Anna and the French Kiss

by Stephanie Perkins

  “Who’s Henri?” I trip over the pronunciation. En-ree.

  “This tour guide on a field trip to Versailles sophomore year,” St. Clair says. “Skinny little bugger, but Rashmi ditched us in the Hall of Mirrors and threw herself at him—”

  “I did not!”

  Meredith shakes her head. “They groped, like, all afternoon. Full public display.”

  “The whole school waited on the bus for two hours, because she forgot what time we were supposed to meet back,” he says.

  “It was NOT two hours—”

  Meredith continues. “Professeur Hansen finally tracked her down behind some shrubbery in the formal gardens, and she had teeth marks all over her neck.”

  “Teeth marks!” St. Clair snorts.

  Rashmi fumes. “Shut up, English Tongue.”

  “Huh?”

  “English Tongue,” she says. “That’s what we all called you after your and Ellie’s breathtaking display at the street fair last spring.” St. Clair tries to protest, but he’s laughing too hard. Meredith and Rashmi continue jabbing back and forth, but . . . I’m lost again. I wonder if Matt is a better kisser now that he has someone more experienced to practice on. He was probably a bad kisser because of me.

  Oh, no.

  I’m a bad kisser. I am, I must be.

  Someday I’ll be awarded a statue shaped like a pair of lips, and it’ll be engraved with the words WORLD’S WORST KISSER. And Matt will give a speech about how he only dated me because he was desperate, but I didn’t put out, so I was a waste of time because Cherrie Milliken liked him all along and she totally puts out. Everyone knows it.

  Oh God. Does Toph think I’m a bad kisser?

  It only happened once. My last night at the movie theater was also the last night before I left for France. It was slow, and we’d been alone in the lobby for most of the evening. Maybe because it was my final shift, maybe because we wouldn’t see each other again for four months, maybe because it felt like a last chance—whatever the reason, we were reckless. We were brave. The flirting escalated all night long, and by the time we were told to go home, we couldn’t walk away. We just kept . . . drawing out the conversation.

  And then, finally, he said he would miss me.

  And then, finally, he kissed me under the buzzing marquee.

  And then I left.

  “Anna? Are you all right?” someone asks.

  The whole table is staring at me.

  Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. “Um.Where’s the bathroom?” The bathroom is my favorite excuse for any situation. No one ever inquires further once you mention it.

  “The toilets are down the hall.” St. Clair looks concerned but doesn’t dare ask. He’s probably afraid I’ll talk about tampon absorbency or mention the dreaded P-word.

  I spend the rest of lunch in a stall. I miss home so much that it physically hurts. My head throbs, my stomach is nauseous, and it’s all so unfair. I never asked to be sent here. I had my own friends and my own inside jokes and my own stolen kisses. I wish my parents had offered me the choice: “Would you like to spend your senior year in Atlanta or Paris?”

  Who knows? Maybe I would have picked Paris.

  What my parents never considered is that I just wanted a choice.

  chapter five

  To: Anna Oliphant

  From: Bridgette Saunderwick

  Subject: Don’t look now but . . .

  ... the bottom right corner of your bed is untucked. HA! Made you look. Now stop smoothing out invisible wrinkles. Seriously. How’s Le Academe du Fraunch? Any hotties I should know about? Speaking of, guess who’s in my calc class?? Drew! He dyed his hair black and got a lip ring. And he’s totally callipygian (look it up, lazy ass). I sat with the usual at lunch, but it wasn’t the same without you. Not to mention freaking Cherrie showed up. She kept flipping her hair around, and I swear I heard you humming that TRESemmé commercial. I’ll gouge out my eyes with Sean’s Darth Maul action figure if she sits with us every day. By the way, your mom hired me to babysit him after school, so I’d better go. Don’t want him to die on my watch.

  You suck. Come home.

  Bridge

  P.S. Tomorrow they’re announcing section leaders in band. Wish me luck. If they give my spot to Kevin Quiggley, I’ll gouge out HIS eyes with Darth Maul.

  Callipygian. Having shapely buttocks. Nice one, Bridge.

