Anna and the French Kiss
Page 45
pass. “Row twenty-three.”
His expression is surprised. He forgot, too.
Someone growls at me in French. A businessman with immaculate black hair is trying to hand his ticket to the flight attendant. I mutter my apologies
and step aside. St. Clair’s shoulders sag. He waves goodbye and disappears around the corner.
Why can’t we sit together? What’s the point of seat reservations, anyway? The bored woman cal s my section next, and I think terrible thoughts about
her as she slides my ticket through her machine. At least I have a window seat. The middle and aisle are occupied with more businessmen. I’m reaching
for my book again—it’s going to be a long flight—when a polite English accent speaks to the man beside me.
“Pardon me, but I wonder if you wouldn’t mind switching seats.You see, that’s my girlfriend there, and she’s pregnant. And since she gets a bit ill on airplanes, I thought she might need someone to hold back her hair when . . . well . . .” St. Clair holds up the courtesy barf bag and shakes it around.The paper crinkles dramatical y.
The man sprints off the seat as my face flames. His pregnant girlfriend?
“Thank you. I was in for ty-five G.” He slides into the vacated chair and waits for the man to disappear before speaking again. The guy on his other side stares at us in horror, but St. Clair doesn’t care. “They had me next to some horrible couple in matching Hawaiian shirts.There’s no reason to suffer this flight alone when we can suffer it together.”
“That’s flattering, thanks.” But I laugh, and he looks pleased—until takeoff, when he claws the armrest and turns a color disturbingly similar to key lime pie. I distract him with a story about the time I broke my arm playing Peter Pan. It turned out there was more to flying than thinking happy thoughts and jumping out a window. St. Clair relaxes once we’re above the clouds.
Time passes quickly for an eight-hour flight.
We don’t talk about what waits on the other side of the ocean. Not his mother. Not Toph. Instead, we browse SkyMall. We play the if-you-had-to-buy-one-thing-off-each-page game. He laughs when I choose the hot-dog toaster, and I tease him about the fogless shower mirror and the world’s largest
crossword puzzle.
“At least they’re practical,” he says.
“What are you gonna do with a giant crossword poster? ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Anna. I can’t go to the movies tonight. I’m working on two thousand across,
Norwegian Birdcall.’”
“At least I’m not buying a Large Plastic Rock for hiding ‘unsightly utility posts.’You realize you have no lawn?”
“I could hide other stuff. Like . . . failed French tests. Or il egal moonshining equipment.” He doubles over with that wonderful boyish laughter, and I grin.
“But what will you do with a motorized swimming-pool snack float?”
“Use it in the bathtub.” He wipes a tear from his cheek. “Ooo, look! A Mount Rushmore garden statue. Just what you need, Anna. And only forty dol ars!
A bargain!”
We get stumped on the page of golfing accessories, so we switch to drawing rude pictures of the other people on the plane, fol owed by rude pictures
of Euro Disney Guy. St. Clair’s eyes glint as he sketches the man fal ing down the Panthéon’s spiral staircase.
There’s a lot of blood. And Mickey Mouse ears.
After a few hours, he grows sleepy. His head sinks against my shoulder. I don’t dare move.The sun is coming up, and the sky is pink and orange and
makes me think of sherbet. I sniff his hair. Not out of weirdness. It’s just . . . there.
He must have woken earlier than I thought, because it smel s shower-fresh. Clean. Healthy. Mmm. I doze in and out of a peaceful dream, and the next
thing I know, the captain’s voice is crackling over the airplane. We’re here.
I’m home.
Chapter twenty-four
I’m jittery. It’s like the animatronic band from Chuck E. Cheese is throwing a jamboree in my stomach. I’ve always hated Chuck E. Cheese. Why am I
thinking about Chuck E. Cheese? I don’t know why I’m nervous. I’m just seeing my mom again. And Seany. And Bridge! Bridge said she’d come.
St. Clair’s connecting flight to San Francisco doesn’t leave for another three hours, so we board the train that runs between terminals, and he walks me
to the arrivals area. We’ve been quiet since we got off the plane. I guess we’re tired. We reach the security checkpoint, and he can’t go any farther. Stupid TSA regulations. I wish I could introduce him to my family.The Chuck E. Cheese band kicks it up a notch, which is weird, because I’m not nervous about
leaving him. I’l see him again in two weeks.
“Al right, Banana. Suppose this is goodbye.” He grips the straps of his backpack, and I do the same.
This is the moment we’re supposed to hug. For some reason, I can’t do it.
“Tel your mom hi for me. I mean, I know I don’t know her. She just sounds real y nice. And I hope she’s okay.”
He smiles softly. “Thanks. I’l tell her.”
“Cal me?”
“Yeah, whatever.You’l be so busy with Bridge and what’s-his-name that you’l forget all about your English mate, St. Clair.”
“Ha! So you are English!” I poke him in the stomach.
He grabs my hand and we wrestle, laughing. “I claim . . . no . . . nationality.”
I break free. “Whatever, I total y caught you. Ow!” A gray-haired man in sunglasses bumps his red plaid suitcase into my legs.
“Hey, you! Apologize!” St. Clair says, but the guy is already too far away to hear.
I rub my shins. “It’s okay, we’re in the way. I should go.”
Time to hug again.Why can’t we do it? Final y, I step forward and put my arms around him. He’s stiff, and it’s awkward, especial y with our backpacks in
the way. I smel his hair again. Oh heavens.
We pul apart. “Have fun at the show tonight,” he says.
“I will . Have a good flight.”
“Thanks.” He bites his thumbnail, and then I’m through security and riding down the escalator. I look back one last time. St. Clair jumps up and down,
waving at me. I burst into laughter, and his face lights up. The escalator slides down.
