Anna and the French Kiss (11 page)

“Aw, get off it. Not this again.”

She shrugs. “I’m just saying.”

St. Clair shakes his head, but it doesn’t escape our notice that he doesn’t deny it. Ellie may be friendly enough in person, but it’s clear she no longer needs her SOAP friends. Even I can see that.

“What do you guys even do every night?” The words slip out before I can stop them.

“It,” Rashmi says. “They do it. He’s ditching us to screw.”

St. Clair blushes. “You know, Rash, you’re as crude as those stupid juniors on my floor. Dave what’s-his-name and Mike Reynard. God, they’re arses.”

Mike Reynard is Dave-from-French-and-history’s best friend. I didn’t know they lived next to him.

“Watch it, St. Clair,” Josh says.There’s an edge in his normally relaxed demeanor.

Rashmi whips into St. Clair’s face. “Are you calling me an ass?”

“No, but if you don’t back off, I bloody might.”

Their bodies are tense, like they’re about to bash antlers in a nature documentary. Josh tries to pull Rashmi back, but she shakes him away. “God, St. Clair, you can’t be all chummy during the day and blow us off every night!You can’t come back whenever you feel like it and pretend like everything’s fine.”

Mer tries to cut them off. “Hey, hey, hey—”

“Everything
is
fine! What the hell is wrong with you?”

“HEY!” Mer uses her considerable height and strength to force her way between them.To my surprise, she begins pleading with Rashmi. “I know you miss Ellie. I know she was your best friend, and it stinks that she’s moved on, but you still have us. And St. Clair . . . she’s right. It hurts not to see you anymore. I mean, away from school.” She sounds like she’s about to cry. “We used to be so close.”

Josh puts his arm around her, and she hugs him tightly. He glares at St. Clair through her curls.
This is your fault. Fix it.

St. Clair deflates. “Yeah. Okay.You’re right.”

It’s not quite an apology, but Rashmi nods. Mer exhales in relief. Josh delicately pries her off and moves beside his girlfriend again. We tread in awkward silence. So Rashmi and Ellie used to be best friends. It’s hard enough being temporarily separated from Bridge, but I can’t imagine how awful it would be if she ditched me completely. I feel guilty. No wonder Rashmi’s bitter.

“Sorry, Anna,” St. Clair says after another muted block. “I know you were excited about the film.”

“It’s okay. It’s not my business. My friends fight, too. I mean . . . my friends back home. Not that you guys aren’t my friends. I’m just saying . . . all friends fight.”

Argh. How distressing.

Gloom cloaks us like a thick fog. We resume silence, and my thoughts circle around. I wish Bridge were here. I wish St. Clair wasn’t with Ellie, and Ellie hadn’t hurt Rashmi, and Rashmi were more like Bridge. I wish Bridge were here.

“Hey,” Josh says. “You. Check it out.”

And then the darkness gives way to white neon. An Art Deco font, burning into the night, announces our arrival at the CINEMA LE CHAMPO. The letters dwarf me.
Cinema
. Has there ever been a more beautiful word? My heart soars as we pass the colorful film posters and walk through the gleaming glass doors. The lobby is smaller than what I’m used to, and though it’s missing the tang of artificially buttered popcorn, there’s something in the air I recognize, something both musty and comforting.

True to her word, Rashmi pays for my ticket. I take the opportunity to slip out a scrap of paper and a pen that I’d hidden in my jacket for this very purpose. Mer is next in line, and I transcribe her speech phonetically.

Oon ploss see voo play.

St. Clair leans over my shoulder and whispers. “You’ve spelled it wrong.”

My head jerks up in embarrassment, but he’s smiling. I drop my face, so that my hair shields my cheeks. They blush more for his smile than anything else.

We follow blue rope lights down the aisle of the theater. I wonder if they’re blue everywhere here, rather than the golden glow of American cinemas. My heart beats faster. Everything else is the same.

Same seats. Same screen. Same walls.

For the first time in Paris, I feel at home.

I smile at my friends, but Mer and Rashmi and Josh are distracted, arguing about something that happened over dinner. St. Clair sees me and smiles back. “Good?”

I nod. He looks pleased and ducks into the row after me. I always sit four rows up from the center, and we have perfect seats tonight. The chairs are classic red. The movie begins, and the title screen flashes up. “Ugh, we have to sit through the credits?” Rashmi asks. They roll first, like in all old films.

