Anna and the French Kiss (5 page)

“Maybe you can be my tutor,” I say to Meredith. “I stink at foreign languages. The only reason this place overlooked my Spanish grades was because the head reads my father’s dumb novels.”

“How do you know?” she asks.

I roll my eyes. “She mentioned it once or twice in my phone interview.” She kept asking questions about casting decisions for
The Lighthouse
. Like Dad has any say in that. Or like I care. She didn’t realize my cinematic tastes are a bit more sophisticated.

“I’d like to learn Italian,” Meredith says. “But they don’t offer it here. I want to go to college in Rome next year. Or maybe London. I could study it there, too.”

“Surely Rome is a better place to study Italian?” I ask.

“Yeah, well.” She steals a glance at St. Clair. “I’ve always liked London.”

Poor Mer. She’s got it bad.

“What do you want to do?” I ask him. “Where are you going?”

St. Clair shrugs. It’s slow and full-bodied, surprisingly French. The same shrug the waiter at the restaurant last night gave me when I asked if they served pizza. “Don’t know. It depends, though I’d like to study history.” He leans forward, like he’s about to share a naughty secret. “I’ve always wanted to be one of those blokes they interview on BBC or PBS specials.You know, with the crazy eyebrows and suede elbow patches.”

Just like me! Sort of. “I want to be on the classic movies channel and discuss Hitchcock and Capra with Robert Osborne. He hosts most of their programs. I mean I know he’s an old dude, but he’s so freaking cool. He knows
everything
about film.”

“Really?” He sounds genuinely interested.

“St. Clair’s head is always in history books the size of dictionaries,” Meredith interrupts. “It’s hard to get him out of his room.”

“That’s because Ellie’s always in there,” Rashmi says drily.

“You’re one to talk.” He gestures toward Josh. “Not to mention . . . Henri.”

“Henri!” Meredith says, and she and St. Clair burst into laughter.

“One frigging afternoon, and you’ll never let me forget it.” Rashmi glances at Josh, who stabs his pasta.

“Who’s Henri?” I trip over the pronunciation.
En-ree
.

“This tour guide on a field trip to Versailles sophomore year,” St. Clair says. “Skinny little bugger, but Rashmi ditched us in the Hall of Mirrors and threw herself at him—”

“I did not!”

Meredith shakes her head. “They groped, like, all afternoon. Full public display.”

“The whole school waited on the bus for two hours, because she forgot what time we were supposed to meet back,” he says.

“It was NOT two hours—”

Meredith continues. “Professeur Hansen finally tracked her down behind some shrubbery in the formal gardens, and she had teeth marks all over her neck.”

“Teeth marks!” St. Clair snorts.

Rashmi fumes. “Shut up, English Tongue.”

“Huh?”

“English Tongue,” she says. “That’s what we all called you after your and Ellie’s
breathtaking
display at the street fair last spring.” St. Clair tries to protest, but he’s laughing too hard. Meredith and Rashmi continue jabbing back and forth, but . . . I’m lost again. I wonder if Matt is a better kisser now that he has someone more experienced to practice on. He was probably a bad kisser because of me.

Oh, no.

I’m a bad kisser. I am, I must be.

Someday I’ll be awarded a statue shaped like a pair of lips, and it’ll be engraved with the words WORLD’S WORST KISSER. And Matt will give a speech about how he only dated me because he was desperate, but I didn’t put out, so I was a waste of time because Cherrie Milliken liked him all along and she totally puts out. Everyone knows it.

Oh God. Does
Toph
think I’m a bad kisser?

It only happened once. My last night at the movie theater was also the last night before I left for France. It was slow, and we’d been alone in the lobby for most of the evening. Maybe because it was my final shift, maybe because we wouldn’t see each other again for four months, maybe because it felt like a last chance—whatever the reason, we were reckless. We were brave. The flirting escalated all night long, and by the time we were told to go home, we couldn’t walk away. We just kept . . . drawing out the conversation.

