Anna and the French Kiss (Anna and the French Kiss #1)(27)
Author: Stephanie Perkins

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.

The bassist is the same as always. Reggie used to come into work, mooching free tickets off Toph for the latest comic book movies. He has these long bangs that droop over half his face and cover his eyes, and I could never tell what he thought about anything. I’d be like, “How was the new Iron Man?” And he’d say, “Fine,” in this bored voice. And because his eyes were hidden, I didn’t know if he meant a good fine, or a so-so fine, or a bad fine. It was irritating.

But Bridgette is radiant. She’s wearing a tank top that shows off her toned arms, and her blond hair is in Princess Leia buns with chopsticks through them. I wonder if that was Seany’s idea. She finds me immediately, and her face lights up like a Christmas tree. I wave as she lifts the sticks above her head, counts off the song, and then she’s flying. Reggie drives out a matching bass line, and Toph—I save him for last, because I know that once my eyes lock on him, they aren’t moving.

Because Toph. Is still. Totally. Hot.

He’s slashing at his guitar like he wants to use it for kindling, and he has that angry punk rock scream, and his forehead and sideburns are already glistening with sweat. His pants are tight and bright blue plaid, something that NO ONE else I know could pull off, and it reminds me of his Blue Raspberry Mouth, and it’s so dead sexy I could die.

And then . . . he spots me.

Toph raises his eyebrows and smiles, this lazy grin that makes my insides explode. Matt and Cherrie and I thrash and jump around, and it’s so exhilarating that I don’t even care that I’m dancing with Cherrie Milliken. “Bridge is fantastic!” she says.

“I know!” My heart bursts with pride. Because she’s my best friend, and I’ve always known how talented she was. Now everyone else does, too. And I don’t know what I was expecting—maybe that Reggie’s bangs would get in the way of his playing—but he’s also pretty great. His hand tears over the strings, pushing a wicked bass line that whips us into a frenzy. The only teeny tiny minor weakness in the whole thing is . . . Toph.

Don’t get me wrong. His antiestablishment, I’m-a-loser lyrics are perfect. Catchy. There’s so much rage and passion that even the redneck behind the shoe counter is bobbing his head. And, of course, Toph looks the part.

It’s his actual guitar playing that’s weak. But it’s not like I know that much about guitars. I’m sure it’s a difficult instrument, and he’ll totally get better with practice. It’s hard to master something if you’re always stuck behind a snack counter. And he plays loud, and it riles us up. I forget I’m in a bowling alley, and I forget I’m rocking out with my ex-boyfriend and his girlfriend, and it’s all over way too quickly.

“We’re the Penny Dreadfuls, thanks for coming out to see us. My name is Toph, that’s Reggie on bass, and the hottie in the back is Bridge.”

I whoop and holler.

She beams at Toph. He waggles his eyebrows back and then turns to the crowd and leers. “And, oh yeah. Don’t screw her, ’cause I already am. SUCK IT, ATLANTA. GOOD NIGHT!”

Chapter twenty-six

Wait. What?

I’m sorry, what did he just say?

Toph kicks over the microphone stand in a grand, a**hole gesture, and the three of them jump off the stage. It’s a little less dramatic when they have to come right back to take apart their stuff before the next band comes on. I try to catch Bridge’s eye, but she won’t look at me. Her gaze is locked on her cymbal stands. Toph takes a swig of bottled water, gives me a wave, then grabs his amp and heads for the parking lot.

“Woo! They were great!” Cherrie says.

Matt claps me on the back. “What’d ya think? She played me some of their stuff a few weeks ago, so I knew it’d be awesome.”

I’m blinking back tears. “Um. What did he just say?”

“He said she played some of their songs for us a few weeks ago,” Cherrie says, too close to my face.

I back up. “No. What did Toph just say? Before the Atlanta part?”

“What, ‘Don’t screw my girlfriend’?” Cherrie asks.

I can’t breathe. I’m having a heart attack.

“Are you okay?” Matt asks.

Why won’t Bridge look at me? I stumble forward, but Matt grabs me. “Anna. You knew she and Toph were dating, right?”

“I’ve gotta talk to Bridge.” My throat is closing. “I don’t understand—”

Matt swears. “I can’t believe she didn’t tell you.”

“How . . . how long?”

“Since Thanksgiving,” he says.

“Thanksgiving? But she didn’t say . . . she never said …”

Cherrie is gleeful. “You didn’t know?”

“NO, I DIDN’T KNOW.”

“Come on, Anna.” Matt tries to lead me away, but I push him aside and jump onstage. I open my mouth, but no words come out.

Bridge finally looks at me. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“You’re sorry? You’ve been dating Toph for the last month, and you’re sorry?”

“It just happened. I meant to tell you, I wanted to tell you—”

“But you lost control over your mouth? Because it’s easy, Bridge. Talking is easy. Look at me! I’m talking right—”

“You know it wasn’t that easy! I didn’t mean for it to happen, it just did—”

“Oh, you didn’t mean to wreck my life? It just ‘happened’?”

Bridge stands up from behind her drums. It’s impossible, but she’s taller than me now. “What do you mean, wreck your life?”

“Don’t play dumb, you know exactly what I mean. How could you do this to me?”

“Do what? It’s not like you were dating!”

I scream in frustration. “We certainly won’t be now!”

She sneers. “It’s kind of hard to date someone who’s not interested in you.”

“LIAR!”

“What, you ditch us for Paris and expect us to put our lives on hold for you?”

My jaw drops. “I didn’t ditch you. They sent me away.”

“Ooo, yeah. To Paris. Meanwhile, I’m stuck here in Shitlanta, Georgia, at the same shitty school, doing shitty babysitting jobs—”

“If babysitting my brother is so shitty, why do you do it?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Because you want to turn him against me, too? Well. Congratulations, Bridge. It worked. My brother loves you and hates me. So you’re welcome to move in when I leave again, because that’s what you want, right? My life?”