I read them happily. I love credits. I love everything about movies.

The theater is dark except for the flicker of blacks and whites and grays on-screen. Clark Gable pretends to sleep and places his hand in the center of an empty bus seat. After a moment of irritation, Claudette Colbert gingerly plucks it aside and sits down. Gable smiles to himself, and St. Clair laughs.

It’s odd, but I keep finding myself distracted. By the white of his teeth through the darkness. By a wavy bit of his hair that sticks straight out to the side. By the soft aroma of his laundry detergent. He nudges me to silently offer the armrest, but I decline and he takes it. His arm is close to mine, slightly elevated. I glance at his hands. Mine are tiny compared to his large, knuckly boy hands.

And, suddenly, I want to touch him.

Not a push, or a shove, or even a friendly hug. I want to feel the creases in his skin, connect his freckles with invisible lines, brush my fingers across the inside of his wrist. He shifts. I have the strangest feeling that he’s as aware of me as I am of him. I can’t concentrate. The characters on the screen are squabbling, but for the life of me, I don’t know what about. How long have I not been paying attention?

St. Clair coughs and shifts again. His leg brushes against mine. It stays there. I’m paralyzed. I should move it; it feels too unnatural. How can he not notice his leg is touching my leg? From the corner of my eye, I see the profile of his chin and nose, and—oh, dear God—the curve of his lips.

There. He glanced at me. I know he did.

I bore my eyes into the screen, trying my best to prove that I am Really Interested in this movie. St. Clair stiffens but doesn’t move his leg. Is he holding his breath? I think he is. I’m holding mine. I exhale and cringe—it’s so loud and unnatural.

Again. Another glance. This time I turn, automatically, just as he’s turning away. It’s a dance, and now there’s a feeling in the air like one of us should say something. Focus, Anna. Focus. “Do you like it?” I whisper.

He pauses. “The film?”

I’m thankful the shadows hide my blush.

“I like it very much,” he says.

I risk a glance, and St. Clair stares back. Deeply. He has not looked at me like this before. I turn away first, then feel him turn a few beats later.

I know he is smiling, and my heart races.

chapter twelve

To:
Anna Oliphant

From:
James Ashley

Subject:
Gentle Reminder

Hello, honey. It’s been a while since we’ve spoken. Have you checked your voice mail? I’ve called several times, but I assume you’re busy exploring Paree. Well, this is just a gentle reminder to call your dear old dad and tell him how your studies are going. Have you mastered French yet? Tasted foie gras? What exciting museums have you visited? Speaking of exciting, I’m sure you’ve heard the good news.
The Incident
debuted at number one on the
NY Times
! Looks like I’ve still got the magic touch. I’m leaving for a southeastern tour next week, so I’ll see your brother soon and give him your best. Keep laser-focused on school, and I’ll see YOU at Christmas.

Josh leans his lanky body over my shoulder and peers at my laptop. “Is it just me, or is that ‘YOU’ sort of threatening?”

“No. It’s not just YOU,” I say.

“I thought your dad was a writer. What’s with the ‘laser-focused’ ‘gentle reminder’ shit?”

“My father is fluent in cliché. Obviously, you’ve never read one of his novels.” I pause. “I can’t believe he has the nerve to say he’ll ‘give Seany my best.’”

Josh shakes his head in disgust. My friends and I are spending the weekend in the lounge because it’s raining again. No one ever mentions this, but it turns out Paris is as drizzly as London. According to St. Clair, that is, our only absent member. He went to some photography show at Ellie’s school. Actually, he was supposed to be back by now.

He’s running late. As usual.

Mer and Rashmi are curled up on one of the lobby couches, reading our latest English assignment,
Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress
. I turn back to my father’s email.

Gentle reminder ...
your life sucks.

Memories from earlier this week—sitting next to St. Clair in the dark theater, his leg against mine, the look that passed between us—flood back in and fill me with shame. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I’m convinced nothing happened.

Because nothing DID happen.

When we left the movie, Rashmi announced, “The ending was too abrupt. We didn’t get to see any of the good stuff.” And by the time I’d finished defending it, we were already back inside the dorm. I wanted to talk to St. Clair, get a sign that
something
between us had changed, but Mer broke in and hugged him good night. And since I couldn’t hug him without exposing my thudding heart, I lingered behind.

