"Nope. No one since last year."

I want to weep with joy. He liked me, but he thought he couldn't like me. It's difficult to wrap my mind around this idea. I suspected his attraction, but the full truth of the situation is unbelievable. How is it possible that my crush my three-year-long crush has a crush on me? This doesn't happen in real life.

Josh is equally thrown. He's grasping for something to say when his eyes catch on the Sfar. "There's more downstairs, right? Should we go down there?"

"No." I hug the book with both arms. "This is exactly what I wanted."

Chapter seven.

I'm still clutching the book now through a blue Alb.u.m bag as we wander towards the Seine. We have another hour before I'm supposed to meet Kurt for sushi in the Marais. Night time has officially arrived, and the streets are abuzz. I feel as if I'm floating. Glancing, smiling, blushing. Both of us. My voice has abandoned me. Josh's left hand grasps his right elbow, an anchor to keep him in one place.

How does one proceed in a situation like this? If only the discovery of mutual admiration could lead promptly into making out. If only I could say, "Listen. I like you, and you like me, so let's go find a secluded park and touch each other."

We steer around a group of tourists pawing through bins of miniature Notre-Dames. Josh swallows. "Just so we're clear," he says, "I wasn't, like, trying to steal you away from Kurt when I asked if you wanted to go to the store with me. I was trying to, you know...be your friend. I don't want you to think I'm a creep."

I smile up at him. "I don't think you're a creep."

But Josh looks at an ornate iron balcony, a carved stone archway, an enormous poster for the Winter Olympics in Chambery. Anything but me. "It's just that last weekend I realized that even if you were, um, taken, I still wanted to hang out with you."

He wanted me as more than a friend first. My chest tightens happily. "Last weekend?"

"Yom Kippur?" Josh glances at me to see if I'm following his train of thought. I'm not, and I'm grateful when he launches into it without me having to ask. He seems relieved for the new topic. "Okay, so the period of time between Rosh Hashanah which was the day before we came back to school-"

"That's the Jewish New Year?"

He nods. "Yeah. So the period between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur is for reflection. You're supposed to think about mistakes, ask forgiveness, make resolutions. That sort of thing. And then Yom Kippur is, essentially, the deadline."

We split apart to pa.s.s a gentleman walking a ba.s.set hound, and when we reunite, the distance between us halves. "So. Wait. You contemplated your life and...resolved to become my friend? Even though you're no longer a practising Jew?"

Josh gives me a wicked smile. "Is that a requirement for your friendship?"

I give him a look.

He laughs, but he follows it with a wistful shrug. "I don't know. There's something...poetic about this time of year. And it's not like I've figured out everything spiritually or whatever, but I do think it's still okay to make resolutions. On my own terms."

"Sure it's okay. My family is Catholic, both sides, but they never go to Ma.s.s. I don't even know if my parents believe in G.o.d. But we still put up a Christmas tree, and it still gives us a sense of peace. Traditions can be nice."

"Do you believe in G.o.d?" he asks.

For some reason, his directness doesn't surprise me. The real Notre-Dame is ahead of us, gigantic and humbling, and its reflection shimmers in the dark river below. I stare at it for a while before answering. "I don't know what I believe. I guess that makes me a Christmas Tree Agnostic."

He smiles. "I like it."

"And you're a Yom Kippur Atheist."

"I am."

I've never had a conversation like this before, where something so sensitive was discussed with such ease. We cross a bridge towards the cathedral. It's on the ile de la Cite, the larger of the two islands that comprise the centre of Paris.

"I have a question," Josh says. "But I'm not sure how to ask it."

I wish that I could give him a playful nudge. "I'm sure you'll do fine."

There's an excruciating pause as he searches for the right phrasing. "Kurt has...autism?"

Internally, I cringe. But I spare him as he spared my own ignorance. "Yeah. What the DSM used to call Asperger's, and what they now call high-functioning autism. It's the same thing. But it's not a problem, it's not like it's something that needs to be cured. His brain works a little differently from ours. That's all."

Josh gestures towards a bench in the cathedral's small park, and I reply by moving towards it. We sit down about two feet apart.

"So how does his brain work?"

"Well." I take a deep breath. "He's super-rational and literal. So sarcasm, metaphor? Not his strengths."

Josh nods. "What else?"

"It's difficult for him to read faces. He's worked on it a lot, so he's way better than he used to be. But he still has to remember to make eye contact and smile. I mean, obviously he smiles, but he only does it when he means it. Unlike the rest of us." I'm rambling, because I'm struck again by the fact that I'm sitting on a bench a bench not even on school property beside Joshua Wa.s.serstein.

"So he's honest."

"Even when you don't want him to be." I laugh, but it immediately turns into worry. I don't want Josh to get the wrong idea. "He doesn't mean to be rude, though. Whenever he finds out that he's accidentally hurt someone's feelings, he's devastated."

"It's kind of French, you know? Not the hurting-people's-feelings thing. Only smiling when it's sincere. Americans will smile at anyone, for any reason."

"You don't." The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

Josh is taken aback. It takes him a moment to gather his thoughts. "Yeah, I've been told that I have a hard time...concealing my displeasure."

"I know." I hesitate. "I like that about you."

His eyebrows shoot up. "You do?"

I stare at the bench's wooden slats. Somehow, the two feet between our bodies has halved into one. "It means that when you do smile? I know it's not false. You're not just smiling to make me" I shake my head, and my hair bounces "whomever, feel better. If they're saying stupid things. And can't seem to stop talking."

His mouth spreads into a slow smile.

"Yeah." I laugh. "Like that."

"What else?"

I tilt my head. "What else what?"

"What else do I need to know about Kurt?"

