Starry Nights Read Online Free Page B

including imaginary numbers. Can anyone tell Monsieur Garnier what an imaginary number is?”
    Irène waggles her hand high. He calls on her. Figures.
    â€œThe square root of a negative number,” she pronounces.
    He nods and returns to the board, and all I can think is, when will I ever need to know the square root of a negative number? Come to think of it, when will I ever need to know an imaginary number? Maybe if one of my imaginary friends at the museum wants to call or text me. I grin at the prospect of an imaginary phone chat.
    When class ends a few minutes later, Simon informs me in a singsong voice that all I need to remember about negative numbers is this: “What goes up must come down, negative exponents turn around.” He faux-pirouettes into the musty stone corridor, and I laugh.
    â€œPretty sure that was from about six years ago, which is probably where my level of math is these days anyway,” I say.
    â€œYou can copy my work if you want.” Simon does infinitely better in classes than I, something he pulls off with even less studying. We walk down the long hallway to the final class of the day, another one we share, and the only class I like: English. Thanks to working at the museum since I was able to walk, I’ve heard English and had to speak it every day of my life. I can even do flawless Australian, British, and American accents, including—step right up and take your pick—a range of California, Midwest, southern, and even Bostonian. I can drop my
R
s and turn my
A
s into “ahhs” like nobody’s business. Unfortunately, my party tricks are as good as currency from the moon at this school. The teachers say we sound like we’re making fun of other cultures when we try on accents. I want to say, have you ever heard anyone make fun of ze way ze French talk?
    â€œI owe you,” I say to Simon.
    â€œYou’re coming up with those date plans for Lucy tonight. Don’t forget.”
    â€œSocial coordinator in exchange for math? Totally fair. Besides, I have something planned already. I’ll tell you later,” I say as we settle into class.
    When school ends, Simon and I head through the square in the middle of the classrooms, down the stone steps and out onto the sidewalk into a crowd of classmates already forming their groups and heading to cafés or to homes. We don’t have clubs or teams like most American schools do, so my after-the-bell activities can involve a little bit of legwork today.
    â€œI am in need of your services,” I tell Simon as we head out to the crowded avenue, unleashed into the freedom of a Friday afternoon. “And I don’t just mean the copying.”
    â€œAh, my dear Julien, I knew this day would finally come.” He holds his arm out grandly. “Let me take you down to Pigalle and find a woman for you. How much money do you have? We can finally rid you of the
American Infection
once and for all.”
    â€œYeah, not those services,” I say, but this time I can laugh, because Jenny’s fading even faster from my heart.
    I met Jenny last fall on one of the tours I lead at the museum. She was wearing jean shorts, white sneakers, and a green T-shirt with a swirly slogan on it for a shoe brand. She asked me out for coffee, and I said yes, taken with both her big brown eyes and her directness. We went to the Café Montifaud around the corner from the museum for a café noisette and an île flottante, a kind ofmeringue that floats in a vanilla custard with caramel. She asked millions of questions.
Where were you born?
Here, in a hospital in the sixth arrondissement.
Have you lived here your whole life?
Yes.
What’s it like to live in Paris?
It’s like home.
This île flottante is so delicious. Can I get one in the States?
I shook my head and said, “You’ll have to come back to Paris.”
    â€œI’m staying in France,” she said, all cheery and bright