Isla And The Happily Ever After Part 3

I didn't even know Professeur Fontaine knew me. This school is way too small. I try to keep my voice nonchalant. "Oh, yeah?" When the sister in question is Hattie, whatever follows this statement is generally unpleasant.

"She was in the nurse's office. Very ill."

Hattie! I told you so.

Professeur Fontaine a.s.sures me that my sister isn't dying, but she refuses to let me see for myself. When the final bell rings, I shoot a see-you-later text to Kurt, hurry towards the administration wing, push through its extravagantly carved wooden door, and- My heart seizes.

Josh is slumped on the waiting room couch. His legs are stretched out so far and so low that they're actually underneath the coffee table. His arms are crossed, but his eyebrows rise perhaps involuntarily, for someone sitting with such purposeful displeasure at the sight of me.

My response is another deep, flaming blush. Why can't I have a normal face? Genetics are so unfair. I hasten towards the desk and ask the receptionist in French about Hattie. Without glancing up, she waves me towards the couch. A bracelet with a monogrammed charm jingles daintily from her wrist.

I can't move. My stomach is in knots.

"Wait there," she says, as if I didn't understand her gesture. Another wave and another jingle.

Move, feet. Come on. Move!

She finally looks at me, more annoyed than concerned. My feet detach, and I plant one in front of the other like a wind-up doll until I'm sitting on the other side of the couch. The small couch. Love seat, really.

Josh is no longer in full recline. He sat up while my back was turned, and now he's leaning forward with his elbows propped against his knees. He's staring straight ahead at an oil painting of a haloed Jeanne d'Arc.

It is now officially more awkward to ignore him than to acknowledge his presence. I search for an opener something elementary but my throat remains thick and closed. His silence is a confirmation of my fears. That I was a mess in the cafe, that his help was given in pity, that he wouldn't actively choose to interact with me and never will again- Josh clears his throat.

It seems like a good sign. Good. "Good first day?" I ask.

A funny expression crosses his face. Was that a dumb question? Did it make me sound like his mother? Hattie is always accusing me of sounding like Maman.

"I've had better." He nods towards the head of school's office door.

"Oh." But then I get it. "Oh! Sorry. I'm here for the nurse, so...I a.s.sumed..."

"It's okay." And he says it like it is.

I wonder why he was called to her office. Because he skipped her welcome-back speech? Because he was tardy to his cla.s.ses? It seems harsh to punish him for these things on our first day. And, great, now we've been silent for at least twenty seconds.

Tell him. Tell him. Just tell him already!

"Listen," I blurt. "I'm really embarra.s.sed about last June. I was taking a lot of medication, and I don't remember much about that night, but I'm pretty sure you paid for my meal so I'd like to pay you back. And I'm sorry. For being weird. And thank you for walking me home. And for paying for my food."

He waits until I'm done. "It's okay," he says again.

And I feel stupid.

But Josh frowns as if he feels stupid, too. He scratches his head, somehow managing to muss his close-cropped hair. "I mean...don't worry about it. There's nothing to be embarra.s.sed about. And you don't need to pay me back, it was only a few bucks."

This is the moment. Right here. This is the moment to place a hand on his arm, lean in, and say the least I can do is treat him to a meal in return. Instead, I just think it.

"Are you okay?" Josh asks. And then he makes another face.

It takes me a few seconds to figure it out, but that's the third time he's said the word okay. His embarra.s.sment gives me a surge of confidence. "What do you mean?" I ask.

"You're here to see the nurse?"

"Oh! No, I'm checking in on my sister. She's sick."

He looks confused. "Genevieve?"

I'm thrown. He remembers Gen, and he remembers that we're related. He knows something about me. I shake my head. "My younger sister, Hattie. It's her first day."

He winces. "That makes more sense."

I can actually see Josh beating himself up in his head. The role reversal is fascinating. Somehow, I've made him nervous.

"So...how are your teeth?" he asks. "Everything heal?"

I smile, more to ease his discomfort than my own. "No problems."

"Good. Glad to hear it."

But I look away, down at the rug, unable to hold his gaze. The sketchbook. It's right there. Poking out of his bag. It's black and it has the blue sticker and it's definitely the same one. I should ask to see the drawing. I should just...open my mouth and ask. One question. It's one frigging question!

"You can see your sister now," the receptionist says.

I startle. "Merci." I stand hastily and grab my bag. "Good luck," I tell Josh, but then I'm fl.u.s.tered all over again. Just because it's him. I scramble down the hall before he can reply. The nurse's door is open, and Hattie watches me enter from a paper-sheet-covered cot. She tucks her bobbed, choppy hair behind her ears as if preparing for battle.

I tuck my long, wavy hair behind mine. "How do you feel?"

"What are you doing here?" Her question is accusatory.

"I wanted to make sure you're okay. Are you breathing all right?"

"No, I'm dying, and I only have fifteen minutes to live. I want a pony."

The nurse enters from an adjacent room. She's tiny like me but stronger and rounder. "Isla! It's nice to see you, dearie. Your sister gave us quite the scare. But we shot her with epinephrine, and she's been resting all day. The swelling in her throat is gone, and her breathing is back to normal."

"I told you I was fine," Hattie says.

I want to scream. I ask calmly, "Do Maman and Dad know?"

"They're on an airplane back to New York, duh."

My jaw tightens. "Are you going to call them later?"

"Why would I do that when I know you will?"

The nurse steps in. "The school will call your parents tonight." She glances uneasily between us, no doubt wondering how three sisters who look so alike can be so different. We have the same pale white skin and bright red hair, but Gen is ambitious, Hattie is contrary, and I'm...the quiet one. Who never causes trouble.

"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.