Anna and the French Kiss, Page 3

  We get in line to pay, and I’m surprised by how efficiently it runs. My old school was all about cutting ahead and incensing the lunch ladies, but here everyone waits patiently. I turn back just in time to catch his eyes flicker up and down my body. My breath catches. The beautiful boy is checking me out. He doesn’t realize I’ve caught him. “My mum is American,” he continues smoothly. “My father is French. I was born in San Francisco, and I was raised in London.”

  Miraculously, I find my voice. “A true international.”

  He laughs. “That’s right. I’m not a poseur like the rest of you.”

  I’m about to tease him back when I remember: He has a girlfriend. Something evil pokes the pink folds of my brain, forcing me to recall my conversation with Meredith last night. It’s time to change the subject. “What’s your real name? Last night you introduced yourself as—”

  “St. Clair is my last name. Étienne is my first.”

  “Étienne St. Clair.” I try to pronounce it like him, all foreign and posh.

  “Terrible, isn’t it?”

  I’m laughing now. “Étienne is nice. Why don’t people call you that?”

  “Oh, ‘Étienne is nice.’ How generous of you.”

  Another person gets in line behind us, a tiny boy with brown skin, acne, and a thick mat of black hair. The boy is excited to see him, and he smiles back. “Hey, Nikhil. Did you have a nice holiday?” It’s the same question he asked Amanda, but this time his tone is sincere.

  That’s all it takes for the boy to launch into a story about his trip to Delhi, about the markets and temples and monsoons. (He went on a day trip to the Taj Mahal. I went to Panama City Beach with the rest of Georgia.) Another boy runs up, this one skinny and pale with sticky-uppy hair. Nikhil forgets us and greets his friend with the same enthusiastic babble.

  St. Clair—I’m determined to call him this before I embarrass myself—turns back to me. “Nikhil is Rashmi’s brother. He’s a freshman this year. She also has a younger sister, Sanjita, who’s a junior, and an older sister, Leela, who graduated two years ago.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No.You?”

  “One brother, but he’s back home. In Atlanta. That’s in Georgia. In the South?”

  He raises an eyebrow. “I know where Atlanta is.”

  “Oh. Right.” I hand my meal card to the man behind the register. Like Monsieur Boutin, he wears a pressed white uniform and starched hat. He also has a handlebar mustache. Huh. Didn’t know they had those over here. Chef Handlebar swipes my card and zips it back to me with a quick merci.

  Thank you. Another word I already knew. Excellent.

  On the way back to our table, Amanda watches St. Clair from inside her posse of Pretty Preppy People. I’m not surprised to see the faux-surfer hair stink-eye guy sitting with her. St. Clair is talking about classes—what to expect my first day, who my teachers are—but I’ve stopped listening. All I know is his crooked-tooth smile and his confident swaggery walk.

  I’m just as big a fool as the rest of them.

  chapter four

  The H-through-P line moves slowly. The guy ahead of me is arguing with the guidance counselor. I glance at A-through-G, and see Meredith (Chevalier) and Rashmi (Devi) have already received their class schedules and exchanged them for comparison.

  “But I didn’t ask for theater, I asked for computer science.”

  The squat counselor is patient. “I know, but computer science didn’t fit with your schedule, and your alternate did. Maybe you can take computer science next—”

  “My alternate was computer programming.”

  Hold it. My attention snaps back. Can they do that? Put us in a class we didn’t ask for? I will die—DIE—if I have to take gym again.

  “Actually, David.” The counselor sifts through her papers. “You neglected to fill out your alternate form, so we had to select the class for you. But I think you’ll find—”

  The angry boy snatches his schedule from her hands and stalks off. Yikes. It’s not like it’s her fault. I step forward and say my name as kindly as possible, to make up for the jerk who just left. She gives a dimpled smile back. “I remember you, sweetie. Have a nice first day.” And she hands me a half sheet of yellow paper.

  I hold my breath while I scan it. Phew. No surprises. Senior English, calculus, beginning French, physics, European history, and something dubiously called “La Vie.”

  When I registered, the counselor described “Life” as a senior-only class, similar to a study hall but with occasional guest speakers who will lecture us about balancing checkbooks and renting apartments and baking quiches. Or whatever. I’m just relieved Mom let me take it. One of the decent things about this school is that math, science, and history aren’t required for seniors. Unfortunately, Mom is a purist and refused to let me graduate without another year of all three. “You’ll never get into the right college if you take ceramics,” she warned, frowning over my orientation packet.

  Thanks, Mom. Send me away for some culture in a city known for its art and make me suffer through another math class. I shuffle toward Meredith and Rashmi, feeling like the third wheel but praying for some shared classes. I’m in luck. “Three with me and four with Rash!” Meredith beams and hands back my schedule. Her rainbow-colored plastic rings click against each other.

