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I cross my own arms, mimicking his pose. “They’re actually all we’re given to read in America,” I say. “Tabloids for books, sad slices of cheese in plastic for lunch . . . It’s truly a godforsaken place.”
And then I realize I’ve been staring at him for several beats, and when I lift my gaze back to his face, he’s watching me, and I realize that he may not have understood that I was mentally composing a text message to my best friend about how disappointing he is.
“So I’m not going to be able to get up on the fence and sing ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ while waving six American flags and twirling a baton?” I snap my fingers. “Well, there’s today’s plans ruined.”
“Disappointing,” I reply. “Hardly any naked ladies, and only one chimpanzee.”
A little moment of understanding that feels weirdly nice, given that it comes from a guy who I’m not entirely convinced isn’t a tea cozy cursed by a witch to live as a real-life boy.
“What thing with my face?” Miles asks, doing exactly that thing. It’s this lifting of his chin and tightening of his jaw that makes him look like he’s about to oppress some peasants, and I point at him.
“Sorry, I’m not used to gunfire going off right by my head,” I tell him, and Gilly looks at me, puzzled. “But you’re American,” he says, and then, before I can reply, he shouts, “Pull!” A clay pigeon soars through the air.
