Anna and the French Kiss (21 page)

We get stumped on the page of golfing accessories, so we switch to drawing rude pictures of the other people on the plane, followed by rude pictures of Euro Disney Guy. St. Clair’s eyes glint as he sketches the man falling down the Panthéon’s spiral staircase.

There’s a lot of blood. And Mickey Mouse ears.

After a few hours, he grows sleepy. His head sinks against my shoulder. I don’t dare move.The sun is coming up, and the sky is pink and orange and makes me think of sherbet. I sniff his hair. Not out of weirdness. It’s just . . . there.

He must have woken earlier than I thought, because it smells shower-fresh. Clean. Healthy. Mmm. I doze in and out of a peaceful dream, and the next thing I know, the captain’s voice is crackling over the airplane. We’re here.

I’m home.

chapter twenty-four

I’m jittery. It’s like the animatronic band from Chuck E. Cheese is throwing a jamboree in my stomach. I’ve always hated Chuck E. Cheese. Why am I thinking about Chuck E. Cheese? I don’t know why I’m nervous. I’m just seeing my mom again. And Seany. And Bridge! Bridge said she’d come.

St. Clair’s connecting flight to San Francisco doesn’t leave for another three hours, so we board the train that runs between terminals, and he walks me to the arrivals area. We’ve been quiet since we got off the plane. I guess we’re tired. We reach the security checkpoint, and he can’t go any farther. Stupid TSA regulations. I wish I could introduce him to my family.The Chuck E. Cheese band kicks it up a notch, which is weird, because I’m not nervous about leaving
him
. I’ll see him again in two weeks.

“All right, Banana. Suppose this is goodbye.” He grips the straps of his backpack, and I do the same.

This is the moment we’re supposed to hug. For some reason, I can’t do it.

“Tell your mom hi for me. I mean, I know I don’t know her. She just sounds really nice. And I hope she’s okay.”

He smiles softly. “Thanks. I’ll tell her.”

“Call me?”

“Yeah, whatever.You’ll be so busy with Bridge and what’s-his-name that you’ll forget all about your English mate, St. Clair.”

“Ha! So you
are
English!” I poke him in the stomach.

He grabs my hand and we wrestle, laughing. “I claim . . . no . . . nationality.”

I break free. “Whatever, I totally caught you. Ow!” A gray-haired man in sunglasses bumps his red plaid suitcase into my legs.

“Hey, you! Apologize!” St. Clair says, but the guy is already too far away to hear.

I rub my shins. “It’s okay, we’re in the way. I should go.”

Time to hug again.Why can’t we do it? Finally, I step forward and put my arms around him. He’s stiff, and it’s awkward, especially with our backpacks in the way. I smell his hair again. Oh heavens.

We pull apart. “Have fun at the show tonight,” he says.

“I will. Have a good flight.”

“Thanks.” He bites his thumbnail, and then I’m through security and riding down the escalator. I look back one last time. St. Clair jumps up and down, waving at me. I burst into laughter, and his face lights up. The escalator slides down.

He’s lost from view.

I swallow hard and turn around. And then—there they are. Mom has a gigantic smile, and Seany is jumping and waving, just like St. Clair.

“For the last time, Bridgette said she was sorry.” Mom pays the grumpy woman in the airport parking deck’s tollbooth. “She had to practice for the show.”

“Right. Because it’s not like we haven’t seen each other in four months.”

“Bridge is a ROCK STAR,” Seany says from the backseat. His voice is filled with adoration.

Uh-oh. Someone has a crush. “Oh, yeah?”

“She says her band is gonna be on MTV someday, but not the lame one, one of the cool ones you can only get with a special cable package.”

I turn around. My brother looks strangely smug. “And how do you know about special cable packages?”

Seany swings his legs. One of his freckled kneecaps is covered with
Star Wars
Band-Aids. Like, seven or eight of them. “Duh. Bridge told me.”

“Ah. I see.”

“She also told me about praying mantises. How the girl mantis eats the boy mantis’s head. And she told me about Jack the Ripper and NASA, and she showed me how to make macaroni and cheese. The good kind, with the squishy cheese packet.”

“Anything else?”

“
Lots
of other things.” There is an edge to this. A threat.

“Oh. Hey, I have something for you.” I unzip my backpack and pull out a plastic shell. It’s an original
StarWars
Sand Person. The purchase on eBay ate my entire meal fund one week, but it was worth it. He really wants this. I was saving it for later, but he clearly needs coaxing back to my side.