  My best friend is a word fiend. One of her most prized possessions is her OED, which she bought for practically nothing at a yard sale two years ago. The Oxford English Dictionary is a twenty-volume set that not only provides definitions of words but their histories as well. Bridge is always throwing big words into conversations, because she loves to watch people squirm and bluff their way around them. I learned a long time ago not to pretend to know what she was talking about. She’d call me on it every time.

  So Bridgette collects words and, apparently, my life.

  I can’t believe Mom hired her to watch Sean. I know she’s the best choice, since we were always watching him together, but still. It’s weird she’s there without me. And it’s weird that she’s talking to my mom while I’m stuck here on the other side of the world. Next she’ll tell me she got a second job at the movie theater.

  Speaking of, Toph hasn’t emailed me in two days. It’s not like I expected him to write every day‚ or even every week, but . . . there was an undeniable something between us. I mean, we kissed. Will this thing—whatever it is—end now that I’m here?

  His real name is Christopher, but he hates being called Chris, so he goes by Toph instead. He has shocking green eyes and wicked sideburns.We’re both left-handed, we both love the fake nacho cheese at the concession stand, and we both hate Cuba Gooding Jr. I’ve crushed on Toph since my first day on the job, when he stuck his head under the ICEE machine and guzzled it straight from the tap to make me laugh. He had Blue Raspberry Mouth for the rest of his shift.

  Not many people can pull off blue teeth. But believe me, Toph can.

  I refresh my inbox—just in case—but nothing new appears. I’ve been planted in front of my computer for several hours, waiting for Bridge to get out of school. I’m glad she emailed me. For some reason, I wanted her to write first. Maybe because I wanted her to think I was so happy and busy that I didn’t have time to talk. When, in reality, I’m sad and alone.

  And hungry. My mini-fridge is empty.

  I had dinner in the cafeteria but avoided the main food line again, stuffing myself with more bread, which only lasts so long. Maybe St. Clair will order breakfast for me again in the morning. Or Meredith; I bet she’d do it.

  I reply to Bridge, telling her about my new sort-of-friends, the crazy cafeteria with restaurant-quality food, and the giant Panthéon down the road. Despite myself, I describe St. Clair, and mention how in physics he leaned over Meredith to borrow a pen from me, right when Professeur Wakefield was assigning lab partners. So the teacher thought he was sitting next to me, and now St. Clair is my lab partner for the WHOLE YEAR.

  Which was the best thing that happened all day.

  I also tell Bridge about the mysterious Life class, La Vie, because she and I spent the entire summer speculating. (Me: “I bet we’ll debate the Big Bang and the Meaning of Life.” Bridge: “Dude, they’ll probably teach you breathing techniques and how to convert food into energy.”) All we did today was sit quietly and work on homework.

  What a pity.

  I spent the period reading the first novel assigned for English. And, wow. If I hadn’t realized I was in France yet, I do now. Because Like Water for Chocolate has sex in it. LOTS of sex. A woman’s desire literally lights a building on fire, and then a soldier throws her naked body onto a horse, and they totally do it while galloping away. There’s no way they would have let me read this back in the Bible Belt. The sexiest we ever got was The Scarlet Letter.

  I must tell Bridge about this book.

  It’s
almost midnight when I finish the email, but the hallway is still noisy.The juniors and seniors have a lot of freedom because, supposedly, we’re mature enough to handle it. I am, but I have serious doubts as to my classmates.The guy across the hall already has a pyramid of beer bottles stacked outside his door because, in Paris, sixteen-year-olds are allowed to drink wine and beer. You have to be eighteen to get hard liquor.

  Not that I haven’t seen that around here, too.

  I wonder if my mother had any idea it’d be legal for me to get wasted when she agreed to this. She looked pretty surprised when they mentioned it at the Life Skills Seminars, and I got a long lecture on responsibility that night at dinner. But I don’t plan on getting drunk. I’ve always thought beer smells like urine.

  There are a few part-timers who work the front desk, but only one live-in Résidence Director. His name is Nate, and his apartment is on the first floor. He’s in graduate school at some university around here. SOAP must pay him a lot to live with us.

