Isla and the Happily Ever After(10)
Author: Stephanie Perkins

After lunch, I resume the habit of not looking at Josh. It’s easier now.

It’s also not easier.

I think he likes me. I don’t even know how that’s possible, but I do know that it doesn’t matter any more. It can’t matter. In physics, I feel his stare – a string as delicate and gossamer as a spider’s web, gently tugging at the back of my skull. I imagine snipping it loose with a pair of sharp scissors. I don’t know if he’ll try to talk to me after class, and I don’t know what I should say if he does. When the bell rings, I bolt.

He’s not at school the next day. I don’t know why.

I don’t see Josh over the weekend. I remove his drawing from my government textbook and carefully place it inside the top drawer of my desk. I open the drawer. Shut it. Open it. Shut it. Open it, and touch it, and worship it.

Slam it shut and feel so disloyal to Kurt.

Open it again.

Josh is back on Monday. In English, I feel him glancing at me repeatedly. When I finally lift my eyes and look across the circle, he gives me the softest smile.

Oh, it melts me.

The rest of the day is filled with these tiny moments. Another warm smile here, a friendly wave there. Something has changed…but what? On Tuesday, he asks me if I’ve read the new Joann Sfar. I haven’t, but I’m stunned that he remembers our freshman-year, one-sided conversation. And then he’s gone again.

Wednesday.

Thursday.

Friday.

Where is he?

Chapter six

An old man with a busted piano is playing “La Vie en rose” on the street outside my window. He hauls it around this part of the city, from one corner to another, but I’ve never seen how he moves it. It’s early evening on Friday, and the tinkly, fractured music is a bizarre contrast to the rough, powerful memoir I’m reading about being lost at sea.

There are two knocks against my door.

“Just kick it,” I shout from bed. “I haven’t gotten it fixed yet.”

I turn the page of my book, and the door gently swings open, sans kick. I glance up. A double take, and I’m scrambling to my feet. “I’m sorry, I thought you were—”

“Kurt,” Josh says.

“Yeah.”

We stare at each other.

Ohdeargod, he’s attractive. He looks recently showered, and his clothes seem even more carefully put together than usual. Behind his casual American attire, I can always still spot his artist’s eye. His T-shirts and jeans fit, he wears the right colours, the right shoes, the right belt. It’s subtle. But he never just throws something on.

“How did you know this was my room?” I finally ask.

“I saw you come in here the other day while I was waiting for the elevator. It caught my attention, because…this used to be mine.” Josh glances around, taking everything in. This must be strange for him.

It’s strange for me.

Along with the quilt of Manhattan, my bed is mounded with soft pillows and cosy blankets. I’ve squeezed in a skinny, antique bookcase that overflows with adventure books of all kinds – novels, non-fiction, comics. I have a curvy glass lamp and sheer lace curtains and, instead of posters on my walls, I’ve hung scarves and jewellery. My closet is jam-packed with clothing, and I have an additional chest of drawers wedged beneath the school’s chest of drawers. Indulgent bath products line the corners of my tiny sink and equally tiny shower. My desk is organized with special nooks for homework, and my pens, pencils and highlighters are arranged like bouquets in matching vases.

“I knew that,” I admit. “That this was yours.”

Josh raises his dark eyebrows. “Why didn’t you say something?”

I can only shrug, but he nods as if he understands. And I think he does. He places his hands in his pockets, nervous and unsure.

“You’re still in the hallway.” I shake my head. “Come in.”

He does, and the door swings shut behind him.

“Careful!” I grab a textbook and shove it underneath to prop it back open. “Nate’s enforcing the new rules, you know.”

Immediately, I feel like a dork.

But Josh looks confused, and I realize he doesn’t understand because he missed Nate’s speech. I fill him in. “And I don’t want to get in trouble,” I add. “Because then he might not allow Kurt in here any more, and we’ve already been caught once.” It happened during a room check on the second day. We got off with a warning, but we’ve spent most of our afternoons since at the Treehouse, our secret refuge across the river.

Josh rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. Of course.”

He wants to leave.

I flush with panic. I don’t know why he’s here, but I do know that my heart will break if he goes. I gesture towards the desk chair. He takes it. I can barely contain my exhale of relief. I sit across from him on the edge of the bed. I smooth my wrinkled skirt. I stare at my coral-painted toenails.

“It’s prettier in your hands,” he says at last. “The room. Mine always gets messy.”

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and then I look down and let it fall forward again. “Thanks.” I force my eyes to meet his. Hazel. My stomach twists. “My mother is a window dresser. She always tells me that small spaces can still be beautiful.”

“Hard to get smaller than these rooms.”

“You know those crazy holiday department-store displays that people actually wait in line to see? She does them for Bergdorf Goodman.”

“Those are a big deal.” He leans forward, impressed. “Your mom is French, right?”

My heart skips as it does every time he remembers something about me. “Yeah. She started working here, moved there for a better internship, met my dad, and…stayed.”

Josh smiles. “I like that.”

“How did your parents meet?”

“Law school. Yale. Boring story.”

“I’m sure it’s not boring to them.”

He laughs, but my own smile fades. “Where have you been this week?” I ask. “Were you sick?”

“No. I’m fine.” But he sits back again, and his expression becomes impenetrable. “It’s Sukkoth.”

Sue-coat. “Sorry?”

“The Jewish holiday?”

The humiliation blush is instant. Ohmygod.

“I’m off from school until next Thursday,” he continues.

I search for something intelligent to say, something I’ve picked up from living in New York, but my mind is blank. Sukkoth. That’s not a holiday people take off, is it? It can’t be. As my brow furrows, Josh’s eyes brighten. They look…almost hopeful. He shakes his head as if I’d asked the question aloud. “Nope. Most American Jews don’t take it off. And even then, it’s only the first two days.”