Talking to Greer is like talking to a wall. We've been friends for years and I adore her, but she is rarely my go-to person in times of need. I don't mean to say that she isn't willing to listen, because she is. And I don't mean to say that she doesn't care, because she does. In fact, she would be probably be terribly hurt (and terribly prone to throwing one of her fits) if she knew I was keeping a problem from her.

Talking to Greer means that for every difficulty, every crisis, every trouble in my life, she forces me to go over every single detail. She hems and haws over it all, lingering over each point, and proposes a variety of wild solutions. She discusses it endlessly in her rich, Broadway-star voice, and won't let up until the problem is "cured" and I'm exhausted.

Talking to Anna is different. She doesn't overwhelm me with advice. Instead, she overwhelms me with sympathy. She doesn't mean to, I'm sure, but when I'm confiding something upsetting, every word she says drips with a special brand of pity that makes me cringe. It's worse than Greer's Spanish Inquisition. Prying, I can handle. Pity, I can't.

Talking to Michel was different from either of them. He didn't push. He didn't ask questions, except for periods when I lapsed into silence and he said, "Do you want to go on?" He didn't rub my shoulders and tell me that everything would be all right. He didn't force from me answers I didn't want to give. He just listened.

"I'm not sure where to start," I said.

"You could start at the beginning," he said.

I closed my eyes and opened them. He was still there. "I'm not sure when that is."

"Okay," he said. No signs of impatience. "Start with why you're sitting here in your room all dressed up, looking like someone just slapped you."

I glanced down at myself. My hands were folded in my lap, looking very pale against the lace-edged skirt of my black dress. "I got a phone call," I said.

"From?"

"My mom," I said. I closed my eyes.

"What did she say?"

It was then that I actually laughed. "This is stupid," I said, aloud. "This isn't therapy." I looked at him. He didn't say anything. "I'm an honor student, you know," I continued, my voice clear and loud. "Honor Society, five years in a row. President of French Club. I placed second in the entire New England area for debate. I was the youngest person ever to qualify for Astronomy Club…"

I petered out. He certainly didn't seem to be impressed, and neither was I. In fact, I was growing increasingly sickened by myself with each accomplishment I spat out.

I stood up. My room was tiny, half the size of my room at home, so I paced the length of it over and over. "I just…"

Tears stung my eyes. I blinked them back furiously. "I just…"

Michel didn't say anything, but he reached out his hand. I took it, and he pulled me back onto the bed. I sat down and re-folded my hands in my lap.

"It's stupid," I said.

No answer.

I didn't spill the entire story. I didn't tell him about the original Paris story in eighth grade, when I essentially gave my mother a free pass to check out of my life. I didn't tell him about the extent to which my father had checked out of all our lives, years and years ago.

I didn't tell him about how much I was counting on escaping to Yale, how the only downside of the school was the location and its close proximity to Stoneybrook. I didn't tell him about how despite that, in a way I was glad, because it meant I could still return home every now and then to check on Maria and Tiffany and reassure myself that our parents hadn't ruined them any more than they had ruined me.

I tried to keep it as brief as I could. I told him that my mother and I had an awkward, uncomfortable relationship that was only accented by her obvious desire to stay outside the house as often as possible. I told him about her classes, her friends, her dinner parties and her benefits.

"Benefits?" he repeated.

"It's too stupid to even get into," I said. "When the mood randomly strikes them, Mom and her friends will decide that they care passionately about illiteracy, or AIDs, or single mothers on welfare, or something. It's just an excuse to buy a new dress and get plastered."

That was the most I mentioned about Mom's drinking. Maybe he inferred it through other things I said. If he did, he didn't ask.

I told him about my seventeenth birthday earlier that April, how Mom had only remembered because Greer had been planning my party and mentioned it to her mother, who in turn mentioned it to mine. Dad hadn't remembered at all, but then, I hadn't expected him to.

I told him about how I had stopped expecting a lot of things from my father: birthday cards, Christmas gifts, a filled seat at the head of the family dinner table every night. His presence. His love.

I told him about Maria and Tiffany. How much I looked out for them. How much I worried about them. And when I finished, I realized I hadn't so brief after all.

He still didn't say anything, but at the point, I had stopped expecting him to. I kind of enjoyed it. I appreciated his silence, although not as much as I appreciated his presence.

I was still wearing my dress. I shifted in it.

"I've known you for a week," I said.

I wasn't sure if I was expecting him to answer, but he did. "You've been counting the days?" he said. "I'm touched."

I started to laugh, and when I did, I started to cry as well. Messily, with the tears mingling with my mascara and staining my cheeks. Michel was there in an instant, his arms wrapped around me, firm and protective.

But I recovered quickly. In seconds I had straightened up again, wiping the tears away with the back of my hand. "Sorry," I said. "Sorry."

He wasn't hugging me anymore, but he did have a hand resting on my forearm. "You apologize a lot," he said, echoing, word for word, something he had said the very first time we had met.

I ignored that sentiment and reached for a tissue from the box on my nightstand. "On a scale from one to ten," I said, wiping my face, "how pathetic do you find me right now?"