And then, finally, he said he would miss me.

And then, finally, he kissed me under the buzzing marquee.

And then I left.

“Anna? Are you all right?” someone asks.

The whole table is staring at me.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. “Um.Where’s the bathroom?” The bathroom is my favorite excuse for any situation. No one ever inquires further once you mention it.

“The toilets are down the hall.” St. Clair looks concerned but doesn’t dare ask. He’s probably afraid I’ll talk about tampon absorbency or mention the dreaded P-word.

I spend the rest of lunch in a stall. I miss home so much that it physically hurts. My head throbs, my stomach is nauseous, and it’s all so unfair. I never asked to be sent here. I had my own friends and my own inside jokes and my own stolen kisses. I wish my parents had offered me the choice: “Would you like to spend your senior year in Atlanta or Paris?”

Who knows? Maybe I would have picked Paris.

What my parents never considered is that I just wanted a choice.

chapter five

To:
Anna Oliphant

From:
Bridgette Saunderwick

Subject:
Don’t look now but . . .

... the bottom right corner of your bed is untucked. HA! Made you look. Now stop smoothing out invisible wrinkles. Seriously. How’s Le Academe du Fraunch? Any hotties I should know about? Speaking of, guess who’s in my calc class?? Drew! He dyed his hair black and got a lip ring. And he’s totally callipygian (look it up, lazy ass). I sat with the usual at lunch, but it wasn’t the same without you. Not to mention freaking Cherrie showed up. She kept flipping her hair around, and I swear I heard you humming that TRESemmé commercial. I’ll gouge out my eyes with Sean’s Darth Maul action figure if she sits with us every day. By the way, your mom hired me to babysit him after school, so I’d better go. Don’t want him to die on my watch.

You suck. Come home.

Bridge

P.S. Tomorrow they’re announcing section leaders in band. Wish me luck. If they give my spot to Kevin Quiggley, I’ll gouge out HIS eyes with Darth Maul.

Callipygian
. Having shapely buttocks. Nice one, Bridge.

My best friend is a word fiend. One of her most prized possessions is her
OED
, which she bought for practically nothing at a yard sale two years ago.
The Oxford English Dictionary
is a twenty-volume set that not only provides definitions of words but their histories as well. Bridge is always throwing big words into conversations, because she loves to watch people squirm and bluff their way around them. I learned a long time ago not to pretend to know what she was talking about. She’d call me on it every time.

So Bridgette collects words and, apparently, my life.

I can’t believe Mom hired her to watch Sean. I know she’s the best choice, since we were always watching him together, but still. It’s weird she’s there without me. And it’s weird that she’s talking to my mom while I’m stuck here on the other side of the world. Next she’ll tell me she got a second job at the movie theater.

Speaking of, Toph hasn’t emailed me in two days. It’s not like I expected him to write every day‚ or even every week, but . . . there was an undeniable
something
between us. I mean, we
kissed
. Will this thing—whatever it is—end now that I’m here?

His real name is Christopher, but he hates being called Chris, so he goes by Toph instead. He has shocking green eyes and wicked sideburns.We’re both left-handed, we both love the fake nacho cheese at the concession stand, and we both hate Cuba Gooding Jr. I’ve crushed on Toph since my first day on the job, when he stuck his head under the ICEE machine and guzzled it straight from the tap to make me laugh. He had Blue Raspberry Mouth for the rest of his shift.

Not many people can pull off blue teeth. But believe me, Toph can.

I refresh my inbox—just in case—but nothing new appears. I’ve been planted in front of my computer for several hours, waiting for Bridge to get out of school. I’m glad she emailed me. For some reason, I wanted her to write first. Maybe because I wanted her to think I was so happy and busy that I didn’t have time to talk. When, in reality, I’m sad and alone.

And hungry. My mini-fridge is empty.