  Nate is in his twenties, and he’s short and pale and has a shaved head. Which sounds strange but is actually attractive. He’s soft-spoken and seems like the kind of guy who’d be a good listener, but his tone exudes responsibility and a don’t-mess-with-me attitude. My parents loved him. He also has a bowl of condoms next to his door.

  I wonder if my parents saw that.

  The freshmen and sophomores are in another dormitory. They have to share rooms, and their floors are divided by sex, and they have tons of supervision. They also have enforced curfews. We don’t.We just have to sign a log whenever we come and go at night so Nate knows we’re still alive.Yeah. I’m sure no one ever takes advantage of this high security.

  I drag myself down the hall to use the bathroom. I take my place in line—there’s always a line, even at midnight—behind Amanda, the girl who attacked St. Clair at breakfast. She smirks at my faded jeans and my vintage Orange Crush T-shirt.

  I didn’t know she lived on my floor. Super.

  We don’t speak. I trace the floral pattern on the wallpaper with my fingers. Résidence Lambert is a peculiar mix of Parisian refinement and teenage practicality. Crystal light fixtures give the dormitory halls a golden glow, but fluorescent bulbs hum inside our bedrooms. The floors are glossy hardwood but lined with industrial-grade rugs. Fresh flowers and Tiffany lamps grace the lobby, but the chairs are ratty love seats, and the tables are carved with initials and rude words.

  “So you’re the new Brandon,” Amanda says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Brandon. Number twenty-five. He was expelled from school last year; one of the teachers found coke in his backpack.” She looks me over again and frowns. “Where are you from, anyway?” But I know what she’s really asking. She wants to know why they picked someone like me to take his place.

  “Atlanta.”

  “Oh,” she says. As if that explains my complete and utter hick-ness. Screw her. It’s one of the largest cities in America.

  “So you and St. Clair seemed pretty friendly at breakfast.”

  “Um.” Is she threatened by me?

  “I wouldn’t get any ideas if I were you,” she continues. “Not even you’re pretty enough to steal him from his girlfriend.They’ve been together forever.”

  Was that a compliment? Or not? Her emphasizing thing is really getting on my nerves. (My nerves.)

  Amanda gives a fake, bored yawn. “Interesting hair.”

  I touch it self-consciously. “Thanks. My friend bleached it.” Bridge added the thick band to my dark brown hair just last week. Normally, I keep the stripe tucked behind my right ear, but tonight it’s back in a ponytail.

  “Do you like it?” she asks. Universal bitch-speak for I think it’s hideous.

  I drop my hand. “Yeah. That’s why I did it.”

  “You know, I wouldn’t pull it back like that.You kinda look like a skunk.”

  “At least she doesn’t reek like one.” Rashmi appears behind me. She’d been visiting Meredith; I’d heard their muffled voices through my walls. “Delightful perfume, Amanda. Use a little more next time. I don’t know if they can smell you in London.”

  Amanda snarls. “Nice glasses.”

  “Good one,” Rashmi deadpans, but I notice she adjusts them anyway. Her nails are electric blue, the same shade as her frames. She turns to me. “I live two floors up, room six-o-one, if you need anything. See you at breakfast.”

  So she doesn’t dislike me! Or maybe she just hates Amanda more. Either way, I’m thankful, and I call goodbye to her retreating figure. She waves a hand and moves into the stairwell as Nate comes out of it. He approaches us in his quiet, friendly manner.

  “Going to bed soon, ladies?”

  Amanda smiles sweetly. “Of course.”

  “Great. Did you have a nice first day, Anna?”

  It’s so peculiar how everyone here already knows my name. “Yeah. Thanks, Nate.”

  He nods as if I’ve said something worth thinking about, and then says good night and moves on to the guys hanging out at the other end of the hallway.

  “I hate it when he does that,” Amanda says.

  “Does what?”

  “Check up on us. What an asshole.” The bathroom door opens, and a tiny redhead maneuvers around Amanda, who just stands there like she’s Queen of the Threshold. The girl must be a junior. I don’t recognize her from the circle of desks in senior English. “God, did you fall in?” Amanda asks. The girl’s pale skin turns pink.

