Anna and the French Kiss (12 page)

“Home sweet home.” He pulls out an “I Left My ♥ in San Francisco” key chain. Another gift from his mother, I suppose. Taped to his door is a sketch of him wearing Napoleon’s hat. Josh’s work.

“Hey, 508! Your room is right above mine.You never said.”

St. Clair smiles. “Maybe I didn’t want you blaming me for keeping you up at night with my noisy stomping boots.”

“Dude.You
do
stomp.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He laughs and holds the door open for me. His room is neater than I expected. I always picture guys with disgusting bedrooms—mountains of soiled boxer shorts and sweat-stained undershirts, unmade beds with sheets that haven’t been changed in weeks, posters of beer bottles and women in neon bikinis, empty soda cans and chip bags, and random bits of model airplanes and discarded video games.

That’s what Matt’s room looked like. It always grossed me out. I never knew when I might sit on a sauce packet from Taco Bell.

But St. Clair’s room is tidy. His bed is made, and there’s only one small pile of clothing on the floor. There are no tacky posters, just an antique world map tacked above his desk and two colorful oil paintings above his bed. And books. I’ve never seen so many books in one bedroom. They’re stacked along his walls like towers—thick history books and tattered paperbacks and . . . an
OED
. Just like Bridge.

“I can’t believe I know two people crazy enough to own the
OED
.”

“Oh, yeah? Who’s the other?”

“Bridge. God, is yours
new
?” The spines are crisp and shiny. Bridgette’s is a few decades old, and her spines are cracked and splintering.

St. Clair looks embarrassed.
The Oxford English Dictionary
is a thousand bucks new, and even though we’ve never talked about it, he knows I don’t have spending money like the rest of our classmates. It’s pretty clear when I order the cheapest thing on the menu every time we eat out. Dad may have wanted to give me a fancy education, but he isn’t concerned about my daily expenses. I’ve asked him twice for a raise in my weekly allowance, but he’s refused, saying I need to learn to live within my means.

Which is difficult when he doesn’t give me enough means to begin with.

“Whatever happened with her and that band?” he asks, changing the subject. “Is she going to be their drummer?”

“Yeah, their first practice is this weekend.”

“It’s that one guy’s band—Sideburns, right?”

St. Clair knows Toph’s name. He’s trying to get a rise out of me, so I ignore it. “Yeah. So what do you have for me?”

“It’s right here.” He hands me a yellow padded envelope from his desk, and my stomach dances like it’s my birthday. I rip the package open. A small patch falls to the floor. It’s the Canadian flag.

I pick it up. “Um. Thanks?”

He tosses his hat onto his bed and rubs his hair. It flies up in all different directions. “It’s for your backpack, so people won’t think you’re American. Europeans are much more forgiving of Canadians.”

I laugh. “Then I love it. Thank you.”

“You aren’t offended?”

“No, it’s perfect.”

“I had to order it online, that’s why it took so long. Didn’t know where I could find one in Paris, sorry.” He fishes through a desk drawer and pulls out a safety pin. He takes the tiny maple leaf flag from my hands and carefully pins it to the pocket of my backpack. “There. You’re officially Canadian. Try not to abuse your new power.”

“Whatever. I’m totally going out tonight.”

“Good.” He slows down. “You should.”

We’re both standing still. He’s so close to me. His gaze is locked on mine, and my heart pounds painfully in my chest. I step back and look away. Toph. I like Toph, not St. Clair. Why do I have to keep reminding myself of this? St. Clair is taken.

“Did you paint these?” I’m desperate to change the mood. “These above your bed?” I glance back, and he’s still staring at me.

He bites his thumbnail before replying. His voice is odd. “No. My mum did.”

“Really? Wow, they’re good. Really, really . . . good.”

“Anna ...”

“Is this here in Paris?”

“No, it’s the street I grew up on. In London.”

“Oh.”

“Anna ...”

“Hmm?” I stand with my back to him, trying to examine the paintings. They really are great. I just can’t seem to focus. Of course it’s not Paris. I should’ve known—

“That guy. Sideburns.You like him?”

My back squirms. “You’ve asked me that before.”

“What I meant was,” he says, flustered. “Your feelings haven’t changed? Since you’ve been here?”

