Her brows rise in shock. “Really? I thought you’d accepted an early place at—”

“No.”

She exhales and sits back, almost looking defeated.

“It doesn’t matter,” I tack on. “I wouldn’t have had time for sports anywhere.”

“Right. Maintaining perfect grades will take a lot of your attention.”

Though I know she’s intentionally goading me, my tone is final when I reply, “Exactly.”

“Can I ask who it is you’re trying to impress?”

It’s a dumb question. She already knows the answer.

After the counseling session, I head to the library and find it completely deserted. The staff has already left for the day. The building is dim, and what little natural light there is shines in through the stained glass windows near the ceiling. No one wants to be in here now that finals are done. Most kids have already left St. John’s, save for the seniors. People are out partying and enjoying their last few hours of high school.

Tomorrow, I graduate. The school will be overrun with proud families. Mine will consist of Alexander. Wilson has already arranged for my things to be shipped to Paris, and I have to get everything packed into boxes before tomorrow morning. The movers will arrive at 10 AM. My flight leaves at 2 PM. A car will be waiting to take me to the private airstrip directly after the ceremony.

Just like that, my childhood is over.

Alexander will spend the summer in New York City, hiding out from my father. He was supposed to be a summer intern at Cartier, but he’s blowing it off. He doesn’t even have a place to stay, but he’s not worried. Alexander always seems to find a way.

My shoes echo on the parquet floor as I walk deeper into the quiet library. A wave of nostalgia hits me as I take in the familiar book stacks, the framed oil paintings, Shakespeare’s bronze bust, the study cubicles with the uncomfortable chairs I avoided like the plague.

There’s not a lot I’ll miss about St. John’s, but I will miss the campus.

My gaze roves over the back stacks, and I’m just about to continue on to take my books to the return desk when I see something out of place among the shelves.

La petite souris.

Her dark hair almost blends in with the shadows, but there’s a beam of light surrounding her. Specks of confetti made from dust dance in the air above her head, making her appear angelic, like a chosen child of a god I don’t believe in.

I’m walking toward her before I’m consciously aware of it. She’s crouched on the floor with her knees pressed to her chest. Her arms are wrapped around her legs, her chin resting on her knees.

As always, she seems sad.

I know she must realize I’m here, but she keeps her focus straight ahead on the shelf across the aisle.

“We really can’t keep meeting this way.”

She blinks but otherwise remains perfectly still.