He still hasn’t said a word.

Professeur Hansen paces the front of the classroom, lecturing with wild gestures about the US Declaration of Independence and the French Déclaration 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 illustrations related to our lesson plans, but today his work is abstract. Dense patterns and clusters 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 classmates’ heads begin to fill the space around him. Mike and his bonehead friend, Dave; my snobby 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 compass 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 compass 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 assure 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 class 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 glasses 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 compass 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.

There’s a traffic jam at the door. Josh is directly behind me, and when I turn my head to reply, his own smile is lopsided – unquestionably flirtatious – and I can no longer remember my name or my country or even my place in the universe.

“I’m over here,” Kurt says.

Not only am I still staring at Josh, but I’ve also turned the wrong way down the hall. The stupidity blush is immediate. I lower my head and double back.

Amazingly, Josh follows.

“We’re going to the cafeteria,” Kurt tells him. “You’re never there. Where do you eat?” It sounds like an interrogation.

Josh’s smile wavers. “Uh, my room. Usually. Not always.”

“You’ll get detention. We aren’t allowed to leave campus while school is in session.”

Josh’s smile disappears altogether.

“You should join us sometime.” I say it quickly, because I’m embarrassed about Kurt. He’s so rigid. And awkward. But the shame that follows these traitorous thoughts is instantaneous. “Or now. Or, you know, whenever.”

As if I’m any less awkward.

My best friend frowns. It’s not that he doesn’t like Josh. But this invitation would mean a change in our routine, and Kurt is a creature of habit.

Unfortunately, Josh catches the expression. He crosses his arms – uneasiness in every line of his body – and turns back to me. “Yeah, maybe. Sometime.”

My blood ices.

Sébastien.

He was my first, last, and only boyfriend. He attends another school nearby. We dated last winter, and I thought he was a decent guy until I introduced him to Kurt. Sébastien was uncomfortable around Kurt. This made Sébastien aggressive, which intensified Kurt’s nervous habits, which turned Sébastien cruel. Which made me dump Sébastien.

Josh knows that Kurt has high-functioning autism. Everyone here knows. When a stranger misinterprets Kurt’s behaviour as rudeness and reacts poorly, I can usually forgive them. But when someone who knows him doesn’t even want to try to understand him?

No. I can’t forgive that.

My heart plummets with dead weight. “Well. Thanks for the drawing.”

Kurt pulls down his hoodie – laundered the evening of the soup incident, no longer stained – and his sandy hair sticks out in a hundred directions. “You finally saw your portrait? The one from summer?”