Chapter thirteen.

Josh is my boyfriend.

Josh is my boyfriend.

It's a miracle that after only a single weekend, we are a real-life, not-just-in-my-dreams couple. Every morning, he arrives at my door before Kurt so that we can have a few minutes alone before breakfast. And then he joins us in the cafeteria. I think, maybe, he needed rea.s.surance that he wouldn't be sitting at an empty table. It's strange to realize that Josh detached Josh, composed Josh worries about these things, too.

It might even explain the detachment.

We're inseparable until our schedules split apart in fifth period. But we reunite after school, and I walk him to detention. If Kurt is the expert of roads less travelled, Josh is the expert of rooms long forgotten. All day long, he sneaks me into s.p.a.ces that are cramped and hidden and neglected, and we kiss through the darkness until the warning bells ring.

I work on homework while he's in detention, and when it ends, we all have dinner in the cafeteria. And then we re-separate from Kurt. We leave campus for the privacy that our dormitory no longer allows. It means that I usually visit the Treehouse twice once with Kurt in the afternoon and once with Josh in the evening. We spend our nights in liplocks, sweet and earnest, while fumbling sublimely around things less innocent.

When Josh dated Rashmi, they were notorious for their public displays of affection. It was torturous. I was both envious and repulsed. With me, he's quiet. He holds my hand and steals my kisses, but he saves most of his affection for when we're alone. I think he understands that I don't enjoy drawing attention myself. I also think, perhaps, he's placed a higher value on his own privacy.

Even so, our relationship hasn't escaped the notice of our cla.s.smates. But I'm happy. Despite my shyness, I still want to parade him in front of the entire school. I want to shout, Look! Look at this perfect boy who wants to hold my hand!

On Friday, Hattie startles us from behind in the hall. "So you're the guy who busted my sister's nose. Either you have the best aim or the worst. Which is it?"

"Pleasure to meet you," Josh says.

"Whatever. Isla, I need forty-six euros."

"Why?" I touch my nose self-consciously.

"Because I want to buy a weasel skull and put it on this one girl's pillow."

I try not to sigh. I'm not successful.

"She's my friend," Hattie says.

"No," I say.

"Ugh, fine. Maman."

We watch her stalk away. "Was she for real?" Josh asks.

"I'm never sure."

He shakes his head, mystified. "Your older sister isn't like that, is she? We had studio art together my freshman year. She always seemed cool-"

"She is."

"Yeah. She always seemed like...she had things figured out. Like she had the motivation and confidence to do anything."

I smile. "That's Gen, all right. Last summer? She shaved her head and came out as bi. My parents really like her new girlfriend. But my mother is p.i.s.sed about her hair."

Josh laughs. When I drop him off at detention that afternoon, I run into another opinionated force. The head of school stops me. "I'd be concerned," she says, "but Monsieur Wa.s.serstein has been remarkably punctual, as of late. You must be the reason."

I'm not sure how to respond.

The head looks down at me through her gla.s.ses, which are perched on the tip of her nose. "You're a bright girl. Be careful there." And then she strides away.

I don't appreciate her tone. Or her presumption that hormones might be getting in the way of my intelligence. Is she afraid that Josh's att.i.tude will rub off on me? That I'll stop caring about my education? Well, she can take her concern and shove it up her a.s.s. But when I open my bedroom door a few hours later, Josh is also unusually cross.

"It backfired," he says. "You know that whole detention-on-the-Sabbath idea? I asked the head about it, and she went straight to my parents."

I wince.

"Yeah. And even though this time the excuse is in theory legitimate, my parents agreed that I'm being impudent, and now I have two additional weeks of detention."

I'm shocked. "Two weeks? But that means-"

"Detention through the end of October."

"That's insane! What the h.e.l.l is the head's problem?"

He kicks off his shoes and flops onto my bed. "Welcome to the latest attempt at trying to get me to take this school more seriously."

"I'm sorry. The Sabbath thing was my idea. My stupid, stupid-"

"Hey." Josh sits up on his elbows. "Only because I didn't think of it first."

There's a commotion in the hallway. "Look who's on Izla's bed," Mike says. "Give us a show, girlie girl! Give us a sneak peek."

Emily hoots. "Is Kurt jealous?"

Dave pushes his s.h.a.ggy hair away from his eyes. "Nah. They're getting ready for a threesome."

I want to punch them all in the throat. But Josh is staring down Mike. "Her name is Eye-la. It must be difficult to remember when your brain is smaller than your p.e.n.i.s. Which, rumour has it, isn't that big in the first place."

"f.u.c.k you, Wa.s.serstein."

"Good one."

The stairwell door clangs open, and Sanjita appears behind them. Her gaze is fixed on something ahead in the lobby. It's an unnatural position that tells me she already knows this is my room. "Come on, Mike." She tugs on his arm. "I'm hungry."

He's still puffed up like an angry baby owl. He points a finger at Josh. "I'll get you."

They swagger away, and Josh scowls at the doorway with supreme irritation. "Has there ever been an emptier threat?"

"What is with people today?"

"I don't know. But I hate them. I hate everyone in the world but you."

"And Kurt."

"And Kurt," he agrees. "Where is Kurt?"

"It's sushi night. Remember?"

He sinks into my pillows. "Oh. Right."