It takes a moment to consider the question. “It’s not a matter of how
I
feel,” I say at last. “I’m interested, but . . . I don’t know if he’s still interested in me.”

St. Clair edges closer. “Does he still call?”

“Yeah. I mean, not often. But yes.”

“Right. Right, well,” he says, blinking. “There’s your answer.”

I look away. “I should go. I’m sure you have plans with Ellie.”

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I don’t know. If you aren’t doing any—”

I open his door. “So I’ll see you later. Thank you for the Canadian citizenship.” I tap the patch on my bag.

St. Clair looks strangely hurt. “No problem. Happy to be of service.”

I take the stairs two at a time to my floor.What just happened? One minute we were fine, and the next it was like I couldn’t leave fast enough. I need to get out of here. I need to leave the dorm. Maybe I’m not a brave American, but I think I can be a brave Canadian. I grab the
Pariscope
from inside my room and jog downstairs.

I’m going to see Paris. Alone.

chapter thirteen

U
n place s’il vous plaît
.”

One place, please. I double-checked my pronunciation before stepping up to the box office and sliding over my euros.The woman selling tickets doesn’t blink, just rips my ticket in half and hands me the stub. I accept it graciously and stammer my thanks. Inside the theater, an usher examines my stub. She tears it slightly, and I know from watching my friends that I’m supposed to give her a small tip for this useless tradition. I touch the Canadian patch for luck, but I don’t need it. The handoff is easy.

I did it. I did it!

My relief is so profound that I hardly notice my feet carve their way into my favorite row. The theater is almost empty. Three girls around my age are in the back, and an elderly couple sits in front of me, sharing a box of candy. Some people are finicky about going to the theater alone, but I’m not. Because when the lights go down, the only relationship left in the room is the one between the movie and me.

I sink into the springy chair and lose myself in the previews. French commercials are interspersed between them, and I have fun trying to guess what they’re for before the product is shown. Two men chase each other across the Great Wall of China to advertise clothing. A scantily clad woman rubs herself against a quacking duck to sell furniture. A techno beat and a dancing silhouette want me to what? Go clubbing? Get drunk?

I have no idea.

And then
Mr. Smith Goes to Washington
begins. James Stewart plays a naive, idealistic man sent into the Senate, where everyone believes they can take advantage of him. They think he’ll fail and be driven out, but Stewart shows them all. He’s stronger than they gave him credit for, stronger than they are. I like it.

I think about Josh. I wonder what kind of senator his father is.

The dialogue is translated across the bottom of the screen in yellow. The theater is silent, respectful, until the first gag. The Parisians and I laugh together. Two hours speed by, and then I’m blinking in a streetlamp, lost in a comfortable daze, thinking about what I might see tomorrow.

“Going to the movies again tonight?” Dave checks my page number and flips his French textbook open to the chapter about family. As usual, we’ve paired up for an exercise in conversational skills.

“Yup.
The Texas Chain Saw Massacre
. You know, to get into the holiday spirit.” Halloween is this weekend, but I haven’t seen any decorations here. That must be an American thing.

“The original or the remake?” Professeur Gillet marches past our desks and Dave quickly adds,
“Je te présente ma famille. Jean-Pierre est ... l’oncle.”

“Um. What?”

“Quoi
,
”
Professeur Gillet corrects. I expect her to linger, but she moves on. Phew.

“Original, of course.” But I’m impressed he knew it was remade.

“That’s funny, I wouldn’t have taken you for a horror fan.”

“Why not?” I bristle at the implication. “I appreciate any well-made film.”

“Yeah, but most girls are squeamish about that sort of thing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” My voice rises, and Madame Guillotine jerks her head up from across the room.
“Marc est mon ... frère,”
I say, glancing down at the first French word I see. Brother. Marc is my brother. Whoops. Sorry, Sean.

Dave scratches his freckled nose. “You know. The chick suggests a horror movie to her boyfriend so she can get all scared and cling onto him.”

I groan. “Please. I’ve seen just as many scared boyfriends leave halfway through a movie as scared girlfriends—”

“And how many movies will this make this week anyway, Oliphant? Four? Five?”

