Anna and the French Kiss (Anna and the French Kiss #1)(35)
Author: Stephanie Perkins

I should mail my dad a copy. Circle the happy endings in red.

“Er,” St. Clair says. “Shall we work on the paper together, then? Tonight?”

He’s making an effort to be friendly. It sounds painful. He keeps trying, and I keep shooting him down. “I don’t know,” I say. “I have to get measured for my wedding dress.”

St. Clair’s face flickers with frustration, but for some reason this doesn’t make me feel as satisfied as it should. Argh, fine. “Sure,” I say. “That’d be . . . nice.”

“Yeah, I need to borrow your calculus notes,” Mer says. “I must have missed something. It just wasn’t clicking for me today.”

“Oh,” St. Clair says. Like he just noticed she’s standing here. “Yeah.You can borrow them. When you join us.”

Rashmi smirks but doesn’t say anything.

He turns back to me. “So did you enjoy the book?”

“I did.” Discomfort lingers between us. “Did you?”

St. Clair considers it for a moment. “I like the author’s name the best,” he finally says. “Ba-nah-na.”

“You’re pronouncing it wrong,” I say.

He nudges me gently. “I still like it best.”

“Oliphant, what’d you get for number nine?” Dave whispers.

We’re taking a pop quiz. I’m not doing so hot, because conjugating verbs isn’t my strong point. Nouns I can handle—boat, shoelace, rainbow. Le bateau, le lacet, l’arc-en-ciel. But verbs? If only everything could be said in the present tense.

I go to store yesterday for milk!

Last night he ride bus for two hours!

A week ago, I sing to your cat at beach!

I make sure Professeur Gillet is distracted before replying to Dave. “No idea,” I whisper. Though I actually do know the answer. I just hate cheating. He holds up six fingers, and I shake my head. And I don’t know the answer to that one.

“Number six?” he hisses, not sure if I’ve understood him.

“Monsieur Higgenbaum!”

Dave tenses as Madame Guillotine advances. She rips the quiz from his hands, and I don’t need to speak French to understand what she says. Busted. “And you, Mademoiselle Oliphant.” She snatches my quiz as well.

That’s so unfair! “But—”

“I do not tolerate chee-ting.” And her frown is so severe I want to hide underneath my desk. She marches back toward the front of the classroom.

“What the hell?” Dave whispers.

I shush him, but she jerks back around. “Monsieur! Mademoiselle! I zought I made eet clear—zere iz no talking during tests.”

“Sorry, professeur,” I say as Dave protests he wasn’t saying anything. Which is dumb, because everyone heard him.

And then . . . Professeur Gillet kicks us out.

I don’t believe it. I’ve never been kicked out of a class.We’re instructed to wait in the hall until the period is over, but Dave has other plans. He tiptoes away and motions for me to follow. “Come on. Let’s just go in the stairwell so we can talk.”

But I don’t want to go. We’re in enough trouble as it is.

“She’ll never know. We’ll be back before the hour is up,” he says. “I promise.”

Dave winks, and I shake my head but follow him anyway. Why can’t I say no to cute boys? I expect him to stop once we’re in the stairwell, but he descends the entire way. We go outside and onto the street. “Better, right?” he asks. “Who wants to be stuck inside on a day like today?”

It’s freezing out, and I would rather be in school, but I hold my tongue. We sit on a chilly bench, and Dave is prattling about snowboarding or skiing or something. I’m distracted. I wonder if Professeur Gillet will let me make up the quiz points. I wonder if she’s checking the hallway. I wonder if I’m about to get in more trouble.

“You know, I’m kinda glad we got kicked out,” Dave says.

“Huh?” I turn my attention back to him. “Why?”

He smiles. “I never get to see you alone.”

And then—just like that—Dave leans over, and we’re kissing.

I. Am kissing. Dave Higgenbaum.

And it’s . . . nice.

A shadow falls over us, and I break apart from his lips, which have already grown overactive. “Crap, did we miss the bell?” he asks.

“No,” St. Clair says. “You have five more minutes of teeth gnashing to enjoy.”

I shrink back in mortification. “What are you doing here?”

Meredith stands behind him, holding a stack of newspapers. She grins. “We should be asking you that question. But we’re running an errand for Professeur Hansen.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Hiii, Dave,” Mer says.

He nods at her, but he’s watching St. Clair, whose face is cold and hard.

“Anyway! We’ll let you get back to … what you were doing.” Mer’s eyes twinkle as she tugs on St. Clair’s arm. “See you, Anna. Bye, Dave!”

St. Clair shoves his hands in his pockets. He won’t meet my gaze as he stalks away, and my stomach turns over. “What’s that guy’s problem?” Dave asks.

“Who? Étienne?” I’m surprised when this name rolls out of my mouth.

“Étienne?” He raises his eyebrows. “I thought his name was St. Clair.”

I want to ask, Then why did you call him that guy? But that’s rude. I shrug.

“Why do you hang out with him, anyway? Girls are always going on and on about him, but I don’t see what’s so great.”

