Chapter 19

There it is! That's my plan."

St. Clair fol ows my gaze to the massive dome.The violet gray sky, the same sky Paris has seen every day since the temperature dropped, has

subdued it, stripped away its golden gleam, but I am no less intrigued.

"The Panthéon?" he asks warily.

"You know, I've been here three months, and I stil have no idea what it is." I jump into the crosswalk leading toward the gigantic structure.

He shrugs. "It's a pantheon."

I stop to glare, and he pushes me forward so I'm not run over by a blue tourist bus. "Oh, right. A pantheon. Why didn't I think of that?"

St. Clair glances at me from the corner of his eyes and smiles. "A pantheon means it's a place for tombs—of famous people, people important to the

nation."

"Is that all ?" I'm sort of disappointed. It looks like it should've at least crowned a few kings or something.

He raises an eyebrow.

"I mean, there are tombs and monuments everywhere here. What's different about this one?" We climb the steps, and the ful height of the approaching

columns is overwhelming. I've never been this close.

"I don't know. Nothing, I suppose. It's a bit second rate, anyway."

"Second rate? You've gotta be kidding." Now I'm offended. I like the Panthéon. No, I LOVE the Panthéon. "Who's buried here?" I demand.

"Er. Rousseau, Marie Curie, Louis Brail e, Victor Hugo—"

"The Hunchback of Notre-Dame guy?"

"The very one. Voltaire. Dumas. Zola."

"Wow. See? You can't say that's not impressive." I recognize the names, even if I don't know what they all did.

"I didn't." He reaches for his wal et and pays our admission charge. I try to get it—since it was my idea in the first place—but he insists. "Happy

Thanksgiving," he says, handing me my ticket. "Let's see some dead people."

We're greeted by an unimaginable number of domes and columns and arches. Everything is huge and round. Enormous frescoes of saints, warriors,

and angels are painted across the wal s. We strol across the marble in awed silence, except for when he points out someone important like Joan of Arc

or Saint Geneviève, the patron saint of Paris. According to him, Saint Geneviève saved the city from famine. I think she was a real person, but I'm too shy to ask. When I'm with him, I'm always aware of how much I don't know.

A swinging brass sphere hangs from the highest point in the center dome. Okay, now I can't help it. "What's that?"

St. Clair shrugs and looks around for a sign.

"I'm shocked. I thought you knew everything."

He finds one. "Foucault's pendulum. Oh. Sure." He looks up in admiration.

The sign is written in French, so I wait for his explanation. It doesn't come. "Yes?"

St. Clair points at the ring of measurements on the floor. "It's a demonstration of the earth's rotation. See? The plane of the pendulum's swing rotates

every hour. You know, it's funny," he says, looking all the way up at the ceiling, "but the experiment didn't have to be this big to prove his point."

"How French."

He smiles. "Come on, let's see the crypt."

"Crypt?" I freeze. "Like, a crypt crypt?"

"Where'd you think the dead bodies were?"

I cough. "Right. Sure. The crypt. Let's go."

"Unless you're scared."

"I didn't have a problem at the cemetery, did I?" He stiffens, and I'm mortified. I can't believe I brought up Père-Lachaise. Distraction. Quick, I need a distraction! I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. "Race you!" And I run toward the closest crypt entrance. My pounding feet echo throughout the building, and the tourists are all staring.

I. Am. Going. To. Die. Of. Embarrassment.

And then—he shoots past me. I laugh in surprise and pick up speed. We're neck and neck, almost there, when an angry guard leaps in front of us. I trip

over St. Clair trying to stop. He steadies me as the guard shouts at us in French. My cheeks redden, but before I can try to apologize, St. Clair does it for us. The guard softens and lets us go after a minute of gentle scolding.

It is like Père-Lachaise again. St. Clair is practical y strutting.

"You get away with everything."

He laughs. He doesn't argue, because he knows it's true. But his mood changes the moment the stairs come into view. The spiral staircase down to the

crypt is steep and narrow. My irritation is replaced by worry when I see the terror in his eyes. I'd forgotten about his fear of heights.

"You know . . . I don't real y wanna see the crypt," I say.

St. Clair shoots me a look, and I shut my mouth. Determined, he grips the rough stone wal and moves slowly downward. Step. Step. Step. It's not a long staircase, but the process is excruciating. At last we reach the bottom, and an impatient herd of tourists stampedes out behind us. I start to apologize—it was so stupid to bring him here—but he talks over me. "It's bigger than I thought. The crypt." His voice is strained and rushed. He won't look at me.

Deflection. Okay. I take his cue. "You know," I say careful y, "I just heard someone say that the crypt covers the entire area underneath the building. I was picturing endless catacombs decorated with bones, but this isn't so bad."

"No skul s or femurs, at least." A fake laugh.

In fact, the crypt is well lit. It's freezing down here, but it's also clean and sparse and white. Not exactly a dungeon. But St. Clair is stil agitated and embarrassed. I lunge toward a statue. "Hey, look! Is that Voltaire?"

We move on through the hal ways. I'm surprised by how bare everything is.There's a lot of empty space, room for future tombs. After exploring for a

while, St. Clair relaxes again, and we talk about little things, like the test last week in calculus and the peculiar leather jacket Steve Carver has been wearing lately.We haven't had a normal conversation in weeks. It almost feels like it did . . . before. And then we hear a grating American voice behind us.

"Don't walk behind him.We'l be stuck here all day."

St. Clair tenses.

"He shoulda stayed home if he was so afraid of a couple stairs."

I start to spin around, but St. Clair grips my arm. "Don't. He's not worth it." He steers me into the next hal way, and I'm trying to read a name chiseled into the wal , but I'm so furious that I'm seeing spots. St. Clair is rigid. I have to do something.

