Chapter eleven
We kiss on the stairs, on the streets of the Right Bank, on the bridge over the Seine, on the streets of the Left Bank. We kiss until our mouths are sore and our lips are numb. It’s so intense that I don’t realize my feet are blistered until we’re only a few blocks away from the dorm. I pop off my heels on the steps of Saint-étienne-du-Mont, a church across from the Panthéon, and release a pained hiss of relief.
“Blisters and a bloody nose.” Josh sits down beside me. “This went well.”
I smile and kiss him again.
“Those shoes are insane,” he says.
I wiggle my red feet. “Maybe they were a bit much.”
“Your footwear tends to run on the exceedingly tall side. You know we all know you’re short, right? It’s not, like, a secret.”
“Hush.”
“I like that you’re tiny. I like that I could carry you around in my pocket.”
I shove his arm with my shoulder. “I said hush.”
“And if we ever vacation together, you can sit on my lap to save airfare.”
I shove him harder, and he laughs. He tries to push me back, but I’m faster, and he tumbles against the steps. He laughs even harder. I do, too. “You deserve that,” I say.
“And now I’ll pay my penance.” Josh jumps to the ground and faces his backside towards me. “Get on.”
“What?”
“You can’t walk in those shoes, and the streets are covered in broken glass.”
“I’m sorry. Are you offering me a piggyback ride?”
He sighs in fake exasperation. “Will you just get on already?”
“Just because I’m short doesn’t mean that I don’t weigh anything.”
“Just because I’m skinny doesn’t mean that I can’t carry someone short. You’re what, five one?”
“Yeah.” I’m surprised that he guessed it exactly. “What are you?”
“Six one. So there.”
“Freak.”
He grins at me over his shoulder. “Get on.”
I stand, my heels in hand. “Okay. You asked for it.”
Josh squats down, and I climb on. It’s like trying to mount a thoroughbred. He hops in a way that bounces me up higher, above his waist, and I settle into him. My arms wrap around his shoulders. His hands rest above my dress, holding on to my lower thighs.
“Ah, I see. This was all a clever ruse.”
He heads towards our dormitory. “A ruse?”
“To get under my dress on our first date.”
The back of his neck instantly warms. “I promise it wasn’t.”
“Mm-hm.”
His neck grows even hotter. I breathe in his scent deeply, delirious with happiness. In the distance, Paris is still celebrating, but our own neighbourhood is quiet – the only sound, his footfalls. “You know my friend St. Clair?” he says after a few minutes. “He’s only a few inches taller than you, and his girlfriend, Anna? She’s taller than he is.”
“Kurt only likes tall girls. Maybe it’s made me paranoid that all guys might prefer partners closer to their own mouth height.” It feels strange to confess this aloud.
“I’d like to point out that we’ve had zero problem reaching each other’s mouths.” There’s a smile in his voice. I smile back against his neck.
Josh walks the next few blocks in silence. Unfortunately, it’s not actually comfortable to sit like this, and – judging by his laboured breath – it’s not comfortable to carry me, either. But he gallantly piggybacks me all the way to our dorm, through the empty lobby, and straight to my door. The dismount is awkward, and we’re both in at least moderate pain, but it doesn’t matter. Our lips find each other again. He’s out of breath, but he pushes me against my door until it bursts open. We collapse into the room.
Kurt blinks at us from my bed. “You really do need to fix that door.”
Sunday is Josh’s only detention-free day, and he texts me right as I’m waking up. I’m glad we remembered to exchange numbers. I squeeze my phone and roll over in bed.
“Watch it,” Kurt mumbles.
“He says good morning.”
“It’s the afternoon. Tell him he’s wrong.”
I text Josh a good morning in return and suggest that he ask for next Saturday off, too. After all, that’s his Sabbath. Winking smiley face. He texts me back a long line of exclamation points followed by a WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT??
I hug Kurt. “He likes me. He liiiiiiikes me.”
“Duh.” But he settles into my hug. “I’ve missed this.”
“Me, too.”
Last night we cheated on the rules. Nate was out for Nuit Blanche so Kurt decided to stay in. Which worked out perfectly, because it meant that I got to rehash every detail of every second of my date. Until I was told to shut up.
His eyes widen. “Half of your nose is purple.”
I scramble out of bed and lunge towards the mirror. Damn. I gently prod my nose, wince at the tenderness, and sigh. “At least it’s proof that yesterday really happened?”
