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
“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
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