I squint at the name until it comes into focus. "Emily Zola. That's only the second woman I've seen down here. What's up with that?"

But before St. Clair can answer, the grating voice says, "It's Émile." We turn around to find a smug guy in a Euro Disney sweatshirt. "Émile Zola is a man."

My face burns. I reach for St. Clair's arm to pul us away again, but St. Clair is already in his face. "Émile Zola was a man," he corrects. "And you're an

arse. Why don't you mind your own bloody business and leave her alone!"

Leave her alone, alone, alone! His shout echoes through the crypt. Euro Disney, startled by the outburst, backs into his wife, who yelps. Everyone else stares, mouths open. St. Clair yanks my hand and drags me to the stairs, and I'm nervous, so scared of what will happen. Adrenaline carries him an entire spiral up, but then it's as if his body has realized what's happening, and he abruptly halts and dangerously sways backward.

I steady him from behind. "I'm here."

He squeezes my fingers in a death grip. I gently march him upward until we're back under the domes and columns and arches, the open space of the

main floor. St. Clair lets go of me and col apses onto the closest bench. He hangs his head, like he's about to be sick. I wait for him to speak.

He doesn't.

I sit on the bench beside him. It's a memorial for Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, who wrote The Little Prince. He died in a plane crash, so I suppose there aren't any remains for a tomb downstairs. I watch people take pictures of the frescoes. I watch the guard who yel ed at us earlier. I don't watch St. Clair.

At last, he raises his head. His voice is calm. "Shal we look for a turkey dinner?"

It takes hours of examining menus before we find something suitable.The search turns into a game, a quest, something to lose ourselves in.We need to

forget the man in the crypt.We need to forget that we aren't home.

When we final y discover a restaurant advertising an "American Thanksgiving Dinner," we whoop, and I perform a victory dance. The maître d' is

alarmed by our enthusiasm but seats us anyway. "Bril iant," St. Clair says when the main course arrives. He raises his glass of sparkling water and smiles.

"To the successful locating of a proper turkey dinner in Paris."

I smile back. "To your mom."

His smile falters for a moment, and then is replaced with one that's softer. "To Mum." We clink glasses.

"So, um.You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but how's she doing?" The words spil from my mouth before I can stop them. "Is the radiation therapy making her tired? Is she eating enough? I read that if you don't put on lotion every night, you can get burns, and I was just wondering ..." I trail off, seeing his expression. It's as if I've sprouted tusks. "I'm sorry. I'm being nosy, I'l shut—"

"No," he interrupts. "It's not that. It's just . . . you're the first person who's known any of that. How . . . how did ...?"

"Oh. Um. I was just worried, so I did some research. You know, so I'd . . . know," I finish lamely.

He's quiet for a moment. "Thank you."

I look down at the napkin in my lap. "It's nothing—"

"No, it is something. A big something. When I try talking to El ie about it, she has no bloody clue—" He cuts himself off, as if he's said too much.

"Anyway. Thank you."

I meet his gaze again, and he stares back in wonder. "You're welcome," I say.

We spend the rest of dinner talking about his mother. And when we leave the restaurant, we keep talking about her. We walk along the Seine. The

moon is ful and the lamps are on, and he talks until it's as if he weighs an entire person lighter.

He stops. "I didn't mean to do that."

I breathe deeply, inhaling the pleasant river smel . "I'm glad you did."

We're at the street we'd turn on to go back to the dorm. He looks down it hesitantly, and then blurts, "Let's see a film. I don't want to go back yet."

He doesn't have to ask me twice. We find a theater showing a new release, a slacker comedy from the States, and stay for the double feature. I don't remember the last time I laughed so hard, and beside me, St. Clair laughs even harder. It's two in the morning before we get back to the dorm. The front

desk is empty, and Nate's light is off.

"I think we're the only ones in the building," he says.

"Then no one will mind when I do this!" I jump onto the desk and parade back and forth. St. Clair belts out a song, and I shimmy to the sound of his

voice. When he finishes, I bow with a grand flourish.

"Quick!" he says.

"What?" I hop off the desk. Is Nate here? Did he see?

But St. Clair runs to the stairwel . He throws open the door and screams. The echo makes us both jump, and then together we scream again at the top

of our lungs. It's exhilarating. St. Clair chases me to the elevator, and we ride it to the rooftop. He hangs back but laughs as I spit off the side, trying to hit a lingerie advertisement. The wind is fierce, and my aim is off, so I race back down two flights of stairs. Our staircase is wide and steady, so he's only a few feet behind me. We reach his floor.

"Wel ," he says. Our conversation halts for the first time in hours.

I look past him. "Um. Good night."

"See you tomorrow? Late breakfast at the crêperie?"

"That'd be nice."

"Unless—" he cuts himself off.

Unless what? He's hesitant, changed his mind. The moment passes. I give him one more questioning look, but he turns away.

"Okay." It's hard to keep the disappointment out of my voice. "See you in the morning." I take the steps down and glance back. He's staring at me. I lift my hand and wave. He's oddly statuesque. I push through the door to my floor, shaking my head. I don't understand why things always go from perfect to

weird with us. It's like we're incapable of normal human interaction. Forget about it, Anna.

The stairwel door bursts open.

My heart stops.

St. Clair looks nervous. "It's been a good day. This was the first good day I've had in ages." He walks slowly toward me. "I don't want it to end. I don't want to be alone right now."

"Uh." I can't breathe.

He stops before me, scanning my face. "Would it be okay if I stayed with you? I don't want to make you uncomfortable—"

"No! I mean ..." My head swims. I can hardly think straight. "Yes.Yes, of course, it's okay."

St. Clair is stil for a moment. And then he nods.

I pul off my necklace and insert my key into the lock. He waits behind me. My hand shakes as I open the door.