“What? No—”

Some German tourists are posing in front of a storefront with peeling golden letters. We scoot around them, so as not to wreck their picture. “It gets better,” he says. “When they cremated his body, he sat up. No, he did! Probably because the bloke who prepared his body forgot to snip the tendons, so they shrank up when he burned—”

I nod my head in appreciation. “Ew, but cool. Go on.”

“—which made his legs and body bend, but still.” St. Clair smiles triumphantly. “Everyone went mad when they saw it.”

“And who says history is boring?” I smile back, and everything is perfect. Almost. Because this is the moment we pass the entrance to SOAP, and now I’m farther from the school than I’ve ever been before. My smile wavers as I revert to my natural state of being: nervous and weird.

“You know, thanks for that. The others always shut me up long before—” He notices the change in my demeanor and stops. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Yes, and has anyone ever told you that you are a terrible liar? Horrid. The worst.”

“It’s just—” I hesitate, embarrassed.

“Yeeesss?”

“Paris is so . . . foreign.” I struggle for the right word. “Intimidating.”

“Nah.” He quickly dismisses me.

“Easy for you to say.” We step around a dignified gentleman stooping over to pick up after his dog, a basset hound with a droopy stomach. Granddad warned me that the sidewalks of Paris were littered with doggie land mines, but it hasn’t been the case so far. “You’ve been acquainted with Paris your whole life,” I continue. “You speak fluent French, you dress European ...”

“Pardon?”

“You know. Nice clothes, nice shoes.”

He holds up his left foot, booted in something scuffed and clunky. “These?”

“Well, no. But you aren’t in sneakers. I totally stick out. And I don’t speak French and I’m scared of the métro and I should probably be wearing heels, but I hate heels—”