“But you hate birthdays!” I say.

“Don’t thank me yet. And I don’t hate them, I just don’t celebrate my own. Sorry it’s not wrapped.” He hands me a spiral notebook.

I’m confused. “Um . . . thanks.”

“It’s left-handed. See?” He flips it the other way. “Your old one is almost fil ed with notes and film reviews, so I thought you’d need a new one soon.”

No one ever remembers I’m left-handed. A lump rises in my throat. “It’s perfect.”

“I know it’s not much—”

“No. It’s perfect. Thank you.”

He bites his pinkie nail, and we smile at each other.

“Aw, St. Clair. That’s sweet,” Josh says.

Étienne chucks one of Mer’s pil ows at his head.

“So you’ve never explained it to me,” Rashmi says. “What’s the deal with that? The reviews?”

“Oh.” I tear my gaze from Étienne. “It’s just something I’ve always wanted to do. I like talking about movies. And it’s hard to get into the business—it’s kind of like a lifetime position—so I need all the practice I can get.”

“Why don’t you want to be a director? Or a screenwriter or an actress or something?” she asks. “No one wants to be a critic, it’s weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Étienne says. “I think it’s cool.”

I shrug. “I just like ... expressing my opinion.That possibility of turning someone on to something real y great. And, I dunno, I used to talk with this big critic in Atlanta—he lived in my theater’s neighborhood, so he used to go there for screenings— and he once bragged about how there hadn’t been a

respectable female film critic since Pauline Kael, because women are too soft. That we’l give any dumb movie four stars. I want to prove that’s not true.”

Mer grins. “Of course it’s not true.”

Étienne props himself up. “I don’t think anyone who knows you would say it’s easy to earn your good review.”

I look at him, puzzled. “What does that mean?”

“Yawn,” Josh says, not actual y yawning. “So what’s the plan?”

I wait for Étienne to reply, but he doesn’t. I turn to Josh, distracted. “Huh?”

“Let’s not sit here all evening. Let’s go out.”

He doesn’t mean to the movies. I shift uncomfortably. “I like staying in.”

Josh’s eyes shine. “Anna. Haven’t you ever drunk before?”

“Of course,” I lie. But a blush destroys my cover. They all scream.

“How can you have gone half a school year without drinking?” Rashmi asks.

I squirm. “I just . . . don’t. It stil feels il egal.”

“You’re in France,” Josh says. “You should at least try it.”

And now they’re all jumping up and down.You’d think they’d just turned of age. “YES! Let’s get Anna drunk!” they say.

“I don’t know—”

“Not drunk.” Étienne smiles. He’s the only one stil sitting. “Just . . . happy.”

“Happy birthday drunk,” Josh says.

“Happy,” Étienne repeats. “Come on, Anna. I know the perfect place to celebrate.”

And because it’s him, my mouth answers before my brain does. “Okay,” I say.

We agree to meet later tonight. What was I thinking? I’d much rather stay in and hold a Michel Gondry marathon. I’m ooky with nerves, and it takes ages

to find something to wear. My wardrobe isn’t exactly stocked with clothes for barhopping. When I final y come down to the lobby, everyone’s already there, even Étienne. I’m surprised he’s on time for once. His back is to me.

“Al right,” I say. “Let’s get this party started.”

At the sound of my voice, he turns around. And his head nearly snaps off.

I’m in a short skirt. It’s the first time I’ve worn one here, but my birthday feels like the appropriate occasion. “Woo, Anna!” Rashmi fake-adjusts her

glasses. “Why do you hide those things?”

Étienne is staring at my legs. I tuck my coat around myself self-consciously, and he startles and bumps into Rashmi.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe I should wear skirts more often.

Chapter thirty-four

The band in the club is rocking so hard, screaming guitars and furious drumming and shouting lyrics, I can hardly hear myself think. all I know is that I feel good. Real y good. Why have I never drunk before? I was such an idiot—it’s not a big deal. I total y understand why people drink now. I’m not sure what I’ve been drinking, but I do know it was something fruity. It started out disgusting, but the more I drank, the better it got. Or the less I noticed it. Something like that. Man, I feel weird. Powerful.

Where is Étienne?

I scan the dark room, through the thrashing bodies of disil usioned Parisian youth, getting their anger out with a healthy dose of French punk rock. I

final y find him leaning against a wal talking to Mer. Why is he talking to her? She laughs and tosses her curly hair. And then she touches his arm.

Meredith has turned into an Arm-Toucher. I don’t believe it.

Before I know it, my feet are propel ing the rest of my body toward them. The music thrums through my veins. I stumble over some guy’s feet. He curses

at me in French, and I mumble an apology as I lurch away. What’s his problem?

Étienne. I need to talk to Étienne.

“Hey.” I shout in his face, and he flinches.

“Jeez, Anna. Are you okay? How much have you had to drink?” Mer asks.

I wave my hand.Three fingers. Four fingers. Five. Something like that.

“Dance with me,” I say to Étienne. He’s surprised, but he hands Mer his beer. She fires me a dirty look but I don’t care. He’s more my friend than hers. I grab his hand and pul him onto the floor. The song changes to something even rowdier, and I let it take me over. Étienne fol ows my body with his eyes.

He finds the rhythm, and we move together.

The room spins around us. His hair is sweaty. My hair is sweaty. I grab him closer, and he doesn’t protest. I writhe down his body to the beat. When I