Anna and the French Kiss (24 page)

“Okay,” he says shyly. I give him the package, and he cradles it. “Thank you.”

The kitchen phone rings. Mom checking up on us, no doubt. Seany gets up to answer it while I look for a suitable new boyfriend for Amidala. “I don’t understand you,” he says. “Please speak English.”

“Sean? Who is it? Just hang up.” Aha! Luke Skywalker! The one missing a hand, but oh well. Amidala and Luke kiss. Wait. Isn’t she his mom? I toss Luke aside, as if he’s personally offended me, and dig through the box again.

“Your voice is weird.Yeah, she’s here.”

“Sean?”

“Is this her BOYFRIEND?” My brother laughs maniacally.

I lunge into the kitchen and grab the phone. “Hello? St. Clair?” There’s laughter on the other end of the line. Seany sticks out his tongue, and I push him away by his head. “GO. AWAY.”

“Sorry?” the voice on the phone says.

“I was talking to Sean. Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“How’d you get this number?”

“Well, you see, there’s this book. It has white pages. And it has all of these phone numbers listed inside it. It’s also online.”

“Is that your booooy-friend?” Seany asks directly over the receiver.

I push him away again. “He’s a boy who’s a friend. Go watch the countdown.”

“What happened to your mobile?” St. Clair asks. “Did you forget to charge it?”

“I can’t believe it! That’s so unlike me.”

“I know, I was shocked to be sent to voice mail. But I’m glad to have your real number now. Just in case.”

The extra effort it took for him to call me makes me happy. “What are you up to? Shouldn’t you be out celebrating?”

“Eh. Mum wasn’t feeling well, so I’m staying in tonight. She’s sleeping, so I suppose I’ll be watching the countdown alone.” His mom came home from the hospital a few days ago.The situation has been up and down.

“What about Ellie?” The words fall out before I can stop them.

“I, er . . . talked to her earlier. It’s the New Year in Paris, after all. She went back the day after Christmas,” he adds.

I picture them making Amidala kissing noises over the phone. My heart sinks.

“She’s out partying.” His voice is sort of glum.

“Sorry to be your second choice.”

“Don’t be stupid. Third choice. Mum’s asleep, remember?” He laughs again.

“Thanks.Well, maybe I should hang up before
my
first choice falls asleep.” I glance at Seany, who has become quiet in the other room.

“Nonsense, I’ve only just called. But how is your man? He sounded good, even if he didn’t understand a word I said.”

“You do talk funny.” I smile. I love his voice.

“Speak for yourself, Atlanta. I’ve heard the southern accent slip out—”

“No!”

“Yes! Several times this week.”

I hmph, but my smile grows bigger. I’ve spoken with Meredith a few times over the break, too, but she’s never as much fun as St. Clair. I walk the phone into the living room, where Seany is curled up with my Sand Person. We watch the countdown together. I’m three hours ahead of St. Clair, but we don’t care.When my midnight hits, we toot imaginary horns and throw imaginary confetti.

And three hours later, when his midnight hits, we celebrate again.

And for the first time since coming home, I’m completely happy. It’s strange. Home. How I could wish for it for so long, only to come back and find it gone. To be here, in my technical
house
, and discover that home is now someplace different.

But that’s not quite right either.

I miss Paris, but it’s not home. It’s more like . . . I miss this. This warmth over the telephone. Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place? Bridgette used to be home to me. Maybe St. Clair is my new home.

I mull this over as our voices grow tired and we stop talking. We just keep each other company. My breath. His breath. My breath. His breath.

I could never tell him, but it’s true.

This is home. The two of us.

chapter thirty

It saddens me how relieved I feel to be going back to France. The plane ride is quiet and long. It’s my first flight alone. By the time the plane lands at Charles de Gaulle, I’m anxious to get back to the School of America, even if it means navigating the
métro
by myself. It’s almost as if I’m not afraid of riding it anymore.

That can’t be right. Can it?

But the train ride back to the Latin Quarter is smooth and easy, and before I know it, I’m unlocking my door and unpacking my suitcase. Résidence Lambert rumbles pleasantly with the sound of other students arriving. I peek through my curtains at the restaurant across the street. No opera singer, but it’s only the afternoon. She’ll be back tonight. The thought makes me smile.