We discussed it earlier and decided that Kurt and I should keep Friday nights, and then Sat.u.r.day nights will be ours. But I'm disappointed, too. The schedules, the rules, the people.

As soon as his Sabbath detention is over, he's back at my door.

"I want to draw you again," he says. "Before dinner. While there's still light."

My bloodstream courses with euphoria as he hurries me towards the Arenes de Lutece, an amphitheatre long abandoned by the Romans. Once, it was immense and crowded and used for gladiatorial combat. Now, it's smallish and empty and park-like. It's only a few blocks away from our school, but it's wholly concealed behind its surrounding apartments. No matter how many times I visit, I'm always still surprised to find an entire ancient arena hidden back here.

The park tends to stay quiet. Today, a father is teaching his young son how to dribble a football in its large and dusty centre. Josh and I climb the stairs to the original stone niches above the field. Each niche contains a modern bench, and we pick the one with the best view. Against his knees, Josh props up a sketch pad (one with thick, removable pages) and immediately commences drawing with his favourite brush pen (a capped pen with a brush tip). He works as he always does, with his thumb tucked underneath his index finger. I love watching his hand.

"What should I do?" I ask. "How should I sit?"

"Sit however you want. But try not to move too much," he adds with a smile.

There's nothing like being openly stared at by an attractive member of the opposite s.e.x to make me feel as if all of my limbs were in the wrong place. I search for a distraction. "So...what's the story behind your sticker?"

Josh flips over the pad, expecting something to have appeared.

"The one on your sketchbook. The American WELCOME one."

"Oh." He snorts. "There's no story. My dad had a huge stack of them in his office, and I just took one. There were a lot of a.s.sholes on Capitol Hill ragging on Mexican immigration that week, so I drew the word I wished they were talking about instead. But it wasn't an original idea. I saw an Australian sticker like it once."

"You know what I like about you?" I ask, after a few minutes.

"My dynamite moves on the dance floor."

"You've crafted this bored veneer, but you're always giving yourself away in moments like that. In the moments that really matter."

"I don't care about anything," he says. "But I care about you."

"Nope. You have a mushy heart, Joshua Wa.s.serstein. I can see it."

He smiles to himself and keeps drawing. There's a fragrant gust of wind, and the first leaves of the season rain down upon us. A nip pierces the air. I watch the tiny boy in the arena dart between his father's legs and listen to the faint crunch of gravel as an elderly couple walks the footpath behind us. The sun grows lower on the horizon. There's a new stillness, and I realize that Josh has stopped working.

He's staring at me. Spellbound.

"What is it?" I'm afraid to move. "What's wrong?"

"I've never seen the sun shine directly through your hair before."

"Oh." I glance down at the glowing curtain. "It never looks the same, does it? Inside, it's auburn. Outside, it's more of a red."

"No." Josh reaches out. He softly touches one of the waves. "Red isn't the right word. It's not auburn or orange or copper or bronze. It's fire. It's like being mesmerized by the flames of a burning building. I can't look away."

I've blushed far less around him lately, but at this my cheeks warm.

"And that," he says, as I look down at my lap. "That rosy blush. And your rose-scented perfume. G.o.d, it drives me mad."

I lift my eyes in surprise. "You've noticed? I don't wear much."

"Trust me. You wear exactly the right amount."

"You smell like tangerines." I say it before I can take it back.

"Satsuma." He pauses. "You have a good nose."

"Yours is better. At least, the shape of it is."

"My nose is huge." He laughs, and it makes his throat bob. "Yours is like a bunny rabbit's. What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

I laugh, too. "It's not huge. But it is interesting."

"Interesting." He raises a teasing eyebrow.

I smile. "Yes."

Josh smiles back. His ink-stained fingers thread through my hair, and he leans in towards my lips. But then he pauses to smell my neck. A shiver runs through me. He kisses my neck softly and slowly, and my eyes close.

I want him to kiss me there for ever. But he pulls back, languid, letting his fingers fall back out gently through my hair. He smiles at me again. "Roses," he says.

My head and heart are in full swoon. "Thank you. And thanks for saying such nice things about my hair," I add. "Not everyone is that nice."

"Who wouldn't say nice things about it?"

"Ha-ha," I say.

But he appears to be genuinely confused.

"Really?" I take a deep breath. "Well, okay. When I was little? Every grandmother would stop me on the street to tell me how much I looked like one of her grandchildren. 'She has hair just like yours,' they'd always say. 'Except hers is more orange' or 'hers is more auburn'. It was so uncomfortable, especially for someone as shy as me. Hattie's the only one who ever talked back. 'Then it's not just like mine, is it?' she'd say."

Josh laughs.

"And when a redhead hits p.u.b.erty? You become this magnet for gross men. A month doesn't pa.s.s without one telling me that I must be good in bed because all redheads are s.e.x fiends, or I must be a b.i.t.c.h because all redheads have fiery tempers. Or they'll tell me that they only date redheads, or that they never date redheads, because we're all ugly."

Josh is stunned. "They say those things to you? Strangers?"

"At least a dozen men have asked if 'my carpet matches my drapes'. And now there's the ginger insult thank you, England and some cultures think we're unlucky, and ohmyG.o.d, you know what the French say about redheads, right? They think we smell."

"Like roses?"