didn’t even notice that Seany was stil sobbing. So I took him outside and fed him cookies, and now he’s running around in circles, and my
grandparents are stil at the table, as if we’re all going to sit back down and finish our meal.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY FAMILY? And now Dad is knocking on my door. Great. Can this stupid holiday get any worse??
To: Anna Oliphant <[email protected]>
From: Étienne St. Clair <[email protected]>
Subject: SAVING YOU
I’m teleporting to Atlanta. I’m picking you up, and we’l go someplace where our families can’t find us. We’l take Seany. And we’l let him run laps
until he tires, and then you and I will take a long walk. Like Thanksgiving. Remember? And we’l talk about everything BUT our parents . . . or
perhaps we won’t talk at all. We’l just walk. And we’l keep walking until the rest of the world ceases to exist.
I’m sorry, Anna. What did your father want? Please tell me what I can do.
To: Étienne St. Clair <[email protected]>
From: Anna Oliphant <[email protected]>
Subject: Sigh. I’d love that.
Thank you, but it was okay. Dad wanted to apologize. For a split second, he was almost human. Almost. And then Mom apologized, and now
they’re washing dishes and pretending like nothing happened. I don’t know. I didn’t mean to get all drama queen, when your problems are so
much worse than mine. I’m sorry.
To: Anna Oliphant <[email protected]>
From: Étienne St. Clair <[email protected]>
Subject: Are you mad?
My day was boring. Your day was a nightmare. Are you all right?
To: Étienne St. Clair <[email protected]>
From: Anna Oliphant <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Are you mad?
I’m okay. I’m just glad I have you to talk to.
To: Anna Oliphant <[email protected]>
From: Étienne St. Clair <[email protected]>
Subject: So . . .
Does that mean I can cal you now?
Chapter twenty-nine
In the history of terrible holidays, this ranks as the worst ever. Worse than the Fourth of July when Granddad showed up to see the fireworks in a kilt and insisted on singing “Flower of Scotland” instead of “America the Beautiful.” Worse than the Hal oween when Trudy Sherman and I both went to school
dressed as Glinda the Good Witch, and she told everyone her costume was better than mine, because you could see my purple “Monday” panties through
my dress AND YOU TOTALLY COULD.
I’m not talking to Bridgette. She cal s every day, but I ignore her. It’s over. The Christmas gift I bought her, a tiny package wrapped in red-and-white-
striped paper, has been shoved into the bottom of my suitcase. It’s a model of Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris. It was part of a model train set, and because of my poor language skil s, St. Clair spent fifteen minutes convincing the shopkeeper to sel the bridge to me separately.
I hope I can return it.
I’ve only been to the Royal Midtown 14 once, and even though I saw Hercules, Toph was there, too. And he was like, “Hey, Anna. Why won’t you talk to
Bridge?” and I had to run into the restroom. One of the new girls fol owed me in and said she thinks Toph is an insensitive douchebag motherhumping
assclown, and that I shouldn’t let him get to me. Which was sweet, but didn’t real y help.
Afterward, Hercules and I watched the latest cheesy Christmas movie and made fun of the actors’ matching holiday sweaters. He told me about the
mysterious package of roast beef he found in theater six, and he said he’s been enjoying my website. He thinks my reviews are getting better. At least
that was nice.
It was also nice when Dad left. He kept gril ing me about French monuments and making these irritating cal s to his publicist.We were all relieved to see him go.The only consistent bright spot has been St. Clair. We talk every day—cal s, emails, texts. It doesn’t escape my attention that when Toph and I
were separated, our communications fizzled out, but now that I’m not seeing St. Clair every day, we talk even more.
Which makes me feel worse about Toph. If we’d been better friends, we would have kept in contact. It was dumb to think there was a chance we might make it. I can’t believe Matt, of all people, was the one to point out how poorly I handled it. And, honestly, now that I’ve had time to reflect on it, Toph isn’t even that huge of a loss. It only hurts so much to think about him because of Bridgette. How could she keep this a secret from me? Her betrayal is infinitely more painful.
I didn’t have anywhere to go this New Year’s, so Seany and I are staying in. Mom went out with some work friends. I order a cheese pizza, and we
watch The Phantom Menace. This is how much I want to prove to my brother I love him—I’l sit through Jar Jar-freaking-Binks. Afterward, he drags out the action figures while we watch the Times Square countdown on television. “Pkschoo! Pkschoo!” Han Solo fires at my Storm Trooper before ducking