  Rash. What an unfortunate nickname. They gossip about people I don’t know, and my mind wanders to the other side of the courtyard, where St. Clair waits with Josh in Q-through-Z. I wonder if I have any classes with him.

  I mean, them. Classes with them.

  The rain has stopped, and Josh kicks a puddle in St. Clair’s direction. St. Clair laughs and says something that makes them both laugh even harder. Suddenly I register that St. Clair is shorter than Josh. Much shorter. It’s odd I didn’t notice earlier, but he doesn’t carry himself like a short guy. Most are shy or defensive, or some messed-up combination of the two, but St. Clair is confident and friendly and—

  “Jeez, stare much?”

  “What?” I jerk my head back, but Rashmi’s not talking to me. She’s shaking her head at Meredith, who looks as sheepish as I feel.

  “You’re burning holes into St. Clair’s head. It’s not attractive.”

  “Shut up.” But Meredith smiles at me and shrugs.

  Well. That settles that. As if I needed another reason not to lust. Boy Wonder is officially off-limits. “Don’t say anything to him,” she says. “Please.”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “Because we’re obviously just friends.”

  “Obviously.”

  We mill around until the head of school arrives for her welcome speech. The head is graceful and carries herself like a ballerina. She has a long neck, and her snow-white hair is pulled into a tidy knot that makes her look distinguished rather than elderly. The overall effect is Parisian, although I know from my acceptance letter she’s from Chicago. Her gaze glides across us, her one hundred handpicked pupils. “Welcome to another exciting year at the School of America in Paris. I’m pleased to see so many familiar faces, and I’m even happier to see the new ones.”

  Apparently school speeches are one thing France can’t improve.

  “To the students who attended last year, I invite you all to give a warm welcome to your new freshman class and to the new upperclassmen, as well.”

  A smattering of polite applause. I glance around, and I’m startled to find St. Clair looking at me. He claps and lifts his hands in my direction. I blush and jerk away.

  The head keeps talking. Focus, Anna. Focus. But I feel his stare as if it were the heat of the sun. My skin grows moist with sweat. I slide underneath one of the immaculately pruned trees. Why is he staring? Is he still staring? I think he is. Why why why? Is it a good stare or a bad stare or an indifferent stare?

  But when I finally look, he’s not staring at me at all. He’s biting his pinkie nail.

  The head wraps up, and Rashmi bounds off to jo
in the guys. Meredith leads me inside for English. The professeur hasn’t arrived yet, so we choose seats in the back. The classroom is smaller than what I’m used to, and it has dark, gleaming trim and tall windows that look like doors. But the desks are the same, and the whiteboard and the wall-mounted pencil sharpener. I concentrate on these familiar items to ease my nerves.

  “You’ll like Professeur Cole,” Meredith says. “She’s hilarious, and she always assigns the best books.”

  “My dad is a novelist.” I blurt this without thinking and immediately regret it.

  “Really? Who?”

  “James Ashley.” That’s his pen name. I guess Oliphant wasn’t romantic enough.

  “Who?”

  The humiliation factor multiplies. “The Decision? The Entrance? They were made into movies. Forget it, they all have vague names like that—”

  She leans forward, excited. “No, my mom loves The Entrance!”

  I wrinkle my nose.

  “They aren’t that bad. I watched The Entrance with her once and totally cried when that girl died of leukemia.”

  “Who died of leukemia?” Rashmi plops her backpack down next to me. St. Clair trails in behind her and takes the seat in front of Meredith.

  “Anna’s dad wrote The Entrance,” Meredith says.

  I cough. “Not something I’m proud of.”

  “I’m sorry, what’s The Entrance?” Rashmi asks.

  “It’s that movie about the boy who helps deliver the baby girl in the elevator, and then he grows up to fall in love with her,” Meredith says as St. Clair leans back in his chair and nabs her schedule. “But the day after their engagement, she’s diagnosed with leukemia.”

  “Her father pushes her down the aisle in a wheelchair,” I continue. “And then she dies on the honeymoon.”

  “Ugh,” Rashmi and St. Clair say together.

  Enough embarrassment. “Where’s Josh?” I ask.

  “He’s a junior,” Rashmi says, as if I should have known this already. “We dropped him off at pre-calc.”

  “Oh.” Our conversation hits a dead end. Lovely.

  “Three classes together, Mer. Give us yours.” St. Clair leans back again and steals my half sheet. “Ooo, beginning French.”

  “Told you.”

  “It’s not so bad.” He hands back my schedule and smiles. “You’ll be reading the breakfast menu without me before you know it.”

  Hmm, maybe I don’t want to learn French.

  Argh! Boys turn girls into such idiots.

  “Bonjour à tous.” A woman wearing a bold turquoise dress strides in and smacks her coffee cup down on the podium. She’s youngish, and she has the blondest hair I’ve ever seen on a teacher. “For the—” Her eyes scan the room until they land on me.