But Kurt is already thinking about today. “I have a history essay due tomorrow, and you need to study for that calculus test. Do you want to work here or in my room?” And then he grins. His room is disgusting, and I refuse to hang out in it. Tidiness – in his bedroom, in his school bag, in his appearance – is never on Kurt’s agenda.
I lean in closer to my reflection. “I don’t know. Josh and I didn’t make plans, but it seemed kinda understood that we’d hang out.”
Kurt clambers off my bed and puts on his hoodie. “That sucks.”
“You suck.”
“I’m about to bring you breakfast. I’m so far from sucking that you can’t even handle it.” And he slams my door shut behind him. I wait for it to pop open, but – for once – it doesn’t. He kicks it back open. We laugh.
“Back in ten,” he says.
Every Sunday, we have fresh baguettes from the boulangerie two streets over. I remove a jar of Nutella, a knife, and two antique jade mugs from their designated drawer and turn on the electric kettle. A heaping spoonful of instant coffee mix – Kurt’s favourite, unpalatable American brand – is added to each cup. And then I return to the mirror. My nose resembles a small eggplant. Even with a thick layer of concealer, the proof of our date will last for at least a week.
Kurt returns as the kettle dings. Our routine is meticulously orchestrated. He’s pouring the water into our mugs when there are two knocks, low on my door. The sound gives me an instant jolt. A hit stronger than caffeine. But Kurt looks at me in confusion as if to say, I’m already here?
“I could let myself in,” Josh says, in cheerful spirits. “But I won’t, because that’d be rude. Also, you might be getting dressed, and that’d be—”
“She’s dressed,” Kurt says. “Come in.”
I yank open the door before Josh gets the wrong idea.
“Hey,” he says. There’s an uneasy pause. “So I guess you’ve stopped propping this open?”
I actually, literally smack my forehead. “We forgot! I can’t believe we forgot.”
Kurt slides over my physics textbook with his foot, and I shove it underneath the door. “Nate was out last night,” he says, “so I stayed over.”
Josh enters the room, but his arms are crossed. Unsure. “You slept here?”
“Yes,” Kurt says.
I smile grimly. “Not to be a cliché? But it’s really not what it sounds like.”
Josh uncrosses his arms. “No, I know.” He shakes his head and starts to cross them again, but he catches himself. His hands move to his pockets. “I should’ve called. I thought you might want to get some breakfast. Lunch. Whatever it is. I’ll come back—”
“No!” I say. “Join us. We have bread and terrible coffee. Yeah? Huh, huh?”
“You do make it sound tempting.”
My smile softens. “Come on. Stay.”
Josh returns the smile, at last. “Fine. But only because I feel sorry for you. Clearly an angry gang member punched you in the face last night.”
“It’s astounding what one chin can do.”
Kurt studies us from the bed as if he’d chanced upon a pair of wild beasts in their natural habitat.
Josh’s expression falls. “I’m sorry. Does it hurt?”
“Stop apologizing.” My smile widens as I drop a spoonful of powdered coffee into the Oktoberfest stein. “I only have two mugs. Sorry.”
Josh sits in my desk chair. “You stop apologizing.”
I add the hot water and give him the stein. He grins. I take a seat beside Kurt and thrust half of my baguette at Josh, who protests with a waved hand. I insist. He accepts. We’re bordering on uncomfortable silence territory.
I’m relieved when Josh turns to Kurt. “You know, there’s something I’ve always been curious about. I once saw your name written down on a list in the head’s office. Your full name.”
Kurt sighs. Heavily. “I was born the week Kurt Cobain died. My parents were friends with him, so they named me in his honour.”
Josh freezes, Nutella-smeared knife mid-air. “They were friends with him?”
“My dad is Scott Bacon. He was the lead guitarist for Dreck.”
“The early nineties grunge band,” I say. “They had that one hit, ‘No One Saw Me’?”
“Yeah.” Josh shakes his head. “Yeah, I know who they are.”
“The song made him rich and famous, and that attracted my mother. She was a runway model here in Paris,” Kurt says matter-of-factly.
Josh freezes again.
I always forget how surprising it is for people to learn about Kurt’s parents. It seems like he should come from a family of neurosurgeons or astronautical engineers, but the giveaway is that – underneath the unkempt hair and messy wardrobe – Kurt is handsome. Strangers often mistake him for an athlete, because he’s tall and angular and muscular. But he’s only in shape because he hates mass transit and walks everywhere. I wonder if his appearance is another reason why Josh thought we were dating.
