Isla and the Happily Ever After(9)

Mike pretends to look disgusted. “Watch it, retard.”

Kurt stares straight ahead in shock. A slice of baguette covered in melted Gruyère falls from his back to the floor with a splat. A soggy onion noiselessly follows.

My cheeks redden. “Jerk.”

“Sorry, didn’t catch that,” Mike says. Even though he did. He’s making fun of my soft voice.

I raise it so that he can hear me. “I said you’re an asshole.”

He smiles, an orthodontic row of unnaturally sharp teeth. “Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it, sweetheart?”

I clench the compass on the end of my necklace. Nothing. I am going to do nothing, and he knows it. Kurt shoves his hands into his hoodie’s pockets, which begin to shake. I know his hands are flapping. He makes a low sound, and I link my arm through his and lead him away, abandoning our food trays. Pretending like I don’t see Mike’s and Dave’s pantomimes or hear their cretinous guffaws.

In the quiet of the hall, Kurt races into the men’s room. I sit on a bench and listen to the tick of a gilded clock. Count the number of pear-shaped crystals on the chandeliers. Tap my heels against the marble floor. Our school is as grand and ostentatious as anything in Paris, but I wish it weren’t filled with such horrible, entitled weasels. And I know I’m just as privileged, but…it feels different when you live on the social ladder’s bottom rung.

Kurt reappears. His hoodie is balled in his arms, wet from scrubbing.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

He’s calm, but he’s still frowning with severe agitation. “Now I can’t wear it until it’s clean.”

“No worries.” I help him shove it into his bag. “First thing after school.”

The lunch line is empty. “I had ze feeling you would return.” The jolly, pot-bellied head chef removes our trays from behind the counter and slides them towards us. “Leek tart for mademoiselle, un croque-monsieur for monsieur.”

I’m grateful for this gesture of kindness. “Merci, Monsieur Boutin.”

“Zat boy iz no good.” He means Mike. “You do not worry about him.”

His concern is simultaneously embarrassing and reassuring. He swipes our meal cards, and then Kurt and I sit at our usual table in the far corner. I glance around. As predicted, Josh isn’t here, which is probably a good thing. But Hattie isn’t here either. Which is probably not.

This morning I saw her eating un mille-feuille and – even though I don’t blame her for wanting to start the day with dessert – I tried to stop her. I thought it might be dusted with powdered almonds, and she’s allergic to almonds. But my sister always does the opposite of whatever anyone wants her to do, even when it’s completely idiotic and potentially life threatening. We’re not supposed to have our phones out at school, so I sneak-text her: ARE YOU ALIVE?!

She doesn’t reply.

The day worsens. In physics, Professeur Wakefield pairs us alphabetically to our lab partner for the year. I get Emily Middlestone, who groans when it’s announced, because she is popular, and I am not. Sophie Vernet is paired with Josh.

I hate Sophie Vernet.

Actually, I’ve never given Sophie Vernet much thought, and she seems nice enough, but that’s the problem.

My last two classes are electives. I’d like to say that I’m taking art history for my own betterment – not so that I’ll have more to hypothetically converse about with Josh – but that would be false. And I’m taking computer science, because it’ll look better on my transcripts than La Vie, the class that I wish I could take. La Vie means “life”, and it’s supposed to teach us basic life skills, but it’s better known as the school’s only goof-off class. I have zero doubt it’s where Josh is currently located.

Professeur Fontaine, the computer science teacher, pauses by my desk while she’s handing out our first homework assignment. Her chin is pointy, and her forehead is huge. She looks like a triangle. “I met your sister this morning.”

I didn’t even know Professeur Fontaine knew me. This school is way too small. I try to keep my voice nonchalant. “Oh, yeah?” When the sister in question is Hattie, whatever follows this statement is generally unpleasant.

“She was in the nurse’s office. Very ill.”

Hattie! I told you so.

Professeur Fontaine assures me that my sister isn’t dying, but she refuses to let me see for myself. When the final bell rings, I shoot a see-you-later text to Kurt, hurry towards the administration wing, push through its extravagantly carved wooden door, and—

My heart seizes.