His dad should have pul ed him from school. He should be in California.

Professeur Cole taps the novel’s cover. “Dai Sijie, born and raised in China. Moved to France. He wrote Balzac in French, but set the story in his homeland. And then it was translated into English. So how many steps away from us is that? Is it the one, French to English? Or do we count the first

translation, the one the author only made in his mind, from Chinese to French? What do we lose each time the story is reinterpreted?”

I’m only half listening to her. After class, Meredith and Rashmi and I walk silently with St. Clair to calculus and exchange worried glances when he’s not looking.Which I’m sure he knows we’re doing anyway. Which makes me feel worse.

My suspicions about the faculty are confirmed when Professeur Babineaux takes him aside before class begins. I can’t fol ow the entire conversation,

but I hear him ask if St. Clair would rather spend the hour in the nurse’s office. St. Clair accepts. As soon as he leaves, Amanda Spitterton-Watts is in my face. “What’s with St. Clair?”

“Nothing.” Like I’d tell her.

She flips her hair, and I notice with satisfaction that a strand gets stuck to her lip gloss. “Because Steve said he and Josh were totally wasted Saturday night. He saw them staggering through the Hal oween party, and St. Clair was freaking out about his dad.”

“Wel , he heard wrong.”

“Steve said St. Clair wanted to kill his father.”

“Steve is ful of shit,” Rashmi interrupts. “And where were you on Saturday, Amanda? So trashed you had to rely on Steve for the play-by-play?”

But this shuts her up only temporarily. By lunch, it’s clear the whole school knows. I’m not sure who spil ed—if it was the teachers, or if Steve or one of his bonehead friends remembered something else St. Clair said—but the entire student body is buzzing. When St. Clair final y arrives in the cafeteria, it’s like a scene from a bad teen movie. Conversation screeches to a halt. Drinks are paused halfway to lips.

St. Clair stops in the doorway, assesses the situation, and marches back out. The four of us chase after him. We find him pushing through the school

doors, heading to the courtyard. “I don’t want to talk about it.” His back is to us.

“Then we won’t talk about it,” Josh says. “Let’s go out for lunch.”

“Crêpes?” Mer asks. They’re St. Clair’s favorite.

“That sounds amazing,” Rashmi chimes in.

“I’m starving,” Josh says. “Come on.” We move forward, hoping he’l fol ow. He does, and it’s all we can do not to sigh in relief. Mer and Rashmi lead the way, while Josh fal s back with St. Clair. Josh talks about little nothings—a new pen he bought for their art class, the rap song his neighbor keeps blasting about sweaty rumps—and it helps. At least, St. Clair shows minimal signs of life. He mumbles something in reply.

I hover between the groups. I know it’s goody-goody of me, but as concerned as I am about St. Clair, I’m also worried about ditching. I don’t want to get in trouble. I glance back at SOAP, and Josh shoots me a look that says, The school won’t care today.

I hope he’s right.

Our favorite crêperie is only minutes away, and my fear of skipping school eases as I watch the crêpe man ladle the batter onto the griddle. I order mine the way I always do here, by pointing at the picture of a banana and Nutel a crêpe and saying please.The man pours the warm chocolate-hazelnut spread

over the thin, pancakelike crêpe, folds the banana in, and then drizzles more Nutel a on top. As a final flourish, he adds a scoop of vanil a ice cream. Real vanil a, which is tan with black flecks.

I moan as I sink into the first bite. Warm and gooey and chocolaty and perfect.

“You have Nutel a on your chin,” Rashmi says, pointing with her fork.

“Mmm,” I reply.

“It’s a good look,” Josh says. “Like a little soul patch.”

I dip my finger in the chocolate and paint on a mustache. “Better?”

“Maybe if you didn’t just give yourself a Hitler,” Rashmi says.

To my surprise, St. Clair gives a snort. I’m encouraged. I redip and paint one side up in a swirl.

“You’re getting it wrong,” Josh says. “Come here.” He dabs his finger in the edge of my sauce and adds the other half careful y, with his steady artist’s hand, and then touches up my half. I look at my reflection in the restaurant’s glass and find myself with a massive, curly mustache. They laugh and clap, and Mer snaps a picture.

The men in elaborately tied scarves sitting at the table beside us look disgusted, so I pretend to twirl the ends of my Nutel a mustache.The others are

cracking up, and final y, finally St. Clair gives the teeniest of teeny smiles.

It’s a wonderful sight.

I wipe the chocolate from my face and smile back. He shakes his head. The others launch into a discussion of weird facial hair—Rashmi has an uncle

who once shaved off all of his hair except what grew around the edge his face—and St. Clair leans over to speak with me. His face is close to mine, and

his eyes are hol ow. His voice is scratchy. “About the other night—”

“Forget about it, it wasn’t a big deal,” I say. “It cleaned right up.”

“What cleaned right up?”

Whoops. “Nothing.”

“Did I break something?” He looks confused.

“No! You didn’t break anything. You just, kind of, you know ...” I mime it.

St. Clair hangs his head and groans. “I’m sorry, Anna. I know how clean you keep your room.”

I look away, embarrassed to be cal ed out on this. “It’s okay. Real y.”

“Did I at least hit the sink?Your shower?”

“It was on the floor. And my legs. Just a little bit!” I add, seeing the horrified expression on his face.

“I vomited on your legs?”

“It’s okay! I’d total y have done the same if I were in your situation.” The words are out before I have a chance to stop them. And I was trying so hard not to mention it. His face is pained, but he passes by this subject to one equal y excruciating.

“Did I ...” St. Clair glances at the others, ensuring they’re stil distracted by facial hair. They are. He scoots his chair even closer and lowers his voice.