“A cemetery is a plot of land set specifical y aside for burial, while a graveyard is always located in a churchyard. Of course, now the words are

practical y interchangeable, so it doesn’t really matter—”

“You know more useless crap, St. Clair. Good thing you’re so darn cute,” Josh says.

“I think it’s interesting,” Mer says.

St. Clair smiles. “At least ‘cemetery’ sounds classier. And you must admit—this place is pretty classy. Or, I’m sorry.” He turns back to me. “Would you

rather be at the Lambert bash? I hear Dave Higgenbottom is bringing his beer bong.”

“Higgenbaum.”

“That’s what I said. Higgenbum.”

“Oh, leave him alone. Besides, by the time this place closes, we’l stil have plenty of time to party.” I rol my eyes at this last word. None of us have plans to attend, despite what I told Dave yesterday at lunch.

St. Clair nudges me with a tal thermos. “Perhaps you’re upset because he won’t have the opportunity to woo you with his astonishing knowledge of

urban street racing.”

I laugh. “Cut it out.”

“And I hear he has exquisite taste in film. Maybe he’l take you to a midnight showing of Scooby-Doo 2.”

I whack St. Clair with my bag, and he dodges aside, laughing.

“Aha! Here it is!” Mer cal s out, having located the appropriate patch of greenery. She unrol s a blanket onto the smal lawn while Rashmi and I unpack

tiny apples and prosciutto sandwiches and stinky cheeses from our backpacks. Josh and St. Clair chase each other around the nearby monuments. They

remind me of the little French schoolboys I see in our neighborhood. all they need are the matching woolen sweaters.

Mer pours everyone coffee from St. Clair’s thermos, and I sip happily, enjoying the pleasant warmth that spreads throughout my body. I used to think

coffee was bitter and disgusting, but like everyone else, I’m up to several cups a day. We tear into the food and, like magic, the guys are back. Josh sits cross-legged next to Rashmi, while St. Clair scoots between Meredith and me.

“You have leaves in your hair.” Mer giggles and pul s one of the brown skeletons from St. Clair’s locks. He takes it from her, crunches it to dust, and

blows it into her curls. They laugh, and my gut twinges.

“Maybe you should put on The Hat,” I say. He asked me to carry it before we left. I chuck my bag into his lap, perhaps a little too hard. St. Clair oofs and jerks forward.

“Watch it.” Josh bites into a pink apple and talks through a ful mouth. “He has parts down there you don’t have.”

“Ooo, parts,” I say. “Intriguing. tell me more.”

Josh smiles sadly. “Sorry. Privileged information. Only people with parts can know about said parts.”

St. Clair shakes the rest of the leaves from his hair and puts on The Hat. Rashmi makes a face at him. “Real y? Today? In public?” she asks.

“Every day,” he says. “As long as you’re with me.”

She snorts. “So what’s El en doing tonight?”

“Ugh. El ie’s attending some terrible costume party.”

“You don’t like costume parties?” Mer asks.

“I don’t do costumes.”

“Just hats,” Rashmi says.

“I didn’t realize anyone outside of SOAP was celebrating Hal oween,” I say.

“Few people are,” Josh says. “The shopkeepers tried to turn it into a commercial thing years ago. It didn’t catch on. But give a col ege chick the chance to dress up like a slutty nurse, and she’s gonna take it.”

St. Clair lobs a chunk of chèvre at Josh’s head, and it smacks his cheek. “Arse. She’s not going as a slutty nurse.”

“Just a regular one?” I ask innocently. “With a low-cut dress and real y big br**sts?”

Josh and Rashmi crack up, and St. Clair tugs The Hat down over his eyes. “Ughhh, I hate you all.”

“Hey.” Meredith sounds hurt. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Ughhh, I hate you all but Mer.”

A smal group of American tourists hovers behind us. They look confused. A bearded guy in his twenties opens his mouth to speak, but Rashmi

interrupts him. “Jim Morrison is that way.” She points down the path. Bearded guy smiles in relief, thanks her, and they move on.

“How’d you know what they wanted?” I ask.

“It’s what they always want.”

“When they should be looking for Victor Noir,” Josh says. Everyone else laughs.

“Who?” It’s frustrating being in the dark.

“Victor Noir. He was a journalist shot by Pierre Bonaparte,” St. Clair says, as if that explains anything. He pul s The Hat up off his eyes. “The statue on his grave is supposed to help . . . fertility.”

“His wang is rubbed shiny,” Josh elaborates. “For luck.”

“Why are we talking about parts again?” Mer asks. “Can’t we ever talk about anything else?”

“Real y?” I ask. “Shiny wang?”

“Very,” St. Clair says.

“Now that’s something I’ve gotta see.” I gulp my coffee dregs, wipe the bread crumbs from my mouth, and hop up. “Where’s Victor?”

“Al ow me.” St. Clair springs to his feet and takes off. I chase after him. He cuts through a stand of bare trees, and I crash through the twigs behind him.

We’re both laughing when we hit the pathway and run smack into a guard. He frowns at us from underneath his military-style cap. St. Clair gives an

angelic smile and a smal shrug.The guard shakes his head but all ows us to pass.

St. Clair gets away with everything.

We strol with exaggerated calm, and he points out an area occupied with people snapping pictures. We hang back and wait our turn. A scrawny black

cat darts out from behind an altar strewn with roses and wine bottles, and rushes into the bushes.

“Wel . That was sufficiently creepy. Happy Hal oween.”

“Did you know this place is home to three thousand cats?” St. Clair asks.

“Sure. It’s filed away in my brain under ‘Felines, Paris.’”

He laughs. The tourists move on to the next photo opportunity, and we’re both smiling as we approach Victor Noir. His statue is life-size and lying flat on the ground above his tomb. His eyes are closed, his top hat beside him. And despite the fact that his gray-green patina is clothed, his pants have a