Anna and the French Kiss
Page 5
“I’m not.” Rashmi looks at me for the first time, calculating whether or not I might fal in love with her own boyfriend.
He lets go of her hand and gives an exaggerated sigh. “Wel , I am. I’m asking him to prom. This is our year, I just know it.”
“This school has a prom?” I ask.
“God no,” Rashmi says. “Yeah, Josh.You and St. Clair would look real y cute in matching tuxes.”
“Tails.” The English accent makes Meredith and me jump in our seats. Hal way boy. Beautiful boy. His hair is damp from the rain. “I insist the tuxes have tails, or I’m giving your corsage to Steve Carver instead.”
“St. Clair!” Josh springs from his seat, and they give each other the classic two-thumps-on-the-back guy hug.
“No kiss? I’m crushed, mate.”
“Thought it might miff the ol’ bal and chain. She doesn’t know about us yet.”
“Whatever,” Rashmi says, but she’s smiling now. It’s a good look for her. She should utilize the corners of her mouth more often.
Beautiful Hal way Boy (Am I supposed to cal him Étienne or St. Clair?) drops his bag and slides into the remaining seat between Rashmi and me.
“Anna.” He’s surprised to see me, and I’m startled, too. He remembers me.
“Nice umbrel a. Could’ve used that this morning.” He shakes a hand through his hair, and a drop lands on my bare arm. Words fail me. Unfortunately, my stomach speaks for itself. His eyes pop at the rumble, and I’m alarmed by how big and brown they are. As if he needed any further weapons against the female race.
Josh must be right. Every girl in school must be in love with him.
“Sounds terrible. You ought to feed that thing. Unless ...” He pretends to examine me, then comes in close with a whisper. “Unless you’re one of those girls who never eats. Can’t tolerate that, I’m afraid. Have to give you a lifetime table ban.”
I’m determined to speak rational y in his presence. “I’m not sure how to order.”
“Easy,” Josh says. “Stand in line. tell them what you want. Accept delicious goodies. And then give them your meal card and two pints of blood.”
“I heard they raised it to three pints this year,” Rashmi says.
“Bone marrow,” Beautiful Hal way Boy says. “Or your left earlobe.”
“I meant the menu, thank you very much.” I gesture to the chalkboard above one of the chefs. An exquisite, cursive hand has written out the morning’s menu in pink and yel ow and white. In French. “Not exactly my first language.”
“You don’t speak French?” Meredith asks.
“I’ve taken Spanish for three years. It’s not like I ever thought I’d be moving to Paris.”
“It’s okay,” Meredith says quickly. “A lot of people here don’t speak French.”
“But most of them do,” Josh adds.
“But most of them not very well .” Rashmi looks pointedly at him.
“You’l learn the language of food first. The language of love.” Josh rubs his bel y like a skinny Buddha. “Oeuf. Egg. Pomme. Apple. Lapin. Rabbit.”
“Not funny.” Rashmi punches him in the arm. “No wonder Isis bites you. Jerk.”
I glance at the chalkboard again. It’s stil in French. “And, um, until then?”
“Right.” Beautiful Hal way Boy pushes back his chair. “Come along, then. I haven’t eaten either.” I can’t help but notice several girls gaping at him as we wind our way through the crowd. A blonde with a beaky nose and a teeny tank top coos as soon as we get in line. “Hey, St. Clair. How was your summer?”
“Hal o, Amanda. Fine.”
“Did you stay here, or did you go back to London?” She leans over her friend, a short girl with a severe ponytail, and positions herself for maximum cle**age exposure.
“I stayed with me mum in San Francisco. Did you have a good holiday?” He asks this politely, but I’m pleased to hear the indifference in his voice.
Amanda flips her hair, and suddenly she’s Cherrie Mil iken. Cherrie loves to swish her hair and shake it out and twirl it around her fingers. Bridgette is convinced she spends her weekends standing before oscil ating fans, pretending to be a supermodel, but I think she’s too busy soaking her locks in seaweed papaya mud wraps in that never-ending quest for perfect sheen.
“It was fabulous.” Flip, goes her hair. “I went to Greece for a month, then spent the rest of my summer in Manhattan. My father has an amazing penthouse that overlooks Central Park.”
Every sentence she says has a word that’s emphasized. I snort to keep from laughing, and Beautiful Hal way Boy gets a strange coughing fit.
“But I missed you. Didn’t you get my emails?”
“Er, no. Must have the wrong address. Hey.” He nudges me. “It’s almost our turn.”He turns his back onAmanda,and she and her friend exchange frowns.
“Time for your first French lesson. Breakfast here is simple and consists primarily of breads—croissants being the most famous, of course.This means no sausage, no scrambled eggs.”
“Bacon?” I ask hopefully.
“Definitely not.” He laughs. “Second lesson, the words on the chalkboard. Listen careful y and repeat after me. Granola. ” I narrow my eyes as he widens his in mock innocence. “Means ‘granola,’ you see. And this one? Yaourt? ”
“Gee, I dunno.Yogurt?”
“A natural!You say you’ve never lived in France before?”
“Har. Bloody. Har.”
He smiles. “Oh, I see. Known me less than a day and teasing me about my accent.What’s next? Care to discuss the state of my hair? My height? My trousers?”
Trousers. Honestly.
The Frenchman behind the counter barks at us. Sorry, Chef Pierre. I’m a little distracted by this English French American Boy Masterpiece. Said boy asks rapidly, “Yogurt with granola and honey, soft-boiled egg, or pears on brioche?”
I have no idea what brioche is. “Yogurt,” I say.
He places our orders in perfect French. At least, it sounds impeccable to my virgin ears, and it relaxes Chef Pierre. He loses the glower and stirs the granola and honey into my yogurt. A sprinkling of blueberries is added to the top before he hands it over.