He shrugged. "Zero."

I crumpled the tissue in my hand. "Be honest."

"I am. Listen."

I looked at him.

"Your family is pretty messed up," he said, frankly. "I live with just my mother, and I don't have any, you know, great pearls of wisdom to share about parents. But you're not pathetic. They are. You don't need to apologize for things that aren't your fault."

"Your parents are divorced?" I asked.

"No. My dad died a few years ago."

My hand flew to my mouth. "I'm so sorry."

"There you go again."

I realized what I had said and almost blushed. I searched for something to say. "Were you close?" I said.

He nodded, but didn't offer anything more. I wondered if he had grown so used to it – both the telling and the reactions it garnered – that it no longer hurt when he said it. I wondered whether the hurt ever did go away. I thought about how insignificant my problems seemed in comparison.

As though reading my mind, he spoke again. "I was lucky," he said.

"Lucky?" I echoed stupidly.

"Yes," he said. "My father and I were very close. I don't really know what it's like to have parents like yours. I don't think you're pathetic. Not even close."

I absorbed this slowly. "Do you have siblings?" I asked.

An odd look flitted across his face, but it disappeared. "No," he answered. "Why?"

"I was just thinking that you would make a really good older sibling."

It was as though he knew exactly what I was thinking. "You are a great older sibling. The best," he said. "I would never help my little sisters with their homework. And I hate babysitting."

At that, I almost smiled. "I used to belong to this babysitting club once," I said.

He raised his eyebrows. "And this is in addition to the five-year Honor Society, the French Club presidency, the second in all of New England debate championship title…"

I made a face. "Don't, please."

"I'll stop."

"Thank you."

It was a relatively lighthearted response, but as the words came out, I realized how much more I meant by it. I glanced up at him. "Really," I said. "Thank you."

He squeezed my arm in response. "It's past midnight," he said. "How are you?"

I knew what he was asking. "I'm fine now," I said, and attempted a smile to reinforce my point. "You can go to sleep."

He didn't look wholly convinced, so I stood and took his hand, pulling him to his feet. "Come on," I said, tugging him to the door. "Classes start tomorrow – you need sleep, and so do I."

I don't think he believed me, but he followed obligingly. We stood in the frame of the doorway, facing each other. I was barefoot, which made our height difference even more conspicuous when he enveloped me in a hug. "Take care," he said. He kissed the top of my head. And then he was gone.

My sleep that night was short and dreamless. I woke up the next morning in a daze, momentarily confused by my surroundings until my eyes landed on the campus view outside my open window.

My day began with a short breakfast in the dining hall with Katarine and James, the only other people without a morning class that day. I'm sure my appearance came off as somber: I was dressed in a black-and-white printed skirt and black cardigan, complete with a wide black headband pushing back my wavy blonde hair. I wanted to make the best possible impression, and the color black had struck me as particularly European.

It was true that I only had two classes that day, but the real reason I was so concerned about my appearance was scheduled for later on. After our career center appointment, Vincent had set up a meeting for me that day with the reviews editor of the magazine Coeur regarding a possible internship opportunity. I certainly wanted to look my best for that.

James sat down across from me, plunking down a tray filled with food. "So, Monday stragglers," he said, "what's everyone in for today? I've got philosophy."

Katarine bit into an apple. "Physics," she said, in that understated way of hers. "And chemistry."

"I have physics, too," I chimed in. "Plus European history." I turned to Katarine. "Which professor?"

"Guillemin."

"Same! We'll be together, then," I said.

Katarine didn't smile, exactly, but she nodded and said, "That's good."

"Your day sounds pretty science-heavy," said James, addressing Katarine. "Sure you'll survive?"

"Yes," she said simply. I thought she wasn't going to add any more, but then she said, "I love science. That's what I told Vincent to base my schedule around."

"Very cool," I said, impressed as I always was by someone so focused. I looked at James. "Are you a science person, too?"

He laughed. "No. No, I'm going into the humanities like your usual slacker."

"Oh, come on," I said, knowing that to be accepted into Le Huit was no slacker accomplishment.

"No, it's true," he said. "Vincent called me in and I said, just sign me up for anything. See what sticks."

"That sounds a little like my session," I said. "I ended up signing up for this whole mix of classes." I smiled and toyed with my spoon, feeling a little rush of anticipation for the day ahead. "I'm really excited, though."

The day did not disappoint. My physics class began, and I found myself so absorbed that I nearly forgot to take notes. Just as Vincent had promised, Professor Guillemin's class focused mainly on Einstein's theory of relativity, and Guillemin himself presented it in a way that made it understandable.

"Now, you will tell me that the why and how of something is negotiable depending on perspective, but the when is always constant," Professor Guillemin boomed. "This is not true. When something happens can be different for this young lady here, for example, from when I think something happens. Process thus for a moment. How? Now, say this young man here is standing on a train and…"

I shot a glance at Katarine. She looked positively enraptured.

