I mean, them. Classes with them.

The rain has stopped, and Josh kicks a puddle in St. Clair’s direction. St. Clair laughs and says something that makes them both laugh even harder. Suddenly I register that St. Clair is shorter than Josh. Much shorter. It’s odd I didn’t notice earlier, but he doesn’t carry himself like a short guy. Most are shy or defensive, or some messed-up combination of the two, but St. Clair is confident and friendly and—

“Jeez, stare much?”

“What?” I jerk my head back, but Rashmi’s not talking to me. She’s shaking her head at Meredith, who looks as sheepish as I feel.

“You’re burning holes into St. Clair’s head. It’s not attractive.”

“Shut up.” But Meredith smiles at me and shrugs.

Well. That settles that. As if I needed another reason not to lust. Boy Wonder is officially off-limits. “Don’t say anything to him,” she says. “Please.”

“Of course,” I say.

“Because we’re obviously just friends.”

“Obviously.”

We mill around until the head of school arrives for her welcome speech. The head is graceful and carries herself like a ballerina. She has a long neck, and her snow-white hair is pulled into a tidy knot that makes her look distinguished rather than elderly. The overall effect is Parisian, although I know from my acceptance letter she’s from Chicago. Her gaze glides across us, her one hundred handpicked pupils. “Welcome to another exciting year at the School of America in Paris. I’m pleased to see so many familiar faces, and I’m even happier to see the new ones.”

Apparently school speeches are one thing France can’t improve.

“To the students who attended last year, I invite you all to give a warm welcome to your new freshman class and to the new upperclassmen, as well.”