Isla and the Happily Ever After
Page 23“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.”
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.
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.”
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.
Josh stares at me for a long time. I keep my eyes on his bedspread – blue-and-white plaid, very male – and try to remember how Isla-of-the-past would have fainted if she could see Isla-of-the-present. “If I show you something,” he finally says, “you have to promise me that you’ll take it as a compliment. No judging.”