My European history professor was a seventysomething-looking man who I could picture leaning back in an armchair, smoking a cigar and telling his grandchildren stories about glory days. I listened avidly, and was disappointed when the class came to an end.

"What are you interested in?" I asked Michel later on that day. My breakfast conversation with Katarine and James was on my mind.

We were walking through the early evening, light rain falling down on us. Marie had had a minor coronary when she had found out that my meeting with the Coeur reviews editor was outside of campus; she didn't want me out by myself in the city. Luckily Michel, the Paris veteran, had stepped in and offer to escort me. I wasn't sure whether he had an ulterior motive, hoping to check on me. Of course I didn't ask.

"What am I interested in?" Michel repeated. "The harmonica. John Lennon. Sartre. The Toronto Blue Jays. Is this a game?"

I smiled. "Sartre," I said. "How very pretentious of you."

"Be glad I didn't say J.D. Salinger."

That made me laugh. "The Blue Jays. What is that, basketball?"

"Baseball," he corrected me, sounding slightly horrified. "How could you not know that? I thought you were intelligent."

"I am intelligent. Don't you remember? Honor Society, five years …"

I looked at him to make sure he knew I was joking. He laughed.

"I found out today that Katarine is taking physics and chemistry," I said, wanting to continue my original line of conversation. "And some multivariable calculus class."

"Really?"

"Yeah," I said. "I had no idea she was such a math and science person."

"One of us has to be. And I'm not," he said dryly.

"What kind of person are you, then?"

"One who knows and appreciates the full worth of the Toronto Blue Jays."

I rolled my eyes. He relented.

"All right," he said. "I like history. Government. Politics. That sort of thing. I'd like to be a lawyer eventually."

"A lawyer?" I considered this, and decided that it fit. Michel seemed endlessly cool and unruffled, certainly the lawyer type. Unassuming and confident.

He was watching me. "You disapprove?"

I shook my head. My father was a lawyer, but a different kind. The kind who got into Harvard Law based on five generations of alumni, who looked down on anyone in a skirt, who steamrolled everyone until he got his way. That kind. "No," I said. "I can see it."

"Well, that's nice to know." We walked a few steps in silence before he spoke up again. "How about you? What is this internship for, anyway?"

I smiled, thinking of how excited I had been when Vincent had told me about it. "This new magazine called Coeur," I said. "It just started up last year or so, and it's like the twentysomething's guide to culture in Paris. Music and theater especially. Vincent got me an interview with the reviews editor."

"Sounds impressive."

"It would be an incredible experience," I said. I shifted the packed folder I was carrying from one arm to the other. "I just hope she likes me."

"She will. She will love you."

We reached the building where the meeting was taking place. I stole an anxious glance at Michel. "I don't know how long this is going to take," I said. "Do you…"

He shook his head. "I have my harmonica with me. I'll play on the sidewalk for coins. By the time you come back, I'll be a millionaire." I stared him down, and he laughed. "I brought a book. Relax. Take your time."

I relaxed. "Thank you," I said, and on impulse, threw my arms around him.

"No problem," he said. "Now go."

Catherine Baer, the reviews editor, turned out to be sophisticated-looking woman with cascading black hair. Her voice was rich, like Greer's, and she constantly referred to me as ma chérie. I wasn't sure if I instantly liked her, but I felt a sense of respect for her right away.

"So," she said, lacing her fingers together. "You want to work at a magazine. What brings you to Coeur?"

I began talking. I wasn't overly nervous; I knew I made good impressions and adults usually liked me. I told her how much I loved French culture, naming some films and plays in particular that had made their mark on me. I went on to describe what a hard worker I was, showing her the teacher recommendations I had gotten for Le Huit. I talked myself up without coming off as conceited, an art I had perfected at SDS.

The meeting lasted just a little under an hour. I left the building, my eyes searching for and zeroing in on Michel. I nearly ran toward him.

"I got the internship!" I said, thrilled. "I start in two days!"

He put down his book. "Didn't I say she would love you?"

His tone was knowing, almost chiding, but he was smiling. I hugged him and he let me, resting his chin on the top of my head. Suddenly, I felt him freeze.

I stepped back and out of his arms, looking up at him. "Are you okay?"

His eyes were fixed on a figure in the distance. He stared, apparently not hearing me.

I touched his arm. "Michel?"

He came back to earth. "What? Oh – congratulations!"

I frowned. "What's wrong? Did you see something?"

He shook his head, focusing his eyes back on me. "No. No. I thought I saw someone, but it wasn't them."

"Who did you think it was?"

"No one." Michel began steering me back on the way toward the university again. "Come on, let's get back in time for dinner."

I wasn't one to interfere in other people's business, but suddenly a memory from earlier last week came into my head. Michel's desk. Birth certificates. Photographs. Letters. Curiosity won over. "Michel, who did you think it was?"

He looked down at me. I couldn't tell what his expression was.

"I won't tell anyone," I said.

He was still holding my arm. He let it go. "Okay," he said.

I waited.

"Okay," he said, again. "I thought it was my brother. My half-brother, Thomas."