“Soap?""School of America in Paris" he explains. "SOAP".Nice. My father sent me here to be cleansed.”

“I'm not British.I'm American."I smile. "Sure you are.""I am.You have to be an American to attend SOAP,remember?""Soap?""School of America in Paris," he explains. "SOAP."Nice.My father sent me here to be cleansed.”

“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.”

“Keep laser-focused on school, and I'll see YOU at Christmas.Josh leans his lanky body over my shoulder and peers at my laptop. "Is it just me,or is that 'YOU' sort of threatening?""No.It's not just YOU," I say."I thought your dad was a writer.What's with the 'laser-focused''gentle reminder' shit?""My father is fluent in cliche. Obviously, you've never read one of his novels." I pause. "I can't believe he has the nerve to say he'll give Seany my best."Josh shakes his head in disgust. My friends and I are spending the weekend in the lounge because it's raining again. No one ever mentions this, but it turns out Paris is as drizzly as London. According to St. Clair,that is, our only absent member. He went to some photography show at Ellie's school. Actually,he was supposed to be back by now.He's running late.As usual.Mer and Rashmi are curled up on one of the lobby couches,reading our latest English assignment, Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress. I turn back to my father's email.Gentle reminder... your life sucks.”

“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.”

“Cricket removes his hand. I blink at him, and he cautiously offers his arm. I hesitate. And then I take it. And then we're so close that I smell him. I smell him. His scent is clean like a bar of soap, but with a sweet hint of mechanical oil. We don't speak as he leads me across the street to the bus stop. I press against him. Just a little. His other arm jumps, and he lowers it. But then he raises it again, slowly, and his hand comes to rest on top of mine. It scorches. The heat carries a message: I care about you. I want to be connected to you. Don't let go.”

“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.”