His expression is surprised. He forgot, too.
Someone growls at me in French. A businessman with immaculate black hair is trying to hand his ticket to the flight attendant. I mutter my apologies
and step aside. St. Clair’s shoulders sag. He waves goodbye and disappears around the corner.
Why can’t we sit together? What’s the point of seat reservations, anyway? The bored woman cal s my section next, and I think terrible thoughts about
her as she slides my ticket through her machine. At least I have a window seat. The middle and aisle are occupied with more businessmen. I’m reaching
for my book again—it’s going to be a long flight—when a polite English accent speaks to the man beside me.
“Pardon me, but I wonder if you wouldn’t mind switching seats.You see, that’s my girlfriend there, and she’s pregnant. And since she gets a bit ill on airplanes, I thought she might need someone to hold back her hair when . . . well . . .” St. Clair holds up the courtesy barf bag and shakes it around.The paper crinkles dramatical y.
The man sprints off the seat as my face flames. His pregnant girlfriend?
“Thank you. I was in for ty-five G.” He slides into the vacated chair and waits for the man to disappear before speaking again. The guy on his other side stares at us in horror, but St. Clair doesn’t care. “They had me next to some horrible couple in matching Hawaiian shirts.There’s no reason to suffer this flight alone when we can suffer it together.”
“That’s flattering, thanks.” But I laugh, and he looks pleased—until takeoff, when he claws the armrest and turns a color disturbingly similar to key lime pie. I distract him with a story about the time I broke my arm playing Peter Pan. It turned out there was more to flying than thinking happy thoughts and jumping out a window. St. Clair relaxes once we’re above the clouds.
Time passes quickly for an eight-hour flight.
We don’t talk about what waits on the other side of the ocean. Not his mother. Not Toph. Instead, we browse SkyMall. We play the if-you-had-to-buy-one-thing-off-each-page game. He laughs when I choose the hot-dog toaster, and I tease him about the fogless shower mirror and the world’s largest
crossword puzzle.
“At least they’re practical,” he says.
“What are you gonna do with a giant crossword poster? ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Anna. I can’t go to the movies tonight. I’m working on two thousand across,
Norwegian Birdcall.’”
“At least I’m not buying a Large Plastic Rock for hiding ‘unsightly utility posts.’You realize you have no lawn?”
“I could hide other stuff. Like . . . failed French tests. Or il egal moonshining equipment.” He doubles over with that wonderful boyish laughter, and I grin.
“But what will you do with a motorized swimming-pool snack float?”
“Use it in the bathtub.” He wipes a tear from his cheek. “Ooo, look! A Mount Rushmore garden statue. Just what you need, Anna. And only forty dol ars!
A bargain!”
We get stumped on the page of golfing accessories, so we switch to drawing rude pictures of the other people on the plane, fol owed by rude pictures
of Euro Disney Guy. St. Clair’s eyes glint as he sketches the man fal ing down the Panthéon’s spiral staircase.
There’s a lot of blood. And Mickey Mouse ears.
After a few hours, he grows sleepy. His head sinks against my shoulder. I don’t dare move.The sun is coming up, and the sky is pink and orange and
makes me think of sherbet. I sniff his hair. Not out of weirdness. It’s just . . . there.
He must have woken earlier than I thought, because it smel s shower-fresh. Clean. Healthy. Mmm. I doze in and out of a peaceful dream, and the next
thing I know, the captain’s voice is crackling over the airplane. We’re here.
I’m home.
Chapter twenty-four
I’m jittery. It’s like the animatronic band from Chuck E. Cheese is throwing a jamboree in my stomach. I’ve always hated Chuck E. Cheese. Why am I
thinking about Chuck E. Cheese? I don’t know why I’m nervous. I’m just seeing my mom again. And Seany. And Bridge! Bridge said she’d come.
St. Clair’s connecting flight to San Francisco doesn’t leave for another three hours, so we board the train that runs between terminals, and he walks me
to the arrivals area. We’ve been quiet since we got off the plane. I guess we’re tired. We reach the security checkpoint, and he can’t go any farther. Stupid TSA regulations. I wish I could introduce him to my family.The Chuck E. Cheese band kicks it up a notch, which is weird, because I’m not nervous about
leaving him. I’l see him again in two weeks.
“Al right, Banana. Suppose this is goodbye.” He grips the straps of his backpack, and I do the same.
This is the moment we’re supposed to hug. For some reason, I can’t do it.
“Tel your mom hi for me. I mean, I know I don’t know her. She just sounds real y nice. And I hope she’s okay.”
He smiles softly. “Thanks. I’l tell her.”
“Cal me?”
“Yeah, whatever.You’l be so busy with Bridge and what’s-his-name that you’l forget all about your English mate, St. Clair.”
“Ha! So you are English!” I poke him in the stomach.
He grabs my hand and we wrestle, laughing. “I claim . . . no . . . nationality.”
I break free. “Whatever, I total y caught you. Ow!” A gray-haired man in sunglasses bumps his red plaid suitcase into my legs.
“Hey, you! Apologize!” St. Clair says, but the guy is already too far away to hear.
I rub my shins. “It’s okay, we’re in the way. I should go.”
Time to hug again.Why can’t we do it? Final y, I step forward and put my arms around him. He’s stiff, and it’s awkward, especial y with our backpacks in
the way. I smel his hair again. Oh heavens.
We pul apart. “Have fun at the show tonight,” he says.
“I will . Have a good flight.”
“Thanks.” He bites his thumbnail, and then I’m through security and riding down the escalator. I look back one last time. St. Clair jumps up and down,
waving at me. I burst into laughter, and his face lights up. The escalator slides down.
