Anna and the French Kiss
Page 3
I love it, but I’m too much of a neat freak to have something like it for myself. I need clean wal s and a clean desktop and everything put away in its right place at all times.
Meredith looks pleased with the compliment.
“Are these your friends?” I place the dinosaur back into its teacup and point to a picture tucked in her mirror. It’s gray and shadowy and printed on thick, glossy paper. Clearly the product of a school photography class. Four people stand before a giant hol ow cube, and the abundance of stylish black clothing and deliberately mussed hair reveals Meredith belongs to the resident art clique. For some reason, I’m surprised. I know her room is artsy, and she has all of those rings on her fingers and in her nose, but the rest is clean-cut—lilac sweater, pressed jeans, soft voice. Then there’s the soccer thing, but she’s not a tomboy either.
She breaks into a wide smile, and her nose ring winks. “Yeah. El ie took that at La Défense. That’s Josh and St. Clair and me and Rashmi. You’l meet them tomorrow at breakfast. well , everyone but El ie. She graduated last year.”
The pit of my stomach begins to unclench. Was that an invitation to sit with her?
“But I’m sure you’l meet her soon enough, because she’s dating St. Clair. She’s at Parsons Paris now for photography.”
I’ve never heard of it, but I nod as if I’ve considered going there myself someday.
“She’s really talented.” The edge in her voice suggests otherwise, but I don’t push it. “Josh and Rashmi are dating, too,” she adds.
Ah. Meredith must be single.
Unfortunately, I can relate. Back home I’d dated my friend Matt for five months. He was tal -ish and funny-ish and had decent-ish hair. It was one of those “since no one better is around, do you wanna make out?” situations. all we’d ever done was kiss, and it wasn’t even that great.Too much spit. I always had to wipe off my chin.
We broke up when I learned about France, but it wasn’t a big deal. I didn’t cry or send him weepy emails or key his mom’s station wagon. Now he’s going out with Cherrie Mil iken, who is in chorus and has shiny shampoo-commercial hair. It doesn’t even bother me.
Not really.
Besides, the breakup freed me to lust after Toph, multiplex coworker babe extraordinaire. Not that I didn’t lust after him when I was with Matt, but stil . It did make me feel guilty. And things were starting to happen with Toph—they real y were—when summer ended. But Matt’s the only guy I’ve ever gone out with, and he barely counts. I once told him I’d dated this guy named Stuart Thistleback at summer camp. Stuart Thistleback had auburn hair and played the stand-up bass, and we were total y in love, but he lived in Chattanooga and we didn’t have our driver’s licenses yet.
Matt knew I made it up, but he was too nice to say so.
I’m about to ask Meredith what classes she’s taking, when her phone chirps the first few bars of “Strawberry Fields Forever.” She rol s her eyes and answers. “Mom, it’s midnight here. Six-hour time difference, remember?”
I glance at her alarm clock, shaped like a yel ow submarine, and I’m surprised to find she’s right. I set my long-empty mug of chocolat chaud on her dresser. “I should get going,” I whisper. “Sorry I stayed so long.”
“Hold on a sec.” Meredith covers the mouthpiece. “It was nice meeting you. See you at breakfast?”
“Yeah. See ya.” I try to say this casual y, but I’m so thril ed that I skip from her room and promptly slam into a wal .
Whoops. Not a wal . A boy.
“Oof.” He staggers backward.
“Sorry! I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were there.”
He shakes his head, a little dazed.The first thing I notice is his hair—it’s the first thing I notice about everyone. It’s dark brown and messy and somehow both long and short at the same time. I think of the Beatles, since I’ve just seen them in Meredith’s room. It’s artist hair. Musician hair. I-pretend-I-don’t-care-but-I-real y-do hair.
Beautiful hair.
“It’s okay, I didn’t see you either. Are you all right, then?”
Oh my. He’s English.
“Er. Does Mer live here?”
Seriously, I don’t know any American girl who can resist an English accent.
The boy clears his throat. “Meredith Chevalier? Tal girl? Big, curly hair?” Then he looks at me like I’m crazy or half deaf, like my Nanna Oliphant. Nanna just smiles and shakes her head whenever I ask, “What kind of salad dressing would you like?” or “Where did you put Granddad’s false teeth?”
“I’m sorry.” He takes the smal est step away from me. “You were going to bed.”
“Yes! Meredith lives there. I’ve just spent two hours with her.” I announce this proudly like my brother, Seany, whenever he finds something disgusting in the yard. “I’m Anna! I’m new here!” Oh God. What. Is with.The scary enthusiasm? My cheeks catch fire, and it’s all so humiliating.
The beautiful boy gives an amused grin. His teeth are lovely—straight on top and crooked on the bottom, with a touch of overbite. I’m a sucker for smiles like this, due to my own lack of orthodontia. I have a gap between my front teeth the size of a raisin.
“Étienne,” he says. “I live one floor up.”
“I live here.” I point dumbly at my room while my mind whirs: French name, English accent, American school. Anna confused.
He raps twice on Meredith’s door. “Wel . I’l see you around then, Anna.”
Eh-t-yen says my name like this: Ah-na.
My heart thump thump thumps in my chest.
Meredith opens her door. “St. Clair!” she shrieks. She’s stil on the phone. They laugh and hug and talk over each other. “Come in! How was your flight?
When’d you get here? Have you seen Josh? Mom, I’ve gotta go.”
Meredith’s phone and door snap shut simultaneously.
I fumble with the key on my necklace. Two girls in matching pink bathrobes strut behind me, giggling and gossiping. A crowd of guys across the hall snicker and catcal . Meredith and her friend laugh through the thin wal s. My heart sinks, and my stomach tightens back up.
