Josh slams it shut with a move that’s both calculated and knowing. “Oh, man. It really is too bad that some ass**le broke your lock.”

Finally, I laugh. Genuine and normal sounding. And then my date says the best thing that he could possibly say: “It’s okay. I haven’t been on one of these in a while either.”

My smile triples in size.

Josh grins. “Just give me your hand.”

“W–what?”

“Your hand,” he repeats. “Give it to me.”

I extend my shaking right hand. And – in a moment that is a hundred dreams come true – Joshua Wasserstein laces his fingers through mine. A staggering shock of energy shoots straight into my veins. Straight into my heart.

“There,” he says. “I’ve been waiting a long time to do that.”

Not nearly as long as I’ve been waiting.

Chapter nine

The Centre Pompidou is the modern-art museum, a huge box of a building that looks as if it’s been turned inside out. Its inner structure is exposed and colour-coded: green pipes for plumbing; blue for heating and cooling; yellow for electricity; and red for safety. The bold primary colours clash with the noble grey elegance of the rest of the city. For some reason, that makes me like it even more.

I wouldn’t have minded the walk here – my sushi place is right around the corner, not to mention the Treehouse – but Josh took one look at my heels and led me straight to the nearest taxi stand. I am wearing my tallest pair. He’s still over half a foot taller than I am, but I know I can reach his lips if he tries. I hope he tries.

The museum’s lobby is silver metal and blinding neon. As we pass the information desk, Josh takes my hand again. Our palms are sweaty. It’s heaven. We ride the crowded escalators up, up, up beside a wall of steel and glass. The glittering streets of Paris stretch all the way to the horizon. We talk about the shiny little nothings we see – people and cars and cathedrals, even la Tour Eiffel – but it’s not that we don’t have anything meaningful to say. The feeling is that we have everything to say.

And where do you begin with everything?

We switch escalators from level four to five, and I ride backwards on the stair above him. Our eyes are level. We’re laughing, I’m not even sure why, and he’s holding both of my hands now, and – suddenly – he’s leaning in.

This is the moment.

Josh hesitates. He second-guesses himself and pulls back. I lean forward to say the timing is right, I’m ready, let’s do this thing, and his smile returns and our eyes are closing and his nose is bumping against mine and – blip!

We jump. His pocket blips again.

“Sorry,” he says, flustered. “Sorry.” Our hands unclasp, and he pulls out his phone to silence it. And then he bursts into an unexpected laugh.

Everything inside of me is throbbing. “What is it?”

“He got a job.” Josh shakes his head. “He really got one.” He holds up the screen, and a snapshot of a guy with mussed hair and a polyester vest grins back at me. He’s giving the V sign, the English finger. It’s his best friend, Étienne St. Clair.

I smile, despite our thwarted kiss. “Where’s St. Clair going to school now?” For reasons unknown to me, Josh’s friend goes by his last name.

“California. Berkeley. He said he was getting a job at a movie theatre, but I didn’t believe him.” Josh shakes his head again as we grab the final escalator. “He’s never worked a day in his life.”

“Have you?” Because not many people who’ve been to our school have.

Josh frowns. He’s ashamed of his answer, and it comes out like a one-word confession. “No.”

“Me neither.” We both hold the guilt of privilege.

Josh glances at his phone again. I lean in and examine the picture closer. “Oof. That’s one seriously ugly uniform. Does anyone look good in maroon polyester?”

He cracks a smile.

The escalator ends. Josh types a quick reply, silences his phone, and returns it to his pocket. I wonder if he told St. Clair about our date. I wonder if I’m newsworthy.

We head towards the galleries, but the mob inside the top-floor restaurant gives us pause. The tables have been removed, and an army of svelte models in frizzy white wigs, white lipstick, and marionette circles of white blush are manoeuvring trays of champagne through the swarm of bodies. Josh turns to me and cocks his head. “Shall we?”

“Why, yes.” I respond with a matching twinkle. “I believe we shall.”

We slip inside, and he grabs two flutes as the first tray whizzes by. We’re the youngest people here, by far. It must be a private party. The clamour of excited voices and the outlandish, kaleidoscopic music make the room unusually loud for Paris. “It’s like New Year’s Eve in here,” I shout.

He bends down to shout back. “But not the real one. That glamorous, fake one you see in films. I always spend the real one watching television alone in my bedroom.”

“Yes! Exactly!”

Josh hands me a glass and nods towards one of the restaurant’s giant decorative-aluminium shells. We duck underneath it. The noise becomes somewhat muffled, and I raise my glass. “To the new year? Our new school year?”

He places a dramatic hand across his heart. “I’m sorry. But I can’t toast that place.”

I laugh. “Okay, how about…comics? Or Joann Sfar?”

“I propose a toast” – Josh raises his glass with mock gravitas – “to new beginnings.”

“To new beginnings.”

“And Joann Sfar.”

I laugh again. “And Joann Sfar.” Our glasses clink, and his eyes stay carefully fixed upon mine in the French tradition. My smile widens into a grin. “Ha! I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“You held eye contact with me. I’ve seen you pretend like you don’t know how things go around here, but you do know. I knew you knew. You’re too good of an observer.” I take a triumphant sip of champagne. The pristine fizz tickles the tip of my tongue, and my smile grows so enormous that he breaks into laughter.

Thank you, France, for allowing alcohol to be legal for teenagers.

Well, eighteen year olds. And we’re close enough.

Josh is amused. “How do you know I wasn’t looking at you simply because I want to look at you?”