Isla and the Happily Ever After (11 page)

“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.”

Chapter twelve

The sixth floor isn’t a regular floor. True, it has the same peculiar contrast of crystalline fixtures and fluorescent bulbs, antique wallpaper and industrial rugs, but it’s what the French call
les chambres de bonne.
The maids of the aristocracy used to live up here. The ceilings are lower, and there are fewer rooms. It’s also silent. No voices, no music. Eerie.

I pass a door that’s been plastered with a dozen images of the same boy band, another with a small whiteboard that has a phone number scribbled on it, and another with a large whiteboard that’s been tagged with the words
DAVE HAS TINY BALLS!

Room 604’s door is blank.

In previous years, Josh would tack up silly illustrations of himself in various costumes – cowboy, pirate, clown, robot, bear. My heart tugs at yet another reminder of his current state of unhappiness at our school.

I smooth the front of my dress. It’s been an hour since breakfast, because I needed to take a shower. I also needed to apply some serious bruise-covering make-up. I take a deep breath and copy his signature knock.

Josh opens the door with a knowing smile.

I return it shyly.

He steps aside, and I enter. I expect him to close the door behind me, because, well,
he’s Josh,
but he props it open with a book about Parisian architecture. I’m touched by this gesture of respect…even though I wouldn’t mind the privacy right now.

“Sorry, it’s such a mess.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I cleared off the bed, though, and the sheets are clean.”

My eyebrows practically hit my hairline.

“
To sit on
.” His accusation is made jokingly, but his skin turns melon pink. “Nice shoes, by the way.”

I’m wearing flats. “Nice deflection, by the way.”

“Nice to see you, by the way.”

“Nice save, by the way.”

Josh grins as I drop my homework-stuffed bag to the floor. In theory, I’m going to study, and he’s going to draw. In reality? I hope we make out.

His bedroom is
spectacular.
The small space feels extra small, because of the sheer volume of artwork, which is everywhere. But the room doesn’t feel cramped. It feels like a cocoon. His drawings are on his desk – which isn’t even our standard-issue desk, it’s some kind of drafting desk – on his dresser, on the floor, on top of his fridge. And they cover nearly every inch of his ceiling and walls.

“I feel like I’m inside of your head.” And then I regret saying it. Because, creepy.

But Josh seems to relax. “My friends used to say that, too.”

I examine his work closer. The illustrations are in black ink, and I recognize locations from all across the city: the rose window and spires of la Sainte-Chapelle, the hedge maze inside le Jardin des Plantes, a wall of human skulls and femurs inside les Catacombes, a caged bird in le Marché aux Fleurs, the opulent exterior of le Palais Garnier – the phantom’s famous opera house.

And the faces. So many faces.

St. Clair; his girlfriend, Anna; his ex-girlfriend Ellie; St. Clair and Josh’s mutual friend Meredith; and of course…Rashmi. My eyes fall on a drawing beside Josh’s window. Rashmi is lounging across a lobby sofa – her head on one armrest, her feet on the other – reading a novel. Her long hair is draped over the back of the armrest in rich, black waves.

“Wow,” I say quietly. “Rashmi looks really pretty.”

Josh swallows. “I did that one a long time ago. Did you see this?” He points to a funny picture of St. Clair poking Anna’s back with someone else’s arm, but now I’m distracted and disoriented. I’m
surrounded.
Rashmi alone. Rashmi with friends.

Rashmi with Josh.

“She’s my friend, Isla. Or she was. I haven’t even talked to her in months.”

“No, I know.” And I shake my head, because I
do
know. I’m not sure why this caught me by surprise. I sit on his bed and smile to show him that I’m fine. She’s his friend, and he clearly misses his friends, so it’s good that these drawings are here. Sure. If I can convince him, maybe I can convince myself.