  “She was just using the restroom,” I say.

  Amanda sashays onto the tile, her fuzzy purple slippers slapping against her heels. She yanks the door shut. “Does it look like I care? Skunk Girl?”

  chapter six

  One week into school, and I’m knee-deep in Fancy International Education.

  Professeur Cole’s syllabus is free of the usual Shakespeare and Steinbeck, and instead, we’re focusing on translated works. Every morning she hosts the discussion of Like Water for Chocolate as if we were a book club and not some boring, required class.

  So English is excellent.

  On the other hand, my French teacher is clearly illiterate. How else to explain the fact that despite the name of our textbook—Level One French—Professeur Gillet insists on speaking in French only? She also calls on me a dozen times a day. I never know the answer.

  Dave calls her Madame Guillotine. This is also excellent.

  He’s taken the class before, which is helpful but obviously not really helpful, as he failed it the first go-round. Dave has shaggy hair and pouty lips, and the peculiar combination of tan skin and freckles. Several girls have a crush on him. He’s also in my history class. I’m with the juniors, because the seniors take government, and I’ve already studied it. So I sit between Dave and Josh.

  Josh is quiet and reserved in class, but outside of it, his sense of humor is similar to St. Clair’s. It’s easy to understand why they’re such good friends. Meredith says they idolize each other, Josh because of St. Clair’s innate charisma, and St. Clair because Josh is an astounding artist. I rarely see Josh without his brush pen or sketchbook. His work is incredible—thick bold strokes and teeny exquisite details—and his fingers are always stained with ink.

  But the most notable aspect of my new education is the one that takes place outside of class.The one never mentioned in the glossy brochures. And that is this: attending boarding school is like living inside a high school. I can’t get away. Even when I’m in my bedroom, my ears are blasted by pop music, fistfights over washing machines, and drunk dancing in the stairwell. Meredith claims it’ll settle down once the novelty wears off for the juniors, but I’m not holding my breath.

  However.

  It’s Friday night, and Résidence Lambert has cleared out. My classmates are hitting the bars, and I have peace for the first time. If I close my eyes, I can almost believe I’m back home. Except for the opera. The Opera Diva sings most evenings at the restaurant across the street. For someone with such a huge v
oice, she’s surprisingly small. She’s also one of those people who shaves her eyebrows and draws them back on with a pencil. She looks like an extra from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

  Bridge calls as I’m watching Rushmore from the comfort of my mini-bed. It’s the film that launched Wes Anderson. Wes is amazing, a true auteur involved in every aspect of production, with a trademark style recognizable in any frame—wistful and quirky, deadpan and dark. Rushmore is one of my favorites. It’s about a guy named Max Fischer who is obsessed with, among many things, the private school that kicked him out.What would my life be like if I were as passionate about SOAP as Max is about Rushmore Academy? For starters, I probably wouldn’t be alone in my bedroom covered in white pimple cream.

  “Annnnn-uhhhhhh,” Bridge says. “I haaaaate themmmm.”

  She didn’t get section leader in band.Which is lame, because everyone knows she’s the most talented drummer in school. The percussion instructor gave it to Kevin Quiggley, because he thought the guys on the drumline wouldn’t respect Bridge as a leader—because she’s a girl.

  Yeah, well, now they won’t. Jerk.

  So Bridge hates band and hates the instructor and hates Kevin, who is a twerp with a disproportionately large ego. “Just wait,” I say. “Soon you’ll be the next MegWhite or Sheila E., and Kevin Quiggley will brag about how he knew you back when. And then when he approaches you after some big show, expecting special treatment and a backstage pass? You can sashay right past him without so much as a backward glance.”

  I hear the weary smile in her voice. “Why’d you move away again, Banana?”

  “Because my father is made of suck.”

  “The purest strain, dude.”

  We talk until three a.m., so I don’t wake up until early afternoon. I scramble to get dressed before the cafeteria closes. It’s only open for brunch on Saturdays and Sundays. It’s quiet when I arrive, but Rashmi and Josh and St. Clair are seated at their usual table.