Anna and the French Kiss (Anna and the French Kiss #1)(4)
Author: Stephanie Perkins

“St. Clair is my last name. Étienne is my first.”

“Étienne St. Clair.” I try to pronounce it like him, all foreign and posh.

“Terrible, isn’t it?”

I’m laughing now. “Étienne is nice. Why don’t people call you that?”

“Oh, ‘Étienne is nice.’ How generous of you.”

Another person gets in line behind us, a tiny boy with brown skin, acne, and a thick mat of black hair. The boy is excited to see him, and he smiles back. “Hey, Nikhil. Did you have a nice holiday?” It’s the same question he asked Amanda, but this time his tone is sincere.

That’s all it takes for the boy to launch into a story about his trip to Delhi, about the markets and temples and monsoons. (He went on a day trip to the Taj Mahal. I went to Panama City Beach with the rest of Georgia.) Another boy runs up, this one skinny and pale with sticky-uppy hair. Nikhil forgets us and greets his friend with the same enthusiastic babble.

St. Clair—I’m determined to call him this before I embarrass myself—turns back to me. “Nikhil is Rashmi’s brother. He’s a freshman this year. She also has a younger sister, Sanjita, who’s a junior, and an older sister, Leela, who graduated two years ago.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“No.You?”

“One brother, but he’s back home. In Atlanta. That’s in Georgia. In the South?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I know where Atlanta is.”

“Oh. Right.” I hand my meal card to the man behind the register. Like Monsieur Boutin, he wears a pressed white uniform and starched hat. He also has a handlebar mustache. Huh. Didn’t know they had those over here. Chef Handlebar swipes my card and zips it back to me with a quick merci.

Thank you. Another word I already knew. Excellent.

On the way back to our table, Amanda watches St. Clair from inside her posse of Pretty Preppy People. I’m not surprised to see the faux-surfer hair stink-eye guy sitting with her. St. Clair is talking about classes—what to expect my first day, who my teachers are—but I’ve stopped listening. All I know is his crooked-tooth smile and his confident swaggery walk.

I’m just as big a fool as the rest of them.

Chapter four

The H-through-P line moves slowly. The guy ahead of me is arguing with the guidance counselor. I glance at A-through-G, and see Meredith (Chevalier) and Rashmi (Devi) have already received their class schedules and exchanged them for comparison.

“But I didn’t ask for theater, I asked for computer science.”

The squat counselor is patient. “I know, but computer science didn’t fit with your schedule, and your alternate did. Maybe you can take computer science next—”

“My alternate was computer programming.”

Hold it. My attention snaps back. Can they do that? Put us in a class we didn’t ask for? I will die—DIE—if I have to take gym again.

“Actually, David.” The counselor sifts through her papers. “You neglected to fill out your alternate form, so we had to select the class for you. But I think you’ll find—”

The angry boy snatches his schedule from her hands and stalks off. Yikes. It’s not like it’s her fault. I step forward and say my name as kindly as possible, to make up for the jerk who just left. She gives a dimpled smile back. “I remember you, sweetie. Have a nice first day.” And she hands me a half sheet of yellow paper.

I hold my breath while I scan it. Phew. No surprises. Senior English, calculus, beginning French, physics, European history, and something dubiously called “La Vie.”

When I registered, the counselor described “Life” as a senior-only class, similar to a study hall but with occasional guest speakers who will lecture us about balancing checkbooks and renting apartments and baking quiches. Or whatever. I’m just relieved Mom let me take it. One of the decent things about this school is that math, science, and history aren’t required for seniors. Unfortunately, Mom is a purist and refused to let me graduate without another year of all three. “You’ll never get into the right college if you take ceramics,” she warned, frowning over my orientation packet.

Thanks, Mom. Send me away for some culture in a city known for its art and make me suffer through another math class. I shuffle toward Meredith and Rashmi, feeling like the third wheel but praying for some shared classes. I’m in luck. “Three with me and four with Rash!” Meredith beams and hands back my schedule. Her rainbow-colored plastic rings click against each other.

Rash. What an unfortunate nickname. They gossip about people I don’t know, and my mind wanders to the other side of the courtyard, where St. Clair waits with Josh in Q-through-Z. I wonder if I have any classes with him.

I mean, them. Classes with them.

The rain has stopped, and Josh kicks a puddle in St. Clair’s direction. St. Clair laughs and says something that makes them both laugh even harder. Suddenly I register that St. Clair is shorter than Josh. Much shorter. It’s odd I didn’t notice earlier, but he doesn’t carry himself like a short guy. Most are shy or defensive, or some messed-up combination of the two, but St. Clair is confident and friendly and—

“Jeez, stare much?”

“What?” I jerk my head back, but Rashmi’s not talking to me. She’s shaking her head at Meredith, who looks as sheepish as I feel.

“You’re burning holes into St. Clair’s head. It’s not attractive.”

“Shut up.” But Meredith smiles at me and shrugs.