I call St. Clair. He arrived last night. The weather is unseasonably warm, and he and Josh are taking advantage of it.They’re hanging out on the steps of the Panthéon, and he says I should join them. Of course I will.

I can’t explain it, but as I stroll down my street, I’m suddenly racked with nerves. Why am I shaking? It’s only been two weeks, but what a peculiar two weeks. St. Clair has morphed from this confusing
thing
into my closest friend. And he feels the same way. I don’t have to ask him; I know it like I know my own reflection.

I stall and take the long way to the Panthéon. The city is beautiful.The gorgeous St-Etienne-du-Mont appears, and I think about St. Clair’s mother packing picnic lunches and drawing the pigeons. I try to picture him racing around here in a young schoolboy’s uniform, shorts and scabby knees, but I can’t. All I see is the person I know—calm and confident, hands in his pockets, strut in his step. The kind of person who radiates a natural magnetic field, who everyone is drawn to, who everyone is dazzled by.

The January sun peeks out and warms my cheeks. Two men carrying what can only be described as man-purses stop to admire the sky. A trim woman in stilettos halts in wonder. I smile and move past them. And then I turn another corner, and my chest constricts so tightly, so painfully, that I can no longer breathe.

Because there he is.

He’s engrossed in an oversize book, hunched over and completely absorbed. A breeze ruffles his dark hair, and he bites his nails. Josh sits a few feet away, black sketchbook open and brush pen scribbling. Several other people are soaking up the rare sunshine, but as soon as they’re registered, they’re forgotten. Because of him.

I grip the edge of a sidewalk café table to keep from falling. The diners stare in alarm, but I don’t care. I’m reeling, and I gasp for air.

How can I have been so stupid?

How could I have ever for a moment believed I wasn’t in love with him?

chapter thirty-one

Istudy him. He bites his left pinkie nail, so his book must be good. Pinkie means excited or happy, thumb means thinking or worried. I’m surprised I know the meaning of these gestures. How closely have I been paying attention to him?

Two elderly women in fur coats and matching hats shuffle past. One of them pauses and turns back around. She asks me a question in French. I can’t make the direct translation, but I know she’s concerned if I’m okay. I nod and tell her thank you. She flashes me another look of unease but moves on.

I can’t walk. What am I supposed to say? Fourteen consecutive days of telephone conversations and now that he’s here in person, I doubt I can stammer a hello. One of the diners at the café stands up to help me. I let go of the round table and stumble across the street. I’m weak in the knees. The closer I get, the more overwhelming it gets. The Panthéon is huge. The steps seem so far away.

He looks up.

Our eyes lock, and he breaks into a slow smile. My heart beats faster and faster. Almost there. He sets down his book and stands. And then this—the moment he calls my name—is the real moment everything changes.

He is no longer St. Clair, everyone’s pal, everyone’s friend.

He is Étienne. Étienne, like the night we met. He is Étienne; he is
my
friend.

He is so much more.

Étienne. My feet trip in three syllables. É-ti-enne, É-ti-enne, É-ti-enne. His name coats my tongue like melting chocolate. He is so beautiful, so perfect.

My throat catches as he opens his arms and wraps me in a hug. My heart pounds furiously, and I’m embarrassed, because I know he feels it. We break apart, and I stagger backward. He catches me before I fall down the stairs.

“Whoa,” he says. But I don’t think he means me falling.

I blush and blame it on clumsiness. “Yeesh, that could’ve been bad.”

Phew. A steady voice.

He looks dazed. “Are you all right?”

I realize his hands are still on my shoulders, and my entire body stiffens underneath his touch. “Yeah. Great. Super!”

“Hey, Anna. How was your break?”

Josh. I forgot he was here. Étienne lets go of me carefully as I acknowledge Josh, but the whole time we’re chatting, I wish he’d return to drawing and leave us alone. After a minute, he glances behind me—to where Étienne is standing—and gets a funny expression on his face. His speech trails off, and he buries his nose in his sketchbook. I look back, but Étienne’s own face has been wiped blank.

