“Oh. Yeah, of course.” I try not to let my disappointment show.

St. Clair is amused. “It’s only the first week of school. We have all the time in the world to visit your museum.”

We. For some reason, my insides squirm. St. Clair and me. Me and St. Clair.

Soon we enter an area even more touristy than our own neighborhood, crammed with bustling restaurants and shops and hotels. Street vendors everywhere shout in English, “Couscous! You like couscous?” and the roads are so narrow that cars can’t drive on them. We walk down the middle of the street and through the jostling crowd. It feels like a carnival. “Where are we?” I wish I didn’t have to ask so many questions.

“In between the rue St. Michel and the rue St. Jacques.”

I shoot him a look.

“Rue means ‘street.’ And we’re still in the Latin Quarter.”

“Still? But we’ve been walking for—”

“Ten? Fifteen minutes?” he teases.

Hmph. Obviously Londoners or Parisians or whatever he is aren’t used to the glory of car ownership. I miss mine, even if it does have trouble starting. And no air-conditioning. And a busted speaker. I say this, and he smiles. “Wouldn’t do you any good even if you did have one. It’s illegal to drive here if you’re under eighteen.”

“You could drive us,” I say.

“No, I couldn’t.”

“You said you had a birthday! I knew you were lying, no one—”

“That’s not what I meant.” St. Clair laughs. “I don’t know how to drive.”

“You’re serious?” I can’t help the evil grin that spreads across my face. “You mean there’s something I know how to do that you don’t?”

He grins back. “Shocking, isn’t it? But I’ve never had a reason. The transit systems here, in San Francisco, in London—they’re all perfectly sufficient.”

“Perfectly sufficient.”

“Shut up.” He laughs again. “Hey, you know why they call this the Latin Quarter?”