And then we had this lame wave goodbye.

And then I went to bed, confused as ever.

What happened? As thrilling as it was, I must have exaggerated it in my mind, because he didn’t act any differently at breakfast the next day.We had a friendly conversation, as always. Besides, he has Ellie. He doesn’t need me. All I can guess is that I must have projected my own frustrated feelings about Toph onto St. Clair.

Josh is examining me carefully. I decide to ask him a question before he can ask me one. “How’s your assignment going?” My team in La Vie actually won (no thanks to me), so Rashmi and I didn’t have to go on Friday. Josh ditched his last class to spend the hour with us. It earned him detention and several pages of additional homework.

“Eh.” He flops down in the chair beside me and picks up his sketchbook. “I have better things to do.”

“But . . . won’t you get in more trouble if you don’t do it?” I’ve never ditched. I don’t understand how he can just shrug everything off.

“Probably.” Josh flexes his hand and winces.

I frown. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s cramped,” he says. “From drawing. It’s okay, it’s always like this.”

Strange. I’d never considered art injuries before. “You’re really talented. Is that what you want to do? For a living, I mean?”

“I’m working on a graphic novel.”

“Really? That’s cool.” I push my laptop away. “What’s it about?”

The corner of his mouth rises in a sly smile. “A guy forced to attend a snobby boarding school, because his parents don’t want him around anymore.”

I snort. “I’ve heard that one before. What do your parents do?”

“My dad’s a politician. They’re working on his reelection campaign. I haven’t talked to ‘Senator Wasserstein’ since school started.”

“Senator? As in a
senator
senator?”

“Senator as in
senator
senator. Unfortunately.”

Again. What was my dad thinking? Sending me to school with the children of U.S. SENATORS? “Does everyone have a terrible father?” I ask. “Is it a requirement for attendance?”

He nods toward Rashmi and Mer. “They don’t. But St. Clair’s dad is a piece of work.”

“So I hear.” Curiosity gets the best of me, and I lower my voice. “What’s his deal?”

Josh shrugs. “He’s just a jerk. He keeps a tight leash on St. Clair and his mom, but he’s really friendly to everyone else. Somehow that makes it worse.”

I’m suddenly distracted by an odd purple-and-red knitted stocking cap walking into the lobby. Josh turns to see what I’m staring at. Meredith and Rashmi notice his movement, and they look up from their books.

“Oh God,” Rashmi says. “He’s wearing The Hat.”

“I like The Hat,” Mer says.

“You would,” Josh says.

Meredith gives him a dirty look. I turn to get a better look at The Hat, and I’m startled to realize it’s right behind me. And it’s sitting atop St. Clair’s head.

“So The Hat is back,” Rashmi says.

“Yup,” he says. “I know you missed it.”

“Is there a story behind The Hat?” I ask.

“Only that his mother made it for him last winter, and we all agreed it was the most hideous accessory in Paris,” Rashmi says.

“Oh, yeah?” St. Clair pulls it off and yanks it down over her head. Her two black braids stick out comically from underneath. “Looks great on you. Really fetching.”

She scowls and tosses it back, then smoothes her part. He shoves it over his messy hair again, and I find myself agreeing with Mer. It’s actually pretty cute. He looks warm and fuzzy, like a teddy bear.

“How was the show?” Mer asks.

He shrugs. “Nothing spectacular.What have you been up to?”

“Anna’s been sharing her father’s ‘gentle reminder,’” Josh says.

St. Clair makes a yuck face.

“I’d rather not go there again, thank you.” I shut my laptop.

“If you’re done, I have something for you,” St. Clair says.

“What? Who, me?”

“Remember how I promised I’d make you feel less American?”

I smile. “You have my French passport?” I hadn’t forgotten his promise but figured he had—that conversation was weeks ago. I’m surprised and flattered he remembered.

“Better. Came in the mail yesterday. Come on, it’s in my room.” And, with that, he puts his hands in his coat pockets and struts into the stairwell.

I shove my computer into my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and shrug at the others. Mer looks hurt, and for a moment I feel guilty. But it’s not like I’m stealing him from her. I’m his friend, too. I chase him up five flights of stairs, and The Hat bobs ahead of me.We get to his floor, and he leads me down the hallway. I’m nervous and excited. I’ve never seen his room before.We always meet in the lobby or on my floor.