Anna and the French Kiss (33 page)

He stares at me so hard that I’m afraid I’ll stop breathing. I gather my courage and lace my arm through his. I lead him away. We walk for a block, and I ease him onto a bench beside a café with pale green shutters. A young boy, sitting inside, tugs at the curtains and watches us. “Tell me about your father.”

He stiffens.

“Tell me about your father,” I repeat.

“I hate him.” His voice is quiet. “I hate him with every fiber of my being. I hate what he’s done to my mother and what he’s done to me. I hate that every time we meet, he’s with a different woman, and I hate that they all think he’s this wonderful, charming bloke, when really he’s a vicious bastard who’d sooner humiliate me than discuss my education rationally.”

“He’s chosen your college for you. And that’s why you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“He doesn’t want me to be near her. He wants to keep us apart, because when we’re together we’re stronger than he is.”

I reach over and squeeze his hand. “St. Clair, you’re stronger than him
now
.”

“You don’t understand.” He pulls his hand away from mine. “My mum and I depend on him. For everything! He has all of the money, and if we upset him, Mum is on the street.”

I’m confused. “But what about her art?”

He snorts. “There’s no money in that. And what money there
was
, my father has control over.”

I’m silent for a moment. I’ve blamed so many of our problems on his unwillingness to talk, but that wasn’t fair. Not when the truth is so awful. Not when his father has been bullying him his whole life. “You have to stand up to him,” I say.

“It’s easy for you to say—”

“No, it’s
not
easy for me to say! It’s not easy for me to see you like this. But you can’t let him win.You have to be smarter than him, you have to beat him at his own game.”

“His own game?” He gives a disgusted laugh. “No, thank you. I’d rather not play by his rules.”

My mind is working in overdrive. “Listen to me, the second that woman showed up, his personality completely changed—”

“Oh, you noticed, did you?”

“Shut up and listen, St. Clair. This is what you’re gonna do. You’re going back there
right now
, and if she’s still there, you’re telling her how happy you are that he’s sending you to Berkeley.”

He tries to interrupt, but I push forward. “And then you’re going to his art gallery, and you’re telling everyone who works there how
happy
you are that he’s sending you to Berkeley. Then you’re calling your grandparents, and you’re telling them how
happy
you are that he’s sending you to Berkeley. And then you’re telling his neighbors, his grocer, the man who sells him cigarettes, EVERYONE in his life how
happy
you are that he’s
sending you to Berkeley
.”

He’s biting his thumbnail.

“And he’ll be pissed as hell,” I say, “and I wouldn’t trade places with you for a second. But he’s clearly a man who believes in keeping up appearances. So what’s he gonna do? He’ll send you to Berkeley to save face.”

St. Clair pauses. “It’s mad, but . . . it’s so mad it might work.”

“You don’t always have to solve your problems alone, you know.This is why people talk to their friends.” I smile and widen my eyes for emphasis.

He shakes his head, trying to speak.

“GO,” I say. “Quick, while she’s still there!”

St. Clair hesitates again, and I push him up. “Go. Go go go!”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Thank you.”

“Go.”

He does.

chapter forty-five

Ireturn to Résidence Lambert. I’m anxious to know what’s happening, but St. Clair has to deal with his father on his own. He has to stand up for himself. The glass banana bead on my dresser snags my attention, and I cradle it in my hand. He’s given me so many gifts this year—the bead, the left-handed notebook, the Canadian flag. It feels good to have finally given him something back. I hope my idea works.

I decide to pull out my homework. I’m flipping through my papers when I discover the assignment for English. Our last unit, poetry.The Neruda book. It sits on the shelf above my desk in the same place it’s been since Thanksgiving. Because it was a schoolbook, right? Just another gift?

Wrong. So very, very wrong.

I mean, it
is
a schoolbook, but it’s also love poetry. Really
sexy
love poetry. Why would he have given this to me if it didn’t mean anything? He could have given me the Banana Yoshimoto book. Or one of our translation textbooks.

But he bought me love poetry.