  What? What did I do?

  “For the singular person who doesn’t know me, je m’appelle Professeur Cole.” She gives an exaggerated curtsy, and the class laughs. They swivel around to stare.

  “Hello,” I say in a tiny voice.

  Suspicions confirmed. Out of the twenty-five people present—the entire senior class—I’m the only new student. This means my classmates have yet another advantage over me, because every one of them is familiar with the teachers. The school is so small that each subject is taught by the same professeur in all four grades.

  I wonder what student left to vacate my position? Probably someone cooler than me. Someone with dreadlocks and pinup girl tattoos and connections in the music industry.

  “I see the janitorial staff has ignored my wishes once again,” Professeur Cole says. “Everyone up.You know the drill.”

  I don’t, but I push my desk when everyone else starts pushing theirs. We arrange them in a big circle. It’s odd to see all of my classmates at the same time. I take the opportunity to size them up. I don’t think I stand out, but their jeans and shoes and backpacks are more expensive than mine. They look cleaner, shinier.

  No surprise there. My mom is a high school biology teacher, which doesn’t give us a lot of extra spending money. Dad pays for the mortgage and helps with the bills, but it’s not enough, and Mom is too proud to ask for more. She says he’d refuse her anyway and just go buy another elliptical machine.

  There may be some truth to that.

  The rest of the morning passes in a blur. I like Professeur Cole, and my math teacher, Professeur Babineaux, is nice enough. He’s Parisian, and he waggles his eyebrows and spits when he talks.To be fair, I don’t think the spitting is a French thing. I think he just has a lisp. It’s hard to tell with the accent.

  After that, I have beginning French. Professeur Gillet turns out to be another Parisian. Figures. They always send in native speakers for foreign language classes. My Spanish teachers were always rolling their eyes and exclaiming, “¡Aye, dios mio!” whenever I raised my hand. They got frustrated when I couldn’t grasp a concept that seemed obvious to them.

  I stopped raising my hand.

  As predicted, the class is a bunch of freshmen. And me. Oh, and one junior, the angry scheduling guy from this morning. He introduces himself enthusiastically as Dave, and I can tell he’s as relieved as I am to not be the only upperclassman.

  Maybe Dave is pretty cool after all.

  At noon, I follow the stampede to the cafeteria. I avoid the main line and go straight to the counter with the choose-your-own fruit and bread, even though the pasta smells amazing. I’m such a wuss. I’d rather starve than try to order in French. “Oui, oui!” I’d say, pointing at random words on the chalkboard. Then Chef Handlebar would present me with something revolting, and I’d have to buy it out of shame. Of course I meant to order the roasted pigeon! Mmm! Just like Nanna’s.

  Meredith and her friends are lounging at the same table as this morning. I take a deep breath and join them. To my relief, no one looks surprised. Meredith asks St. Clair if he’s seen his girlfriend yet. He relaxes into his chair. “No, but we’re meeting tonight.”

  “Did you see her this summer? Have her classes started? What’s she taking this semester?” She keeps asking questions about Ellie to which he gives short replies. Josh and Rashmi are making out—I can actually see tongue—so I turn to my bread and grapes. How biblical of me.

  The grapes are smaller than I’m used to, and the skin is slightly textured. Is that dirt? I dip my napkin in water and dab at the tiny purple globes. It helps, but they’re still sort of rough. Hmm. St. Clair and Meredith stop talking. I glance up to find them staring at me in matching bemusement. “What?”

  “Nothing,” he says. “Continue your grape bath.”

  “They were dirty.”

  “Have you tried one?” she asks.

  “No, they’ve still got these little mud flecks.” I hold one up to show them. St. Clair plucks it from my fingers and pops it into his mouth. I’m hypnotized by his lips, his throat, as he swallows.

  I hesitate.Would I rather have clean food or his good opinion?

  He picks up another and smiles. “Open up.”

  I open up.

  The grape brushes my lower lip as he slides it in. It explodes in my mouth, and I’m so startled by the juice that I nearly spit it out.The flavor is intense, more like grape candy than actual fruit. To say I’ve tasted nothing like it before is an understatement. Meredith and St. Clair laugh. “Wait until you try them as wine,” she says.

  St. Clair twirls a forkful of pasta. “So. How was French class?”

  The abrupt subject change makes me shudder. “Professeur Gillet is scary. She’s all frown lines.” I tear off a piece of baguette. The crust crackles, and the inside is light and springy. Oh, man. I shove another hunk into my mouth.

  Meredith looks thoughtful. “She can be intimidating at first, but she’s really nice once you get to know her.”

  “Mer is her star pupil,” St. Clair says.

  Rashmi breaks apart from Josh, who looks dazed by the fresh air. “She’s taking advanced French and advanced Spanish,” she adds.

  “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.