Well. That settles that. As if I needed another reason not to lust. Boy Wonder is officially off-limits. “Don’t say anything to him,” she says. “Please.”

“Of course,” I say.

“Because we’re obviously just friends.”

“Obviously.”

We mill around until the head of school arrives for her welcome speech. The head is graceful and carries herself like a ballerina. She has a long neck, and her snow-white hair is pulled into a tidy knot that makes her look distinguished rather than elderly. The overall effect is Parisian, although I know from my acceptance letter she’s from Chicago. Her gaze glides across us, her one hundred handpicked pupils. “Welcome to another exciting year at the School of America in Paris. I’m pleased to see so many familiar faces, and I’m even happier to see the new ones.”

Apparently school speeches are one thing France can’t improve.

“To the students who attended last year, I invite you all to give a warm welcome to your new freshman class and to the new upperclassmen, as well.”

A smattering of polite applause. I glance around, and I’m startled to find St. Clair looking at me. He claps and lifts his hands in my direction. I blush and jerk away.

The head keeps talking. Focus, Anna. Focus. But I feel his stare as if it were the heat of the sun. My skin grows moist with sweat. I slide underneath one of the immaculately pruned trees. Why is he staring? Is he still staring? I think he is. Why why why? Is it a good stare or a bad stare or an indifferent stare?

But when I finally look, he’s not staring at me at all. He’s biting his pinkie nail.

The head wraps up, and Rashmi bounds off to join the guys. Meredith leads me inside for English. The professeur hasn’t arrived yet, so we choose seats in the back. The classroom is smaller than what I’m used to, and it has dark, gleaming trim and tall windows that look like doors. But the desks are the same, and the whiteboard and the wall-mounted pencil sharpener. I concentrate on these familiar items to ease my nerves.

“You’ll like Professeur Cole,” Meredith says. “She’s hilarious, and she always assigns the best books.”

“My dad is a novelist.” I blurt this without thinking and immediately regret it.

“Really? Who?”

“James Ashley.” That’s his pen name. I guess Oliphant wasn’t romantic enough.

“Who?”

The humiliation factor multiplies. “The Decision? The Entrance? They were made into movies. Forget it, they all have vague names like that—”

She leans forward, excited. “No, my mom loves The Entrance!”

I wrinkle my nose.

“They aren’t that bad. I watched The Entrance with her once and totally cried when that girl died of leukemia.”

“Who died of leukemia?” Rashmi plops her backpack down next to me. St. Clair trails in behind her and takes the seat in front of Meredith.

“Anna’s dad wrote The Entrance,” Meredith says.

I cough. “Not something I’m proud of.”

“I’m sorry, what’s The Entrance?” Rashmi asks.

“It’s that movie about the boy who helps deliver the baby girl in the elevator, and then he grows up to fall in love with her,” Meredith says as St. Clair leans back in his chair and nabs her schedule. “But the day after their engagement, she’s diagnosed with leukemia.”

“Her father pushes her down the aisle in a wheelchair,” I continue. “And then she dies on the honeymoon.”

“Ugh,” Rashmi and St. Clair say together.

Enough embarrassment. “Where’s Josh?” I ask.

“He’s a junior,” Rashmi says, as if I should have known this already. “We dropped him off at pre-calc.”

“Oh.” Our conversation hits a dead end. Lovely.

“Three classes together, Mer. Give us yours.” St. Clair leans back again and steals my half sheet. “Ooo, beginning French.”

“Told you.”

“It’s not so bad.” He hands back my schedule and smiles. “You’ll be reading the breakfast menu without me before you know it.”

Hmm, maybe I don’t want to learn French.

Argh! Boys turn girls into such idiots.

“Bonjour à tous.” A woman wearing a bold turquoise dress strides in and smacks her coffee cup down on the podium. She’s youngish, and she has the blondest hair I’ve ever seen on a teacher. “For the—” Her eyes scan the room until they land on me.

What? What did I do?

“For the singular person who doesn’t know me, je m’appelle Professeur Cole.” She gives an exaggerated curtsy, and the class laughs. They swivel around to stare.

“Hello,” I say in a tiny voice.

Suspicions confirmed. Out of the twenty-five people present—the entire senior class—I’m the only new student. This means my classmates have yet another advantage over me, because every one of them is familiar with the teachers. The school is so small that each subject is taught by the same professeur in all four grades.

I wonder what student left to vacate my position? Probably someone cooler than me. Someone with dreadlocks and pinup girl tattoos and connections in the music industry.

“I see the janitorial staff has ignored my wishes once again,” Professeur Cole says. “Everyone up.You know the drill.”

I don’t, but I push my desk when everyone else starts pushing theirs. We arrange them in a big circle. It’s odd to see all of my classmates at the same time. I take the opportunity to size them up. I don’t think I stand out, but their jeans and shoes and backpacks are more expensive than mine. They look cleaner, shinier.