He lets go of her hand and gives an exaggerated sigh. “Wel , I am. I’m asking him to prom. This is our year, I just know it.”
“This school has a prom?” I ask.
“God no,” Rashmi says. “Yeah, Josh.You and St. Clair would look real y cute in matching tuxes.”
“Tails.” The English accent makes Meredith and me jump in our seats. Hal way boy. Beautiful boy. His hair is damp from the rain. “I insist the tuxes have tails, or I’m giving your corsage to Steve Carver instead.”
“St. Clair!” Josh springs from his seat, and they give each other the classic two-thumps-on-the-back guy hug.
“No kiss? I’m crushed, mate.”
“Thought it might miff the ol’ bal and chain. She doesn’t know about us yet.”
“Whatever,” Rashmi says, but she’s smiling now. It’s a good look for her. She should utilize the corners of her mouth more often.
Beautiful Hal way Boy (Am I supposed to cal him Étienne or St. Clair?) drops his bag and slides into the remaining seat between Rashmi and me.
“Anna.” He’s surprised to see me, and I’m startled, too. He remembers me.
“Nice umbrel a. Could’ve used that this morning.” He shakes a hand through his hair, and a drop lands on my bare arm. Words fail me. Unfortunately, my stomach speaks for itself. His eyes pop at the rumble, and I’m alarmed by how big and brown they are. As if he needed any further weapons against the female race.
Josh must be right. Every girl in school must be in love with him.
“Sounds terrible. You ought to feed that thing. Unless ...” He pretends to examine me, then comes in close with a whisper. “Unless you’re one of those girls who never eats. Can’t tolerate that, I’m afraid. Have to give you a lifetime table ban.”
I’m determined to speak rational y in his presence. “I’m not sure how to order.”
“Easy,” Josh says. “Stand in line. tell them what you want. Accept delicious goodies. And then give them your meal card and two pints of blood.”
“I heard they raised it to three pints this year,” Rashmi says.
“Bone marrow,” Beautiful Hal way Boy says. “Or your left earlobe.”
“I meant the menu, thank you very much.” I gesture to the chalkboard above one of the chefs. An exquisite, cursive hand has written out the morning’s menu in pink and yel ow and white. In French. “Not exactly my first language.”
“You don’t speak French?” Meredith asks.
“I’ve taken Spanish for three years. It’s not like I ever thought I’d be moving to Paris.”
“It’s okay,” Meredith says quickly. “A lot of people here don’t speak French.”
“But most of them do,” Josh adds.
“But most of them not very well .” Rashmi looks pointedly at him.
“You’l learn the language of food first. The language of love.” Josh rubs his bel y like a skinny Buddha. “Oeuf. Egg. Pomme. Apple. Lapin. Rabbit.”
“Not funny.” Rashmi punches him in the arm. “No wonder Isis bites you. Jerk.”
I glance at the chalkboard again. It’s stil in French. “And, um, until then?”
“Right.” Beautiful Hal way Boy pushes back his chair. “Come along, then. I haven’t eaten either.” I can’t help but notice several girls gaping at him as we wind our way through the crowd. A blonde with a beaky nose and a teeny tank top coos as soon as we get in line. “Hey, St. Clair. How was your summer?”
“Hal o, Amanda. Fine.”
“Did you stay here, or did you go back to London?” She leans over her friend, a short girl with a severe ponytail, and positions herself for maximum cle**age exposure.
“I stayed with me mum in San Francisco. Did you have a good holiday?” He asks this politely, but I’m pleased to hear the indifference in his voice.
Amanda flips her hair, and suddenly she’s Cherrie Mil iken. Cherrie loves to swish her hair and shake it out and twirl it around her fingers. Bridgette is convinced she spends her weekends standing before oscil ating fans, pretending to be a supermodel, but I think she’s too busy soaking her locks in seaweed papaya mud wraps in that never-ending quest for perfect sheen.
“It was fabulous.” Flip, goes her hair. “I went to Greece for a month, then spent the rest of my summer in Manhattan. My father has an amazing penthouse that overlooks Central Park.”
Every sentence she says has a word that’s emphasized. I snort to keep from laughing, and Beautiful Hal way Boy gets a strange coughing fit.
“But I missed you. Didn’t you get my emails?”
“Er, no. Must have the wrong address. Hey.” He nudges me. “It’s almost our turn.”He turns his back onAmanda,and she and her friend exchange frowns.
“Time for your first French lesson. Breakfast here is simple and consists primarily of breads—croissants being the most famous, of course.This means no sausage, no scrambled eggs.”
“Bacon?” I ask hopefully.
“Definitely not.” He laughs. “Second lesson, the words on the chalkboard. Listen careful y and repeat after me. Granola. ” I narrow my eyes as he widens his in mock innocence. “Means ‘granola,’ you see. And this one? Yaourt? ”
“Gee, I dunno.Yogurt?”
“A natural!You say you’ve never lived in France before?”
“Har. Bloody. Har.”
He smiles. “Oh, I see. Known me less than a day and teasing me about my accent.What’s next? Care to discuss the state of my hair? My height? My trousers?”
Trousers. Honestly.
The Frenchman behind the counter barks at us. Sorry, Chef Pierre. I’m a little distracted by this English French American Boy Masterpiece. Said boy asks rapidly, “Yogurt with granola and honey, soft-boiled egg, or pears on brioche?”
I have no idea what brioche is. “Yogurt,” I say.
He places our orders in perfect French. At least, it sounds impeccable to my virgin ears, and it relaxes Chef Pierre. He loses the glower and stirs the granola and honey into my yogurt. A sprinkling of blueberries is added to the top before he hands it over.