“But their relationship isn’t like that,” I explain. “Kurt’s mom had her own money. They married for love, they’re still together.”
Josh takes a huge bite of bread and talks before swallowing. “I can’t believe they knew Kurt Cobain. That’s so cool.”
I used to watch Josh in the cafeteria, and he’s always been a sloppy eater. I feel oddly pleased to see this bad habit up close. Maybe because it reminds me of the Josh that his friends knew – the relaxed, barriers-down, inner-circle Josh. Or maybe because it reminds me of Kurt, and Kurt is safe.
“No,” Kurt says. “It blows. I was named after a guy who committed suicide. Also, people assume I’m this huge Nirvana fan, which isn’t even logical, because it’s not like I named myself.”
“Do you like them at all?” Josh asks.
“No. We can switch names, if you want.”
“Kurt Cobain Wasserstein.” Josh says it slowly and laughs. “Nah. Doesn’t have the same ring.”
“Kurt Donald Cobain Wasserstein. You can’t forget his middle name. I can’t.”
“Which would make you…Joshua Elvis Aaron Presley Bacon.”
Kurt startles. “Are you serious? That’s your middle name?”
Josh’s stone countenance makes me snort with laughter.
“Isla, is he serious?” Kurt asks again, but then he reads my own expression correctly. “Oh.” He wilts. “Never mind. You were just…”
But then a perfect moment occurs as Kurt straightens back up. He grins.
Josh points a finger. “You are not going to say it.”
“…joshing me.”
Josh clutches his chest in agony as Kurt explodes into loud belly laughter. My heart might burst from happiness. Josh shakes his head. “I’m only letting you get away with that because I’m trying to make a good impression on your lady friend, okay? My real middle name is David.”
Kurt considers it for several seconds. “Deal. I’ll take it.”
Josh takes his first sip of coffee. “Oh, man. You weren’t kidding. This is terrible.”
“So what should we call Isla?” Kurt asks.
Josh sets down the stein to properly examine me. He gazes into my eyes as I think, David. Josh’s middle name is David. Thanks to sleepless nights on Wikipedia, I know it’s also his father’s middle name.
“Isla is a good name,” he finally says. “The right name.”
Kurt isn’t impressed. “Isla was named after something, too, you know.”
“Don’t you dare,” I say.
Josh sits forward. His eyes shine. “Do tell.”
“Prince. Edward. Island,” Kurt says.
There’s a long pause. And then I’m the one sighing. “Yeah, so my parents did that horrible thing where they named me and my sisters after where we were conceived.”
Another pause.
“They did not,” Josh says.
“Alas. Geneviève was named after the patron saint of Paris. ‘Hattie’ is short for Manhattan, and, yeah…Prince Edward Island. My parents were on vacation. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad my name isn’t Prince or Edward. But the notion of island travel? Completely ruined for me.”
Their laughter is interrupted as the stairwell door opens with a booming metallic clang. A swarm of girls peer in at us as they pass by my open door. More than one eyebrow is raised. I hear my name murmured down the hall and into the lobby, accompanied by laughter that’s not nearly so friendly.
“You know,” Josh says, with a glance towards me. “I’d almost forgotten how annoying this room is. Those stairs drove me nuts.”
“I don’t like the window,” Kurt says.
“Seriously. The prisonlike bars, the traffic. Do you remember that opera singer who used perform out there?”
“So what are you doing today?” I ask, pushing the girls from my mind.
My question catches Josh off guard. “Um, working. Drawing. By myself. In my room. On the top floor?”
“Oh. Cool!” I try to sound chipper. How naive for me to assume that we’d be hanging out. Of course he’s busy. “We’ll be working down here. On homework. Like usual.”
But Josh seems…confused. Disappointed.
It takes me a moment. And then I realize that he’s just told me that he’ll be alone in his room and where his room is located. And I told him that I’ll be here with Kurt. The guy who slept in my bed last night.
“Unless you wanted to hang out?” The words spill from my lips. “I’ll come up. To your room. If you want.”
Josh’s entire body brightens. “Yeah?” He glances at Kurt. “You’re invited, too, of course.”
“I don’t think you mean that.” Kurt drains the last of his coffee. “And I’d pass, anyway. I’d rather not watch you guys feel each other up.”