His phrasing implies that we'll be spending more time together. The happy tightness returns to my chest. "Not much else to know. It's not like he's a card-counting savant or a mathematical genius or anything. I mean, don't get me wrong. He's brilliant. But those stereotypes are the worst. Though he does love routine."

Josh smiles again. "Let me guess. Sushi?"

"Same day, same time, same restaurant." Kurt and I meet after his weekly therapy session, but Josh doesn't need to know that.

"Same entree?"

"Shrimp nigiri and miso soup. But I get the special, whatever it is. I ask the server to surprise me."

The bells of Notre-Dame peal out from the towers. We startle, covering our ears and laughing. The bells are loud a cacophony of chimes crashing over one another. From this close, it's hard to even make out a pattern. They ring and ring and ring, and we're helpless, completely bowled over with laughter, until they cease their clattering.

The distance between us has disappeared.

His jeans rub softly against my bare legs. I'm too aware of my movements, too aware of my nerves, too aware of everything. All five senses are overloading. I jerk my head towards the cathedral. "That was my cue."

"Mind if I walk with you?" Josh's question sounds anxious, like he's trying to catch his breath. "I need to pick up a brush. At Graphigro." It's an art supply store a few blocks away from the restaurant. I don't know whether he really does need a new brush or whether this is an excuse to spend a few more minutes with me. But I'll take it either way.

This entire evening has been surreal. We cross another bridge, the Pont d'Arcole, onto the Right Bank. The scent of metal and urine wafts up from the Seine, but even this barely registers. We're in a two-person bubble. The noises that I should be hearing cars speeding, pedestrians rushing, construction clattering are m.u.f.fled. Instead, I hear my heart thumping against my ribcage. Josh's steady footsteps against the pavement. The occasional swish of his pant legs catching against each other.

Ask me out. I chant it like a mantra. Ask me out, ask me out, ask me out.

"What are you doing this weekend?" It ruptures from my mouth, far less casual than I'd hoped. "I mean, you don't have detention, do you?"

Aaaaaand way to make it worse.

But Josh glances at me with a smile. "The head called me into her office, because she wanted to make sure that we 'get off to the right start' this year. But she didn't give me detention. Not yet."

I have no idea how I'm supposed to respond.

"Actually," he says, "I'm going to Munich."

I freeze, mid-step. It's against school rules to leave the city without permission, never mind the entire country. Someone b.u.mps into me from behind. I stumble forward, and Josh reaches out to grab me, but I've already steadied myself. His hand hesitates in the s.p.a.ce between us. And then it returns to his pocket.

I kind of wish that I'd fallen.

"So, um. Munich. This weekend?"

Josh is studying me, making sure that I'm really okay. "Yeah. Oktoberfest."

I frown. "Even though it's still September?"

"Ah, but most of the festival happens this month. Misleading, I know." He grins, and there's an enticing flash of dimples. My insides go wobbly. "But I want to visit as many countries as possible before graduation. And I've never been to Germany."

"And you're travelling alone?" I'm impressed. Maybe even awed.

"Yep. My train leaves in the morning."

Kurt appears on the opposite side of the street. He's checking his phone, no doubt preparing to text because I'm a full minute late. I shout his name. He pulls down his hoodie and brushes the hair from his eyes, thrown to discover me with Josh.

I shuffle my feet against the kerb. "Well. This is my stop."

Josh kicks the kerb once, too. "Maybe sometime I can join you guys for dinner?"

OhmyG.o.d. "I am such an a.s.sweed."

He bursts into laughter.

"Sorry. I'm so sorry! Would you like to have dinner with us?"

He's still laughing. "I was only teasing."

"Please." I clasp a hand around my compa.s.s. "Eat with us."

"It's okay. I really do need to pick up a brush before tomorrow. Besides" he glances at Kurt "I wouldn't want to impose."

"You wouldn't be imposing."

But Josh is already walking backwards down the side street. He's still facing me. "See you in a few days," he shouts. "Enjoy your raw fish."

"Enjoy your schnitzel!"

I laugh at the unexpected perverseness of our final exchange as Kurt pops up over my shoulder. His brow wrinkles. "Why was he here? How did that happen?"

Josh turns around. I admire the back side of his physique as the street lamps illuminate him, one after another. His figure grows smaller. He reaches a curve in the road and looks over his shoulder. One hand raises in a wave. I mirror the gesture, and he vanishes.

"I don't know." I'm mystified. "I was alone in my room. And then he was there."

It's Sunday just before midnight and I'm curled in bed with Joann Sfar, when there are two knocks against my door. The sound is so soft that I'm not sure I actually heard it. My mind races to Josh, but I push it away as improbable. Kurt? No, he'd text. Maybe it was next door. Or maybe it was a practical joke; it wouldn't be the first.

I wait for a voice.

Nothing.

I settle back into my book, warily, when I hear it again. Knock-knock. Low to the ground. I'm still gripping the hard cover, which might make a serviceable weapon, as I climb out of bed and tiptoe forward. "h.e.l.lo?" I whisper.

"It's me," the other side says. "Josh."

He adds his name, because he does not yet realize that I'd recognize his voice anywhere, under any circ.u.mstance. I've had this fantasy before: Midnight. Him. Here. My heartbeat accelerates. I shake out my pillow-limp hair and take a steadying breath. It doesn't work. I turn the handle silently, but my hand trembles.

"Hi," he says. His face is close to mine, as if his cheek, or maybe his ear, had been pressed against the wood.

"Hi," I reply.

Josh leans against the doorframe. His body is several inches lower to the ground, which makes our eyes nearly level. We study each other in silence. He looks different this close. He looks real. Complete, somehow. I glance down the hallway. It's dark and empty. This fantasy is definitely familiar...until he holds up a beer stein.

I frown, but it clicks only a second later. "You went! You really did go."