him at breakfast.

My friends and I are in a department store, trying to get some shopping done while we have an actual afternoon off. The store is beautiful in a familiar

way. Shiny red and gold ribbons hang from dangling wreaths. Green garlands and white twinkle lights are draped down the escalator and across the

perfume counters. And American musicians sing from the speakers.

“Speaking of,” Mer says to Josh. “Should you even be here?”

“Sundown, my little Catholic friend, sundown. But actual y”—he looks at Rashmi—“we need to go, if we want to catch dinner in the Marais in time. I’m

craving latkes like no one’s business.”

She glances at the clock on her phone. “You’re right. We better scoot.”

They say goodbye, and then it’s just the three of us. I’m glad Meredith is stil here. Since Thanksgiving, things have regressed between St. Clair and

me. El ie is his girlfriend, and I’m his friend-who-is-a-girl, and I think he feels guilty for overstepping those boundaries. I feel guilty for encouraging him.

Neither of us has mentioned anything about that weekend, and even though we stil sit next to each other at meals, there’s now this thing between us. The ease of our friendship is gone.

Thankful y, no one has noticed. I think. Once I caught Josh mouthing something to St. Clair and then motioning toward me. I don’t know what he said, but

it made St. Clair shake his head in a “shut up” manner. But it could have been about anything.

Something catches my attention. “Is that . . . the Looney Tunes theme?”

Mer and St. Clair c**k their ears.

“Why, yes. I believe it is,” St. Clair says.

“I heard ‘Love Shack’ a few minutes ago,” Mer says.

“It’s official,” I say. “America has final y ruined France.”

“So can we go now?” St. Clair holds up a smal bag. “I’m done.”

“Ooo, what’d you get?” Mer asks. She takes his bag and pul s out a delicate, shimmery scarf. “Is it for El ie?”

“Shite.”

Mer pauses. “You didn’t get anything for El ie?”

“No, it’s for Mum. Arrrgh.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “Would you mind if we pop over to Sennelier before we go home?” Sennelier is a gorgeous

little art supply store, the kind that makes me wish I had an excuse to buy oil paints and pastels. Mer and I went with Rashmi last weekend. She bought

Josh a new sketchbook for Hanukkah.

“Wow. Congratulations, St. Clair,” I say. “Winner of today’s Sucky Boyfriend award. And I thought Steve was bad—did you see what happened in calc?”

“You mean when Amanda caught him dirty-texting Nicole?” Mer asks. “I thought she was gonna stab him in the neck with her pencil.”

“I’ve been busy,” St. Clair says.

I glance at him. “I was just teasing.”

“Wel , you don’t have to be such a bloody git about it.”

“I wasn’t being a git. I wasn’t even being a twat, or a wanker, or any of your other bleeding Briticisms—”

“Piss off.” He snatches his bag back from Mer and scowls at me.

“HEY!” Mer says. “It’s Christmas. Ho-ho-ho. Deck the hal s. Stop fighting.”

“We weren’t fighting,” he and I say together.

She shakes her head. “Come on, St. Clair’s right. Let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

“I think it’s pretty,” I say. “Besides, I’d rather look at ribbons than dead rabbits.”

“Not the hares again,” St. Clair says. “You’re as bad as Rashmi.”

We wrestle through the Christmas crowds. “I can see why she was upset! The way they’re hung up, like they’d died of nosebleeds. It’s horrible. Poor

Isis.” all of the shops in Paris have outdone themselves with elaborate window displays, and the butcher is no exception. I pass the dead bunnies every

time I go to the movies.

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” he says. “Isis is perfectly alive and well on the sixth floor.”

We burst through the glass doors and onto the street. Shoppers rush by, and for a moment, it feels like I’m visiting my father in Manhattan. But the

familiar lampposts and benches and boulevards appear, and the il usion disappears. The sky is white gray. It looks like it’s about to snow, but it never

does. We pick our way through the throngs and toward the métro. The air is cold, but not bitter, and tinged with chimney smoke.

St. Clair and I continue bickering about the rabbits. I know he doesn’t like the display either, but for whatever reason, he wants to argue. Mer is

exasperated. “Wil you guys cut it out? You’re kil ing my holiday buzz.”

“Speaking of buzzkil s.” I look pointedly at St. Clair before addressing Mer. “I stil want to ride one of those Ferris wheels they set up along the Champs-

Élysées. Or that big one at the Place de la Concorde with all the pretty lights.”

St. Clair glares at me.

“I’d ask you,” I say to him, “but I know what your answer would be.”

It’s like I slapped him. Oh God. What’s wrong with me?

“Anna,” Mer says.

“I’m sorry.” I look down at my shoes in horror. “I don’t know why I said that.”

A red-cheeked man in front of a supermarket swears loudly. He’s sel ing baskets fil ed with oysters on ice. His hands must be freezing, but I’d trade

places with him in a second. Please, St. Clair. Please say something.

He shrugs, but it’s forced. “’S all right.”

“Anna, have you heard from Toph lately?” Mer asks, desperate for a subject change.

“Yeah. Actual y, I got an email last night.” To be honest, for a while I’d stopped thinking about Toph. But since St. Clair has moved clearly, definitively out of the picture again, my thoughts have drifted back to Christmas break. I haven’t heard much from Toph or Bridge, because they’ve been so busy with the

band, and we’ve all been busy with finals, so it was surprising—and exciting—to get yesterday’s email.

“So what’d it say?” Mer asks.