Anna and the French Kiss
Page 2
Home. Atlanta isn’t my home anymore.
“I love you, Anna.”
I’m crying now. “I love you, too. Take care of Seany for me.”
“Of course.”
“And Captain Jack,” I say. “Make sure Sean feeds him and changes his bedding and fil s his water bottle. And make sure he doesn’t give him too many treats because they make him fat and then he can’t get out of his igloo. But make sure he gives him at least a few every day, because he stil needs the vitamin C and he won’t drink the water when I use those vitamin drops—”
She pul s back and tucks my bleached stripe behind my ear. “I love you,” she says again.
And then my mother does something that, even after all of the paperwork and plane tickets and presentations, I don’t see coming. Something that would’ve happened in a year anyway, once I left for col ege, but that no matter how many days or months or years I’ve yearned for it, I am stil not prepared for when it actual y happens.
My mother leaves. I am alone.
Chapter two
I feel it coming, but I can’t stop it.
PANIC.
They left me. My parents actual y left me! IN FRANCE!
Meanwhile, Paris is oddly silent. Even the opera singer has packed it in for the night. I cannot lose it. The wal s here are thinner than Band-Aids, so if I break down, my neighbors—my new classmates—wil hear everything. I’m going to be sick. I’m going to vomit that weird eggplant tapenade I had for dinner, and everyone will hear, and no one will invite me to watch the mimes escape from their invisible boxes, or whatever it is people do here in their spare time.
I race to my pedestal sink to splash water on my face, but it explodes out and sprays my shirt instead. And now I’m crying harder, because I haven’t unpacked my towels, and wet clothing reminds me of those stupid water rides Bridgette and Matt used to drag me on at Six Flags where the water is the wrong color and it smel s like paint and it has a bil ion tril ion bacterial microbes in it. Oh God.What if there are bacterial microbes in the water? Is French water even safe to drink?
Pathetic. I’m pathetic.
How many seventeen-year-olds would kil to leave home? My neighbors aren’t experiencing any meltdowns. No crying coming from behind their bedroom wal s. I grab a shirt off the bed to blot myself dry, when the solution strikes. My pillow. I col apse face-first into the sound barrier and sob and sob and sob.
Someone is knocking on my door.
No. Surely that’s not my door.
There it is again!
“Hel o?” a girl cal s from the hal way. “Hel o? Are you okay?”
No, I’m not okay. GO AWAY. But she cal s again, and I’m obligated to crawl off my bed and answer the door. A blonde with long, tight curls waits on the other side. She’s tal and big, but not overweight-big.Vol eybal player big. A diamondlike nose ring sparkles in the hal light. “Are you all right?” Her voice is gentle. “I’m Meredith; I live next door. Were those your parents who just left?”
My puffy eyes signal the affirmative.
“I cried the first night, too.” She tilts her head, thinks for a moment, and then nods. “Come on. Chocolat chaud. ”
“A chocolate show?” Why would I want to see a chocolate show? My mother has abandoned me and I’m terrified to leave my room and—
“No.” She smiles. “Chaud. Hot. Hot chocolate, I can make some in my room.”
Oh.
Despite myself, I fol ow. Meredith stops me with her hand like a crossing guard. She’s wearing rings on all five fingers. “Don’t forget your key. The doors automatical y lock behind you.”
“I know.” And I tug the necklace out from underneath my shirt to prove it. I slipped my key onto it during this weekend’s required Life Skil s Seminars for new students, when they told us how easy it is to get locked out.
We enter her room. I gasp. It’s the same impossible size as mine, seven by ten feet, with the same mini-desk, mini-dresser, mini-bed, mini-fridge, mini-sink, and mini-shower. (No mini-toilet, those are shared down the hal .) But . . . unlike my own sterile cage, every inch of wal and ceiling is covered with posters and pictures and shiny wrapping paper and brightly colored flyers written in French.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
Meredith hands me a tissue and I blow my nose, a terrible honk like an angry goose, but she doesn’t flinch or make a face. “I arrived yesterday. This is my fourth year here, so I didn’t have to go to the seminars. I flew in alone, so I’ve just been hanging out, waiting for my friends to show up.” She looks around with her hands on her hips, admiring her handiwork. I spot a pile of magazines, scissors, and tape on her floor and realize it’s a work in progress.
“Not bad, eh? White wal s don’t do it for me.”
I circle her room, examining everything. I quickly discover that most of the faces are the same five people: John, Paul, George, Ringo, and some soccer guy I don’t recognize.
“The Beatles are all I listen to. My friends tease me, but—”
“Who’s this?” I point to Soccer Guy. He’s wearing red and white, and he’s all dark eyebrows and dark hair. Quite good-looking, actually.
“Cesc Fàbregas. God, he’s the most incredible passer. Plays for Arsenal. The English footbal club? No?”
I shake my head. I don’t keep up with sports, but maybe I should. “Nice legs, though.”
“I know, right? You could hammer nails with those thighs.”
While Meredith brews chocolat chaud on her hot plate, I learn she’s also a senior, and that she only plays soccer during the summer because our school doesn’t have a program, but that she used to rank all -State in Massachusetts. That’s where she’s from, Boston. And she reminds me I should cal it “footbal ” here, which—when I think about it—real y does make more sense. And she doesn’t seem to mind when I badger her with questions or paw through her things.
Her room is amazing. In addition to the paraphernalia taped to her wal s, she has a dozen china teacups fil ed with plastic glitter rings, and silver rings with amber stones, and glass rings with pressed flowers. It already looks as if she’s lived here for years.
I try on a ring with a rubber dinosaur attached. The T-rex flashes red and yel ow and blue lights when I squeeze him. “I wish I could have a room like this.”