I flip back to the front, and the stamp stares at me. SHAKESPEARE AND COMPANY, KILOMETER ZERO PARIS. And I’m back on the star, that first night. Falling in love with him. And I’m back on the star, over Thanksgiving break. Falling in love with him. And I’m back in my room, staring at this ill-timed book—Why didn’t he just
tell
me? Why didn’t I open this when he asked me about it last Christmas?—when I’m struck by a need to return to Point Zéro.

I only have a few weeks left in Paris, and I still haven’t been inside of Notre-Dame. What am I doing in the dormitory on a Saturday afternoon? I yank on my shoes, run out of the building, and race down the boulevards at the speed of sound. I can’t get there fast enough. I have to be there. Now. I can’t explain it.

The eyes of the city are fastened to me as I shoot across the Seine and onto the Île de la Cité, but this time, I don’t care. The cathedral is as breathtaking as ever. A crowd of tourists is gathered around Point Zéro, and I admire the star as I fly by, but I don’t wait for a turn, I just keep pushing pushing pushing forward until I’m inside.

Once again, Paris leaves me awed.

The high-vaulted ceiling, the intricate stained glass, the gold-and-marble statuary, the delicately carved woodwork . . . Notre-Dame is mesmerizing. Organ music and the murmurs of many languages surround me. The warm scent of burning candles fills the air. And I’ve never seen anything lovelier than the jewel-colored light shining through the rose windows.

An enthusiastic tour guide passes behind me, waving his hands about. “Just imagine! In the early nineteenth century, this cathedral was in such a state of disrepair that the city considered tearing it down. Luckily for us, Victor Hugo heard about the plans to destroy it and wrote
The Hunchback of Notre-Dame
to raise awareness of its glorious history. And, by golly, did it work! Parisians campaigned to save it, and the building was repaired and polished to the pristine state you find today.”

I smile as I leave them, wondering what building my dad would try to save with his writing. Probably a baseball stadium. Or a Burger King. I examine the high altar and the statues of the Virgin Mary. It’s peaceful, but I’m restless. I examine my visitor’s guide and my attention is snagged by the words
Galerie des Chimères
.

The chimera. The gargoyles. Of course!

I need to go up, I need to see the city while I still can. The entrance to the towers—to the top of Notre-Dame—is to the left of the main doors. While I’m paying to get in, I swear I hear someone call my name. I scan the courtyard but don’t see anyone familiar.

So I climb the stairs.

The first landing leads to a gift shop, so I keep going up. And up. And up.
Oof.
There sure are a lot of stairs. Holy crap, will these things ever end?

Seriously?

MORE STAIRS?

This is ridiculous. I’m never buying a house with stairs. I won’t even have steps to my front door, just a gradual incline. With each step, I loathe the gargoyles more and more, until I reach the exit and—

I’m really high up
. I follow the tight walkway that leads from the NorthTower to the South.There’s my neighborhood! And the Panthéon! Its massive dome is impressive, even from here, but the tourists around me are snapping pictures of the gargoyles.

No. Not gargoyles. Chimera.

St. Clair once told me that what most people think of when they hear the word “gargoyle” is really a chimera. And gargoyles are these skinny things that stick straight out and are used as rain gutters. I don’t remember the purpose of the chimeras. Were they protecting the cathedral? A warning to demons? If he were here, he’d tell me the story again. I consider calling him, but he’s probably still busy with his father. He doesn’t need me bothering him with vocabulary questions.

The Galerie des Chimères is pretty cool. The statues are half man and half beast, grotesque, fantastic creatures with beaks and wings and tails. My favorite holds his head in his hands and sticks out his tongue, contemplating the city. Or maybe he’s just frustrated. Or sad. I check out the belfry. And it’s . . . a big bell.

What am I doing here?

A guard waits beside another set of stairs. I take a deep breath.
“Bonne soirée,”
I say. He smiles and lets me pass. I squeeze inside. It’s a tight corkscrew, and the staircase grows narrower and narrower as I climb. The stone walls are cold. For the first time here, I’m paranoid about falling. I’m glad I’m alone. If someone came down, someone even a little bigger than me, I don’t know how we’d pass each other. My heart beats faster, my ears prick for footsteps, and I’m worried this was a mistake when—

I’m there. I’m on top of Paris.

