The American Girl by Kate Horsley Page B

this in France every single day.
    â€œUm . . .” I don’t know what to say. “I guess I hadn’t even thought of that.”
    His cigarette has gone out and he leans towards me, pressing the pale tip of the paper cylinder to my glowing cherry, sucking in, lighting up.
    He exhales in slow rings. “I mean it probably is, right? You’re, like, how old?”
    â€œSeventeen.”
    â€œExactly. So who would really want to hurt you?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œSo probably, the likeliest answer is someone just wants to make you freak out and shake you up. And now it’s worked. So probably if you want to win against that person, you should just forget about it, hein ?”
    I take a drag and hold it in, the smoke burning my tongue when I exhale. My eyes prickle. “I’ve got to go,” I say, standing up suddenly.
    My head spins, the moon whirling around me. My face is turned from him, so I let the tears fall. I know I need to go to my room, to bury my face in the pillows and cry and cry. I don’t know whether it’s the texts, the stress of the last few days, or the fact that he seems to think it’s no big deal how I feel about it all.
    I’m about to run off when I feel his fingers touching mine, taking them. “Hey, don’t cry.” He pulls me back down onto the bench, turning my face so that I’m looking into his eyes. The moonlight catches the curve of his lips.
    His fingers graze mine. “Listen,” he says, “if you are stressed you can talk to me. You can. I am here.” His arm moves behind my back on the bench. “All I’m saying is, don’t be stressed.”
    I swipe away the tears. “Don’t you think it’s—”
    â€œWeird? Mean? Ouais , but the worst thing when people bully you is to let them hurt you.” He stretches out his spare hand—the one not lolling behind my back—and puts his finger almost to mylips to shush me before I can say any more. I can smell the salt of his hand.
    â€œI know it can be hard here . . .” he says, taking a long drag on his cigarette. “There’s drama, and it always has been so. My mother, she needs the money from these exchanges. It is hard for her since my father left and she is not always good with the people who come. She tries, though.”
    I raise my eyebrows. “There’ve been others, like me?”
    â€œ Bien sûr. A lot, all through my childhood, there were. Always girls. And Maman can be, you know . . . a bitch. I mean, really, watch out for her.”
    â€œReally?”
    He nods, matter-of-fact. “And then there’s Noé. She has struggled the most since Papa went. She cuts herself sometimes, makes herself sick. She has always been fragile. She tried to kill herself when she was only twelve.”
    â€œJesus, I’m so sorry.”
    â€œ Ouais. My mother found her that time. That was . . . Now she just does idiot things, like going to that stupid club tonight. She gets in trouble and then, boom!” He snaps his fingers. “Drama. Shouting. That is usually when I take off.”
    â€œSo I guess you’re going to take off soon?” I ask, swallowing smoke, trying not to sound like I care.
    â€œYou want me to?” His voice is gravelly, his pupils so big a girl could go skinny-dipping in them.
    I shake my head. Something tumbles down inside me, plummeting into free-fall. I lean back and his arm warms my shoulder blades. His head turns towards me, his breath on my cheek.
    â€œYou’re so much nicer than the others,” he murmurs, almost too quiet to hear. Our faces are so close our noses touch. Suddenly all I can think about is that I can smell his skin, his breath, hear the click of his tongue in his mouth. Owls are calling through the cricket noise. I have the ridiculous urge to tell him some endearment even though I don’t know him at all. But then I don’t have to