“Because he’s funny,” I say. “He’s a really nice guy.”

Nice.That was how I described Dave to St. Clair the other day. What’s wrong with me? As if Dave is anything like St. Clair. But he looks disgruntled, and I feel bad. It’s not fair to compliment St. Clair to Dave’s face. Not after kissing him.

Dave shoves his hands into his pockets. “We should get back.”

We shlump upstairs, and I imagine Professeur Gillet waiting for us, smoke pouring from her nostrils like an incensed dragon. But when we get there, the hall is empty. I peek into her classroom window as she finishes up her lecture. She sees me and nods.

I don’t believe it.

Dave was right. She never knew we were gone.

Chapter thirty-seven

Okay, so Dave Isn’t as attractive as St. Clai,. He’s kind of gangly, and his teeth are sort of bucked, but his tan-but-freckled nose is cute. And I like how he brushes his shaggy hair from his eyes, and his flirty smile still catches me off guard. And, sure, he’s a little immature, but he’s nothing like his friend Mike Reynard, who’s always talking about the Girl with the Pink Stripe’s chest. Even when she’s within hearing distance. And though I don’t think Dave would ever get excited by a history book or wear a funny hat made by his mom, the important thing is this: Dave is available. St. Clair is not.

It’s been a week since we’ve kissed, and we’re dating now by default. Sort of. We’ve taken a few walks, he’s paid for some meals, and we’ve made out in various locations around campus. But I don’t hang out with his friends, and he’s never hung out with mine. Which is good, because they tease me about Dave relentlessly.

I’m lounging around with them in the lobby. It’s late Friday night, so there isn’t a crowd. Nate is behind the front desk, because the regular workers are on strike. Someone is always striking in Paris; it was bound to happen here sooner or later. Josh sketches Rashmi, who is talking on the phone with her parents in Hindi, while St. Clair and Meredith quiz each other for a government test. I’m checking my email. I’m startled when one appears from Bridgette. She hasn’t written in nearly two months.

I know you don’t want to hear from me, but I thought I’d try one last time. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Toph. I was afraid, because I knew how much you liked him. I hope someday you’ll understand that I didn’t mean to hurt you. And I hope your second semester in France is going well. I’m excited there are only two months until graduation, and I can’t wait till prom! Does SOAP have a prom? Are you going with someone? Whatever happened to that English guy? It sounded like a more-than-friends situation to me. Anyway. I’m sorry, and I hope you’re okay. And I won’t bug you again. And I didn’t use any big words because I know you hate that.

“Are you all right, Anna?” St. Clair asks.

“What?” I snap my laptop shut.

“You look like the Mom and Pop Basset Hound Theater closed,” he says.

Bridgette and Toph are going to prom. Why am I upset? I’ve never cared about prom before. But they’ll get those wallet-size pictures. He’ll be in a tux that he’s punk-rocked out with safety pins and she’ll be in a fabulous vintage gown and he’ll have his hands on her waist in some awkward pose and they’ll be captured for all eternity together. And I am never going to prom.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine.” I keep my back to him and wipe my eyes.

St. Clair sits up. “It’s not nothing.You’re crying.”

The front door opens, and the decibel level rises as Dave, Mike, and three junior girls arrive. They’ve been drinking, and they’re laughing loudly. Emily Middlestone, the Girl with the Pink Stripe, clutches Dave’s arm. One of his hands rests casually on her waist. Prom picture. The stab of jealousy surprises me.

Emily’s cheeks are flushed, and she laughs harder than anyone else. Mer nudges me with the toe of her shoe. The others, even Josh and Rashmi, watch the situation with interest. I open my laptop back up, determined not to look as pissed off as I feel.

“Anna!” Dave gives me a gigantic, exaggerated wave. Emily’s face sours. “You missed it!” He shakes her off and staggers toward me with limp arms. He looks like a newly hatched chick with useless wings. “You know that café with the blue window? We stole their outside tables and chairs and set them up in the fountain.You should’ve seen the look on the waiters’ faces when they found them. It was awesome!”

I look at Dave’s feet. They are, indeed, wet.

“What are you doing?” He flops down next to me. “Checking your email?”

St. Clair snorts. “Give the lad a medal for his brilliant skills in detection.”

My friends smirk. I’m embarrassed again, for both Dave and myself. But Dave doesn’t even look at St. Clair, he just keeps grinning. “Well, I saw the laptop, and I saw the cute frown that means she’s concentrating so hard, and I put two and two together—”

“NO,” I tell St. Clair, who opens his mouth to say something else. He shuts it, surprised.

“Wanna come upstairs?” Dave asks. “We’re gonna chill in my room for a while.”

I probably should. He is sort of my boyfriend. Plus, I’m annoyed with St. Clair. His hostile stare only makes me more determined. “Sure.”

Dave whoops and pulls me to my feet. He trips over St. Clair’s textbook, and St. Clair looks ready to commit murder. “It’s just a book,” I say.