Good girl.
He’s right.
He is.
That sums me up. Certainly, I was late to class. I skipped class. I drank beer and played games and went to a real party and did all the things that high school students are supposed to do for one stupid weekend, but that doesn’t mean anything at all. It’s not like it changed me in any real way.
I’m in the good-girl category. I live there. I am listed there firmly, my name printed, and a solid black checkmark next to it. My brother is still a bit lost, even though he’s found Esther and he thinks he’s in love, and we’re all just stuck unless we do something drastic and wild that changes our hearts and tears up our souls a little bit.
Good girl.
I don’t know why it bothers me so much, but it follows me. It tails me back to school. It follows me back into French class and sits curled on my shoulder and slides up my neck to whisper in my ear.
It’s nothing, I’m nothing else.
Mr. Belrose doesn’t look at me in any special way when he hands our tests back. He doesn’t give me a special wink, or a specific smile. He treats me like he treats Thea . . . like someone holding on to something a bit distasteful, arm extended, away from the body. Like what you’re holding is important enough that you can’t drop it, but God forbid you let it near enough to actually touch you.
“Might I remind you all,” Mr. Belrose says, “that essays are due today.” He smiles at us like this is a special day, one we’ve all been waiting for.
About a month ago, he assigned us a monster essay. A huge one. Eight pages. Which would suck in any class, honestly.
Except that Belrose said it all had to be en français.
Which meant it was a beast of a homework assignment, and even the girls who were nursing huge crushes on Mr. Belrose were sort of grumbling about it because it was definitely not one of those things you could dash off the evening before in a Red Bull–infused rush of chemical energy.
Of course, I wrote mine on Julius Caesar conquering Gaul and had it done two weeks ago and made it ten pages long because French history is really rich and interesting, and eight pages was just not enough to accurately cover the whole Roman takeover and how it was all about debt, but that’s just me.
I pull my essay out of my folder and walk it up to Mr. Belrose’s desk.
He is wearing glasses again today. Ones with thick black frames. They accentuate the deep green of his eyes, but I try not to notice. Deep green eyes are not my business.
He glances at me, and the corner of his mouth pulls up, just slightly. So slightly I hardly notice.
“Merci, Mademoiselle Stone.”
His left hand moves to his side.
There is something gauzy and soft and lavender in his pocket.
Something—
Oh my God.
My scarf.
He watches as I notice. His deep green eyes—eyes that are suddenly my concern after all—fill with amusement.
His smile grows wider.