I had dinner in the cafeteria but avoided the main food line again, stuffing myself with more bread, which only lasts so long. Maybe St. Clair will order breakfast for me again in the morning. Or Meredith; I bet she’d do it.

I reply to Bridge, telling her about my new sort-of-friends, the crazy cafeteria with restaurant-quality food, and the giant Panthéon down the road. Despite myself, I describe St. Clair, and mention how in physics he leaned over Meredith to borrow a pen from me, right when Professeur Wakefield was assigning lab partners. So the teacher thought he was sitting next to me, and now St. Clair is my lab partner for the WHOLE YEAR.

Which was the best thing that happened all day.

I also tell Bridge about the mysterious Life class, La Vie, because she and I spent the entire summer speculating. (Me: “I bet we’ll debate the Big Bang and the Meaning of Life.” Bridge: “Dude, they’ll probably teach you breathing techniques and how to convert food into energy.”) All we did today was sit quietly and work on homework.

What a pity.

I spent the period reading the first novel assigned for English. And, wow. If I hadn’t realized I was in France yet, I do now. Because
Like Water for Chocolate
has sex in it. LOTS of sex. A woman’s desire literally lights a building on fire, and then a soldier throws her naked body onto a horse, and they totally do it while galloping away. There’s no way they would have let me read this back in the Bible Belt. The sexiest we ever got was
The Scarlet Letter
.

I must tell Bridge about this book.

It’s almost midnight when I finish the email, but the hallway is still noisy.The juniors and seniors have a lot of freedom because, supposedly, we’re mature enough to handle it. I am, but I have serious doubts as to my classmates.The guy across the hall already has a pyramid of beer bottles stacked outside his door because, in Paris, sixteen-year-olds are allowed to drink wine and beer. You have to be eighteen to get hard liquor.

Not that I haven’t seen
that
around here, too.

I wonder if my mother had any idea it’d be legal for me to get wasted when she agreed to this. She looked pretty surprised when they mentioned it at the Life Skills Seminars, and I got a long lecture on responsibility that night at dinner. But I don’t plan on getting drunk. I’ve always thought beer smells like urine.

There are a few part-timers who work the front desk, but only one live-in Résidence Director. His name is Nate, and his apartment is on the first floor. He’s in graduate school at some university around here. SOAP must pay him a lot to live with us.

Nate is in his twenties, and he’s short and pale and has a shaved head. Which sounds strange but is actually attractive. He’s soft-spoken and seems like the kind of guy who’d be a good listener, but his tone exudes responsibility and a don’t-mess-with-me attitude. My parents loved him. He also has a bowl of condoms next to his door.

I wonder if my parents saw that.

The freshmen and sophomores are in another dormitory. They have to share rooms, and their floors are divided by sex, and they have tons of supervision. They also have enforced curfews. We don’t.We just have to sign a log whenever we come and go at night so Nate knows we’re still alive.Yeah. I’m sure no one ever takes advantage of this high security.

I drag myself down the hall to use the bathroom. I take my place in line—there’s always a line, even at midnight—behind Amanda, the girl who attacked St. Clair at breakfast. She smirks at my faded jeans and my vintage Orange Crush T-shirt.

I didn’t know she lived on my floor. Super.

We don’t speak. I trace the floral pattern on the wallpaper with my fingers. Résidence Lambert is a peculiar mix of Parisian refinement and teenage practicality. Crystal light fixtures give the dormitory halls a golden glow, but fluorescent bulbs hum inside our bedrooms. The floors are glossy hardwood but lined with industrial-grade rugs. Fresh flowers and Tiffany lamps grace the lobby, but the chairs are ratty love seats, and the tables are carved with initials and rude words.

“So you’re the new
Brandon
,” Amanda says.

“Excuse me?”

“Brandon. Number twenty-five. He was expelled from school last year; one of the teachers found
coke
in his backpack.” She looks me over again and frowns. “Where are you
from
, anyway?” But I know what she’s really asking. She wants to know why they picked someone like me to take his place.