Anna and the French Kiss (Anna and the French Kiss #1)(14)
Author: Stephanie Perkins

“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.

“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

Un 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.