We sit on the steps together. I haven’t been this nervous around him since the first week of school. My mind is tangled, my tongue tied, my stomach in knots. “Well,” he says, after an excruciating minute. “Did we use up all of our conversation over the holiday?”

The pressure inside me eases enough to speak. “Guess I’ll go back to the dorm.” I pretend to stand, and he laughs.

“I have something for you.” He pulls me back down by my sleeve. “A late Christmas present.”

“For me? But I didn’t get you anything!”

He reaches into a coat pocket and brings out his hand in a fist, closed around something very small. “It’s not much, so don’t get excited.”

“Ooo, what is it?”

“I saw it when I was out with Mum, and it made me think of you—”

“Étienne! Come on!”

He blinks at hearing his first name. My face turns red, and I’m filled with the overwhelming sensation that he knows
exactly
what I’m thinking. His expression turns to amazement as he says, “Close your eyes and hold out your hand.”

Still blushing, I hold one out. His fingers brush against my palm, and my hand jerks back as if he were electrified. Something goes flying and lands with a faint
dink
behind us. I open my eyes. He’s staring at me, equally stunned.

“Whoops,” I say.

He tilts his head at me.

“I think . . . I think it landed back here.” I scramble to my feet, but I don’t even know what I’m looking for. I never felt what he placed in my hands. I only felt
him
. “I don’t see anything! Just pebbles and pigeon droppings,” I add, trying to act normal.

Where is it? What is it?

“Here.” He plucks something tiny and yellow from the steps above him. I fumble back and hold out my hand again, bracing myself for the contact. Étienne pauses and then drops it from a few inches above my hand. As if he’s avoiding touching me, too.

It’s a glass bead. A banana.

He clears his throat. “I know you said Bridgette was the only one who could call you ‘Banana,’ but Mum was feeling better last weekend, so I took her to her favorite bead shop. I saw that and thought of you. I hope you don’t mind someone else adding to your collection. Especially since you and Bridgette . . . you know . . .”

I close my hand around the bead. “Thank you.”

“Mum wondered why I wanted it.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That it was for you, of course.” He says this like,
duh
.

I beam. The bead is so lightweight I hardly feel it, except for the teeny cold patch it leaves in my palm. Speaking of cold . . .

I shiver. “Has the temperature dropped, or is it just me?”

“Here.” Étienne unwraps the black scarf that had been tied loosely around his neck, and hands it to me. I take it, gently, and wrap it around mine. It makes me dizzy. It smells like freshly scrubbed
boy
. It smells like him.

“Your hair looks nice,” he says. “You bleached it again.”

I touch the stripe self-consciously. “Mom helped me.”

“That breeze is wicked, I’m going for coffee.” Josh snaps his sketchbook closed. I’d forgotten he was here again. “You coming?”

Étienne looks at me, waiting to see how I answer.

Coffee! I’m dying for a real cup. I smile at Josh. “Sounds perfect.”

And then I’m heading down the steps of the Panthéon, cool and white and glittering, in the most beautiful city in the world. I’m with two attractive, intelligent, funny boys and I’m grinning ear to ear. If Bridgette could see me now.

I mean, who needs
Christopher
when Étienne St. Clair is in the world?

But as soon as I think of Toph, I get that same stomach churning I always do when I think about him now. Shame that I ever thought he might wait.That I wasted so much time on him. Ahead of me, Étienne laughs at something Josh said. And the sound sends me spiraling into panic as the information hits me again and again and again.

What am I going to do? I’m in love with my new best friend.

chapter thirty-two

It’s a physical sickness. Étienne. How much I love him.

I
love
Étienne.

I love it when he cocks an eyebrow whenever I say something he finds clever or amusing. I love listening to his boots clomp across my bedroom ceiling. I love that the accent over his first name is called an acute accent, and that he
has
a cute accent.

I love that.

I love sitting beside him in physics. Brushing against him during labs. His messy handwriting on our worksheets. I love handing him his backpack when class is over, because then my fingers smell like him for the next ten minutes. And when Amanda says something lame, and he seeks me out to exchange an eye roll—I love that, too. I love his boyish laugh and his wrinkled shirts and his ridiculous knitted hat. I love his large brown eyes, and the way he bites his nails, and I love his hair so much I could die.