Like the chimera gallery, there’s a protective wire structure to keep people from falling or jumping. And I’m so high up, that I’m grateful for it. I’m the only one here, so I sit on one of the quiet stone corners and watch the city.

I’m leaving soon. I wonder what Dad would say if he could see me, melancholy about saying goodbye when I fought so hard to stay in Atlanta. He meant well. Observing the steady boats gliding down the Seine and the proud Eiffel Tower stretched above the Champ de Mars, I know this now. A noise on the stairwell startles me—a screech, followed by pounding feet. Someone is running up the stairs. And I’m alone.

Relax, Anna. I’m sure it’s just a tourist.

A running tourist?

I prepare for the onslaught, and it doesn’t take long. A man bursts onto the viewing platform. He’s wearing teeny tiny running shorts and athletic sneakers. Did he just climb those stairs
for fun
? He doesn’t acknowledge me, just stretches, jogs in place for thirty seconds, and then bursts back down the stairs.

That was weird.

I’m settling back down when I hear another yell. I bolt up. Why would the running man be screaming? There’s someone else there, terrified by the runner, afraid of falling. I listen for more footsteps but don’t hear anything. Whoever it is has stopped. I think about St. Clair, about how frightened he is of heights. This person may be trapped. With growing dread, I realize perhaps someone
did
fall.

I peek down the stairs. “Hello?
Bonsoir? Ça va?
” No response. I climb down a few spirals, wondering why it’s
me
doing this, not the guard. “Is someone there? Do you need help?”

There’s a strange shifting, and I continue down cautiously. “Hello?” They must not speak English. I hear them panting. They’re just below me, just around this corner—

I scream. He screams.

chapter forty-six

What the hell are you doing here? jeez, St. Clair! You scared the crap out of me.”

He’s crouched down, gripping the stairs, and looking more freaked out than I’ve ever seen him before. “Then why did you come down?” he snaps.

“I was trying to
help
. I heard a scream. I thought maybe someone was hurt.”

His pale skin is beet red. “No. I’m not hurt.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask again, but he’s silent. “At least let me help you.”

He stands, and his legs wobble like a baby goat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You are clearly not fine. Give me your hand.”

St. Clair resists, but I grab it and start herding him down. “Wait.” He glances up and swallows. “I want to see the top.”

I give him a look that I hope is incredulous. “Sure you do.”

“No,” he says with a new determination. “I want to see the top.”

“Fine, go.” I release his hand.

He just stands there. I take his hand again. “Oh, come on.” Our climb is painful and slow. I’m thankful no one is behind us. We don’t speak, but his grip is crushing my fingers. “Almost there.You’re doing good, so good.”

“Piss. Off.”

I should push him back down.

At last we reach the top. I let go of his hand, and he collapses to the ground. I give him a few minutes. “You okay?”

“Yes,” he says miserably.

And I’m not sure what to do. I’m stuck on a tiny roof in the center of Paris with my best friend, who is scared of heights and also apparently angry with me. And I have no idea why he’s even here in the first place. I take a seat, lock my eyes on the riverboats, and ask a third time. “What are you doing here?”

He takes a deep breath. “I came for you.”

“And how on EARTH did you know I was up here?”

“I saw you.” He pauses. “I came to make another wish, and I was standing on Point Zéro when I saw you enter the tower. I called your name, and you looked around, but you didn’t see me.”

“So you decided to just . . . come up?” I’m doubtful, despite the evidence in front of me. It must have taken superhuman strength for him to make it past the first flight of stairs alone.

“I had to. I couldn’t wait for you to come down, I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to see you now. I have to know—”

He breaks off, and my pulse races. What what what?

“Why did you lie to me?”

The question startles me. Not what I was expecting. Nor hoping. He’s still on the ground, but he stares up at me. His brown eyes are huge and heartbroken. I’m confused. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what—”

“November. At the
crêperie
. I asked you if we’d talked about anything strange that night I was drunk in your room. If I had said anything about our relationship, or my relationship with Ellie. And you said no.”

Oh my God. “How did you know?”

“Josh told me.”