I hold up the package.The angry little figurine glares into the backseat. “Merry early Christmas!”

Seany crosses his arms. “I already have that one. Bridge got him for me.”

“Sean! What did I say about thanking people? Tell your sister thank you. She must have gone through a lot of trouble to get that for you.”

“It’s okay,” I mumble, placing the toy back in my bag. It’s amazing how small a resentful seven-year-old can make me feel.

“He just missed you, that’s all. He’s talked about you nonstop. He just doesn’t know how to express it now that you’re here. Sean! Stop kicking the seat! What have I told you about kicking my seat while I’m driving?”

Seany scowls. “Can we go to McDonald’s?”

Mom looks at me. “Are you hungry? Did they feed you on the plane?”

“I could eat.”

We pull off the interstate and hit the drive-through. They aren’t serving lunch yet, and Seany throws a fit. We decide on hash browns. Mom and Seany get Cokes, and I order coffee. “You drink coffee now?” Mom hands it to me, surprised.

I shrug. “Everyone at school drinks coffee.”

“Well, I hope you’re still drinking milk, too.”

“Like Sean’s drinking milk right now?”

Mom grits her teeth. “It’s a special occasion. His big sister is home for Christmas.” She points to the Canadian flag on my backpack. “What’s that?”

“My friend St. Clair bought it for me. So I wouldn’t feel out of place.”

She raises her eyebrows as she pulls back onto the road. “Are there a lot of Canadians in Paris?”

My face warms. “I just felt, you know, stupid for a while. Like one of those lame American tourists with the white sneakers and the cameras around their necks? So he bought it for me, so I wouldn’t feel . . . embarrassed. American.”

“Being American is nothing to be ashamed of,” she snaps.

“God, Mom, I know. I just meant—forget it.”

“Is this the English boy with the French father?”

“What does that have anything to do with it?” I’m angry. I don’t like what she’s implying. “Besides, he’s American. He was born here? His mom lives in San Francisco. We sat next to each other on the plane.”

We stop at a red light. Mom stares at me. “You like him.”

“OH GOD, MOM.”

“You do.You like this boy.”

“He’s just a friend. He has a girlfriend.”

“Anna has a boooy-friend,” Seany chants.

“I do not!”

“ANNA HAS A BOOOY-FRIEND!”

I take a sip of coffee and choke. It’s disgusting. It’s sludge. No, it’s worse than sludge—at least sludge is organic. Seany is still taunting me. Mom reaches around and grabs his legs, which are kicking her seat again. She sees me making a face at my drink.

“My, my. One semester in France, and suddenly we’re Miss Sophisticated.Your father will be thrilled.”

Like it was my choice! Like I asked to go to Paris! And how
dare
she mention Dad.

“ANNNN-A HAS A BOOOY-FRIEND!”

We merge back onto the interstate. It’s rush hour, and the Atlanta traffic has stopped moving.The car behind ours shakes us with its thumping bass.The car in front sprays a cloud of exhaust straight into our vents.

Two weeks. Only two more weeks.

chapter twenty-five

Sofia is dead. Because Mom only took her out three times since I left, now she’s stuck in some repair shop on Ponce de Leon Avenue. My car may be a hunk of red scrap metal, but she’s
my
hunk of red scrap metal. I paid for her with my own money, earned with the stench of theater popcorn in my hair and artificial butter on my arms. She’s named after my favorite director, Sofia Coppola. Sofia creates these atmospheric, impressionistic films with this quiet but
impeccable
style. She’s also one of only two American women to have been nominated for the Best Director Oscar, for
Lost in Translation
.

She should have won.

“Why don’t you carpool with your friends?” Mom asks, when I complain about driving her minivan to the Penny Dreadfuls show.

“Because Bridge and Toph will already be there.They have to set up.” Captain Jack
wheek wheek wheeks
for guinea pig treats, so I pop an orange pellet into his cage and scratch the fuzz behind his ears.

“Can’t Matt drive you?”

I haven’t talked to him in months. I guess he’s going, but ugh, that means
Cherrie Milliken
is also going. No thanks. “I’m not calling Matt.”

“Well, Anna. It’s Matt or the minivan. I’m not making the choice for you.”

