. I cannot lose it.The walls here are thinner than Band-Aids, so if I break down, my neighbors-my new classmates-will hear everything. I'm going to be sick.I'm going to vomit that weird eggplant tapenade I had for dinner, and everyone will hear,and no one will invite me to watch the mimes escape from their invisible boxes, or whatever it is people do here in their spare time.”

“I'm going to be sick. I'm going to vomit that weird eggplant tapenade I had for dinner, and everyone will hear, and no one will invite me to watch the mimes escape from their invisible boxes, or whatever it is people do here in their spare time.”

“They left me. My parents actually left me! IN FRANCE!”

“Did I ever tell you I went to school in America?""What? No.""It's true,for a year. Eighth grade. It was terrible.""Eighth grade is terrible for everyone," I say."Well,it was worse for me. My parents had just seperated,and my mum moved back to California.I hadn't been since I was an infant,but I went with her,and I was put in this horrid public school-""Oh,no. Public school."He nudges me with his shoulder. "The other kids were ruthless. They made fun of everything about me-my height,my accent, the way I dressed.I vowed I'd never go back.""But American girls love English accents." I blurt this without thinking, and then pray he doesn't notice my blush.St. Clair picks up a pebble and tosses it into the river. "Not in middle school, they don't.Especially when it's attached to a bloke who comes up to their kneecaps."I laugh."So when the year was over,my parents found a new school for me. I wanted to go back to London,where my mates were, but my father insisted on Paris so he could keep an eye on me. And that's how I would up at the School of America.”

“Lola?" Cricket is on his knees at the side of my bed. I feel it. "I'm here," he whispers. "You can talk to me or not talk to me, but I'm here.”

“So will your father object to me? Because I'm not American? I mean, not fully American? He's not one of those mad, patriotic nuts,is he?""No.He'll love you,because you make me happy.He's not always so bad."St. Clair raises his dark eyebrows."I know! But I said not always. He still is the majority of the time.It's just...he means well. He thought he was doing good,sending me here.""And was it? Good?""Look at you,fishing for compliments.""I wouldn't object to a compliment."I play with a strand of his hair. "I like how you pronounce 'banana.' Ba-nah-na. And sometimes you trill your r's. I love that.""Brilliant," he whispers in my ear. "Because I've spent loads of time practicing."My room is dark,and Etienne wraps his arms back around me.We listen to the opera singer in a peaceful silence.I'm surprised by how much I'll miss France. Atlanta was home for almost eighteen years,and though I've only know Paris for the last nine months,it's changed me.I have a new city to learn next year,but I'm not scared.Because I was right.For the two of us, home isn't a place.It's a person.And we're finally home.”

“Here is everything I know about France: Madeline and Amelie and Moulin Rouge. The Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe, although I have no idea what the function of either actually is. Napoleon, Marie Antoinette, and a lot of kings named Louis. I'm not sure what they did either, but I think it has something to do with the French Revolution, which has something to do with Bastille Day. The art museum is called the Louvre and it's shaped like a pyramid and the Mona Lisa lives there along with that statue of the women missing her arms. And there are cafes and bistros or whatever they call them on every street corner. And mimes. The food is supposed to be good, and the people drink a lot of wine and smoke a lot of cigarettes.I've heard they don't like Americans, and they don't like white sneakers.”