“I love you, Anna.”
I’m crying now. “I love you, too. Take care of Seany for me.”
“Of course.”
“And Captain Jack,” I say. “Make sure Sean feeds him and changes his bedding and fil s his water bottle. And make sure he doesn’t give him too many treats because they make him fat and then he can’t get out of his igloo. But make sure he gives him at least a few every day, because he stil needs the vitamin C and he won’t drink the water when I use those vitamin drops—”
She pul s back and tucks my bleached stripe behind my ear. “I love you,” she says again.
And then my mother does something that, even after all of the paperwork and plane tickets and presentations, I don’t see coming. Something that would’ve happened in a year anyway, once I left for col ege, but that no matter how many days or months or years I’ve yearned for it, I am stil not prepared for when it actual y happens.
My mother leaves. I am alone.
Chapter two
I feel it coming, but I can’t stop it.
PANIC.
They left me. My parents actual y left me! IN FRANCE!
Meanwhile, Paris is oddly silent. Even the opera singer has packed it in for the night. I cannot lose it. The wal s here are thinner than Band-Aids, so if I break down, my neighbors—my new classmates—wil hear everything. I’m going to be sick. I’m going to vomit that weird eggplant tapenade I had for dinner, and everyone will hear, and no one will invite me to watch the mimes escape from their invisible boxes, or whatever it is people do here in their spare time.
I race to my pedestal sink to splash water on my face, but it explodes out and sprays my shirt instead. And now I’m crying harder, because I haven’t unpacked my towels, and wet clothing reminds me of those stupid water rides Bridgette and Matt used to drag me on at Six Flags where the water is the wrong color and it smel s like paint and it has a bil ion tril ion bacterial microbes in it. Oh God.What if there are bacterial microbes in the water? Is French water even safe to drink?
Pathetic. I’m pathetic.
How many seventeen-year-olds would kil to leave home? My neighbors aren’t experiencing any meltdowns. No crying coming from behind their bedroom wal s. I grab a shirt off the bed to blot myself dry, when the solution strikes. My pillow. I col apse face-first into the sound barrier and sob and sob and sob.
Someone is knocking on my door.
No. Surely that’s not my door.
There it is again!
“Hel o?” a girl cal s from the hal way. “Hel o? Are you okay?”
No, I’m not okay. GO AWAY. But she cal s again, and I’m obligated to crawl off my bed and answer the door. A blonde with long, tight curls waits on the other side. She’s tal and big, but not overweight-big.Vol eybal player big. A diamondlike nose ring sparkles in the hal light. “Are you all right?” Her voice is gentle. “I’m Meredith; I live next door. Were those your parents who just left?”
My puffy eyes signal the affirmative.
“I cried the first night, too.” She tilts her head, thinks for a moment, and then nods. “Come on. Chocolat chaud. ”
“A chocolate show?” Why would I want to see a chocolate show? My mother has abandoned me and I’m terrified to leave my room and—
“No.” She smiles. “Chaud. Hot. Hot chocolate, I can make some in my room.”
Oh.
Despite myself, I fol ow. Meredith stops me with her hand like a crossing guard. She’s wearing rings on all five fingers. “Don’t forget your key. The doors automatical y lock behind you.”
“I know.” And I tug the necklace out from underneath my shirt to prove it. I slipped my key onto it during this weekend’s required Life Skil s Seminars for new students, when they told us how easy it is to get locked out.
We enter her room. I gasp. It’s the same impossible size as mine, seven by ten feet, with the same mini-desk, mini-dresser, mini-bed, mini-fridge, mini-sink, and mini-shower. (No mini-toilet, those are shared down the hal .) But . . . unlike my own sterile cage, every inch of wal and ceiling is covered with posters and pictures and shiny wrapping paper and brightly colored flyers written in French.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
Meredith hands me a tissue and I blow my nose, a terrible honk like an angry goose, but she doesn’t flinch or make a face. “I arrived yesterday. This is my fourth year here, so I didn’t have to go to the seminars. I flew in alone, so I’ve just been hanging out, waiting for my friends to show up.” She looks around with her hands on her hips, admiring her handiwork. I spot a pile of magazines, scissors, and tape on her floor and realize it’s a work in progress.
“Not bad, eh? White wal s don’t do it for me.”
I circle her room, examining everything. I quickly discover that most of the faces are the same five people: John, Paul, George, Ringo, and some soccer guy I don’t recognize.
“The Beatles are all I listen to. My friends tease me, but—”
“Who’s this?” I point to Soccer Guy. He’s wearing red and white, and he’s all dark eyebrows and dark hair. Quite good-looking, actually.
“Cesc Fàbregas. God, he’s the most incredible passer. Plays for Arsenal. The English footbal club? No?”
I shake my head. I don’t keep up with sports, but maybe I should. “Nice legs, though.”
“I know, right? You could hammer nails with those thighs.”
While Meredith brews chocolat chaud on her hot plate, I learn she’s also a senior, and that she only plays soccer during the summer because our school doesn’t have a program, but that she used to rank all -State in Massachusetts. That’s where she’s from, Boston. And she reminds me I should cal it “footbal ” here, which—when I think about it—real y does make more sense. And she doesn’t seem to mind when I badger her with questions or paw through her things.
Her room is amazing. In addition to the paraphernalia taped to her wal s, she has a dozen china teacups fil ed with plastic glitter rings, and silver rings with amber stones, and glass rings with pressed flowers. It already looks as if she’s lived here for years.
I try on a ring with a rubber dinosaur attached. The T-rex flashes red and yel ow and blue lights when I squeeze him. “I wish I could have a room like this.”