I choose my ex. We used to be good friends, so I’m sort of looking forward to seeing him again. And maybe Cherrie isn’t as bad as I remember. Except she is. She
totally
is. After only five minutes in her company, I cannot fathom how Bridge stands sitting with her at lunch every day. She turns to look at me in the backseat, and her hair swishes in a vitamin-enriched, shampoo-commercial curtain. “So. How are the guys in Paris?”

I shrug. “Parisian.”

“Ha ha.You’re funny.”

Her lifeless laugh is one of her lesser attributes. What does Matt see in her?

“No one special?” Matt smiles and glances at me through the rearview mirror. I’m not sure why, but I forgot that he has brown eyes. Why do they make some people look
amazing
and others completely average? It’s the same with brown hair. Statistically speaking, St. Clair and Matt are quite similar. Eyes: Brown. Hair: Brown. Race: Caucasian. There’s a significant difference in height, but still. It’s like comparing a gourmet truffle to a Mr. Goodbar.

I think about the gourmet truffle. And his girlfriend. “Not exactly.”

Cherrie pulls Matt into a story about something that happened in chorus, a conversation she knows I can’t contribute to. Mr. Goodbar fills me in on the who-is-who details, but my mind drifts away. Bridgette and Toph. Will Bridge look the same? Will Toph and I jump in where we left off?

It’s really hitting me now. I’m about to see Toph.

The last time we were together,
we kissed
. I can’t help but fantasize about our reunion. Toph picking me out of the crowd, being unable to pry his eyes from me, dedicating songs to me. Meeting him backstage. Kissing him in dark corners. I could be on the verge of an
entire winter break
spent making out with Toph. By the time we arrive at the club, my stomach is in knots, but in such a good way.

Except when Matt opens my door, I realize we aren’t at a club. More like . . . a bowling alley. “Is this the right place?”

Cherrie nods. “All of the best underage bands play here.”

“Oh.” Bridge hadn’t mentioned she was playing in a bowling alley. But that’s okay, it’s still a huge deal. And I’d forgotten about the whole underage thing.Which is silly, because it’s not like I’ve lived in France that long.

Inside, we’re told we have to buy a lane in order to stay for the show. This also means we have to rent bowling shoes. Um, no.There’s no way I’m wearing
bowling shoes
. Hundreds of people use those things and, what, one spritz of Lysol is supposed to kill all of their nasty stinky feet germs? I don’t think so.

“That’s okay,” I say when the man drops them on the counter. “You can keep them.”

“Lady.You ain’t allowed to play without shoes.”

“I’m not playing.”

“Lady. Take the shoes.You’re holdin’ up the line.”

Matt grabs them. “Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I forgot how you are with stuff like this.” And then Cherrie huffs, so he carries her shoes, too. He hides them underneath some plastic orange shell chairs, and we stroll over to the stage, which is pushed against the far wall. A small crowd has gathered. Bridge and Toph aren’t anywhere to be seen, and I don’t recognize anyone else.

“I think they’re going first,” Matt says.

“You mean they’re the opening act in an underage bowling alley?” I ask.

He cuts his eyes at me, and I feel about two feet tall. Because he’s right.This is still awesome! It’s their first show! But the sinking feeling returns as we mill around. Giveaway T-shirts stretched over monstrous beer bellies. Puffy NFL jackets and porky jowls. Granted, I’m in a bowling alley, but the differences between Americans and Parisians are shocking. I’m ashamed to see my country the way the French must see us. Couldn’t these people have at least brushed their hair before leaving their houses?

“I need a licorice rope,” Cherrie announces. She marches toward the snack stand, and all I can think
is these people are your future
.

The thought makes me a little happier.

When she comes back, I inform her that just one bite of her Red Dye #40-infused snack could kill my brother. “God,
morbid
,” she says.Which makes me think of St. Clair again. Because when I told him the same thing three months ago, instead of accusing me of morbidity, he asked with genuine curiosity, “Why?”

Which is the polite thing to do when someone offers you such an interesting piece of conversation.

I wonder if St. Clair has seen his mom yet. Hmm, he’s been in California for two hours. His father was going to pick him up and drive him straight to the hospital. He’s probably with her right now. I should send him a text, some well-wishes. I pull out my phone just as the tiny crowd erupts with cheers.

I forget about the text.

The Penny Dreadfuls emerge, pulsating with excitement and energy, from . . . the staff room. Okay. So it’s not as glamorous as emerging from a backstage, but they do look GREAT. Well, two of them do.