I’m stil the new girl. I’m stil alone.
Chapter three
Meredith looks pleased with the compliment.
“Are these your friends?” I place the dinosaur back into its teacup and point to a picture tucked in her mirror. It’s gray and shadowy and printed on thick, glossy paper. Clearly the product of a school photography class. Four people stand before a giant hol ow cube, and the abundance of stylish black clothing and deliberately mussed hair reveals Meredith belongs to the resident art clique. For some reason, I’m surprised. I know her room is artsy, and she has all of those rings on her fingers and in her nose, but the rest is clean-cut—lilac sweater, pressed jeans, soft voice. Then there’s the soccer thing, but she’s not a tomboy either.
She breaks into a wide smile, and her nose ring winks. “Yeah. El ie took that at La Défense. That’s Josh and St. Clair and me and Rashmi. You’l meet them tomorrow at breakfast. well , everyone but El ie. She graduated last year.”
The pit of my stomach begins to unclench. Was that an invitation to sit with her?
“But I’m sure you’l meet her soon enough, because she’s dating St. Clair. She’s at Parsons Paris now for photography.”
I’ve never heard of it, but I nod as if I’ve considered going there myself someday.
“She’s really talented.” The edge in her voice suggests otherwise, but I don’t push it. “Josh and Rashmi are dating, too,” she adds.
Ah. Meredith must be single.
Unfortunately, I can relate. Back home I’d dated my friend Matt for five months. He was tal -ish and funny-ish and had decent-ish hair. It was one of those “since no one better is around, do you wanna make out?” situations. all we’d ever done was kiss, and it wasn’t even that great.Too much spit. I always had to wipe off my chin.
We broke up when I learned about France, but it wasn’t a big deal. I didn’t cry or send him weepy emails or key his mom’s station wagon. Now he’s going out with Cherrie Mil iken, who is in chorus and has shiny shampoo-commercial hair. It doesn’t even bother me.
Not really.
Besides, the breakup freed me to lust after Toph, multiplex coworker babe extraordinaire. Not that I didn’t lust after him when I was with Matt, but stil . It did make me feel guilty. And things were starting to happen with Toph—they real y were—when summer ended. But Matt’s the only guy I’ve ever gone out with, and he barely counts. I once told him I’d dated this guy named Stuart Thistleback at summer camp. Stuart Thistleback had auburn hair and played the stand-up bass, and we were total y in love, but he lived in Chattanooga and we didn’t have our driver’s licenses yet.
Matt knew I made it up, but he was too nice to say so.
I’m about to ask Meredith what classes she’s taking, when her phone chirps the first few bars of “Strawberry Fields Forever.” She rol s her eyes and answers. “Mom, it’s midnight here. Six-hour time difference, remember?”
I glance at her alarm clock, shaped like a yel ow submarine, and I’m surprised to find she’s right. I set my long-empty mug of chocolat chaud on her dresser. “I should get going,” I whisper. “Sorry I stayed so long.”
“Hold on a sec.” Meredith covers the mouthpiece. “It was nice meeting you. See you at breakfast?”
“Yeah. See ya.” I try to say this casual y, but I’m so thril ed that I skip from her room and promptly slam into a wal .
Whoops. Not a wal . A boy.
“Oof.” He staggers backward.
“Sorry! I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were there.”
He shakes his head, a little dazed.The first thing I notice is his hair—it’s the first thing I notice about everyone. It’s dark brown and messy and somehow both long and short at the same time. I think of the Beatles, since I’ve just seen them in Meredith’s room. It’s artist hair. Musician hair. I-pretend-I-don’t-care-but-I-real y-do hair.
Beautiful hair.
“It’s okay, I didn’t see you either. Are you all right, then?”
Oh my. He’s English.
“Er. Does Mer live here?”
Seriously, I don’t know any American girl who can resist an English accent.
The boy clears his throat. “Meredith Chevalier? Tal girl? Big, curly hair?” Then he looks at me like I’m crazy or half deaf, like my Nanna Oliphant. Nanna just smiles and shakes her head whenever I ask, “What kind of salad dressing would you like?” or “Where did you put Granddad’s false teeth?”
“I’m sorry.” He takes the smal est step away from me. “You were going to bed.”
“Yes! Meredith lives there. I’ve just spent two hours with her.” I announce this proudly like my brother, Seany, whenever he finds something disgusting in the yard. “I’m Anna! I’m new here!” Oh God. What. Is with.The scary enthusiasm? My cheeks catch fire, and it’s all so humiliating.
The beautiful boy gives an amused grin. His teeth are lovely—straight on top and crooked on the bottom, with a touch of overbite. I’m a sucker for smiles like this, due to my own lack of orthodontia. I have a gap between my front teeth the size of a raisin.
“Étienne,” he says. “I live one floor up.”
“I live here.” I point dumbly at my room while my mind whirs: French name, English accent, American school. Anna confused.
He raps twice on Meredith’s door. “Wel . I’l see you around then, Anna.”
Eh-t-yen says my name like this: Ah-na.
My heart thump thump thumps in my chest.
Meredith opens her door. “St. Clair!” she shrieks. She’s stil on the phone. They laugh and hug and talk over each other. “Come in! How was your flight?
When’d you get here? Have you seen Josh? Mom, I’ve gotta go.”
Meredith’s phone and door snap shut simultaneously.
I fumble with the key on my necklace. Two girls in matching pink bathrobes strut behind me, giggling and gossiping. A crowd of guys across the hall snicker and catcal . Meredith and her friend laugh through the thin wal s. My heart sinks, and my stomach tightens back up.
I’m stil the new girl. I’m stil alone.
Chapter three