Six actually. I saw two on Sunday. I’ve settled into a routine: school, homework, dinner, movie. I’m slowly making my way across the city, theater by theater.

I shrug, not willing to admit this to him.

“When are you gonna invite me along, huh? Maybe I like scary movies, too.”

I pretend to study the family tree in my textbook. This isn’t the first time he’s hinted at this sort of thing. And Dave is cute, but I don’t like him that way. It’s hard to take a guy seriously when he still tips over backward in his chair, just to annoy a teacher.

“Maybe I like going alone. Maybe it gives me time to think about my reviews.” Which is true, but I refrain from mentioning that usually I’m
not
alone. Sometimes Meredith joins me, sometimes Rashmi and Josh. And, yes, sometimes St. Clair.

“Right.Your reviews.” He yanks my spiral notebook out from underneath
Level One French
.

“Hey! Give that back!”

“What’s your website again?” Dave flips through the pages as I try to grab it. I don’t take notes while watching the films; I’d rather hold off until I’ve had time to think about them. But I like to jot down my first impressions afterward.

“Like I’d tell you. Give it back.”

“What’s the deal with these, anyway? Why don’t you go to the movies for fun, like a normal person?”

“It
is
fun. And I’ve told you before, it’s good practice. And I can’t see classics like these on the big screen back home.” Not to mention I can’t see them in such glorious silence. In Paris, no one talks during a movie. Heaven help the person who brings in a crunchy snack or crinkly cellophane.

“Why do you need to practice? It’s not like it’s hard or something.”

“Yeah? I’d like to see you write a six-hundred-word review about one. ‘I liked it. It was cool. There were explosions.’” I snatch again at my notebook, but he holds it above his head.

He laughs. “Five stars for explosions.”

“Give. That. BACK!”

A shadow falls over us. Madame Guillotine hovers above, waiting for us to continue. The rest of the class is staring. Dave lets go of the notebook, and I shrink back.

“Um ...
très bien, David,
” I say.

“When you ’ave finished zis fascinating dee-scussion, plizz return to ze task at ’and.” Her eyes narrow. “And
deux
pages about
vos familles, en français, pour lundi matin
.”

We nod sheepishly, and her heels clip away. “For
lundi matin
? What the heck does that mean?” I hiss to Dave.

Madame Guillotine doesn’t break stride. “Monday morning, Mademoiselle Oliphant.”

At lunch, I slam my food tray down on the table. Lentil soup spills over the side of my bowl, and my plum rolls away. St. Clair catches it. “What’s eating you?” he asks.

“French.”

“Not going well?”

“Not going well.”

He places the plum back on my tray and smiles. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

“Easy for you to say, Monsieur Bilingual.”

His smile fades. “Sorry.You’re right, that was unfair. I forget sometimes.”

I stir my lentils aggressively. “Professeur Gillet always makes me feel stupid. I’m not stupid.”

“Of course you aren’t. It’d be mad for anyone to expect fluency. It takes time to learn anything, especially a language.”

“I’m just so tired of going out there”—I gesture at the windows—“and being helpless.”

St. Clair is surprised at my suggestion. “You aren’t helpless. You go out every night, often on your own. That’s a far cry from when you arrived. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“Hmph.”

“Hey.” He scoots closer. “Remember what Professeur Cole said when she was talking about the lack of translated novels in America? She said it’s important to expose ourselves to other cultures, other situations. And that’s exactly what you’re doing. You’re going out, and you’re testing the waters.You ought to be proud of yourself. Screw French class, that means sod-all.”

I crack a smile at his Briticism. Speaking of translation. “Yeah, but Professeur Cole was talking about books, not real life. There’s a big difference.”

“Is there? What about film? Aren’t you the one who’s always going on about cinema as a reflection of life? Or was that some other famous film critic I know?”

“Shut up. That’s different.”

St. Clair laughs, knowing he’s caught me. “See? You ought to spend less time worrying about French, and more time ...” He trails off, attention snagged by something behind me. His expression is of growing revulsion.

I turn to find Dave, kneeling on the cafeteria floor behind us. His head is bowed, and he thrusts a small plate in the air before me. “Allow me to present this éclair with my humblest apologizes.”