“I want that back, you know.”
“The scarf?”
I smile. “That shirt.”
Josh returns my smile as he pulls the shirt over his head. “I’ll give it back with extra me-scent.”
I hug him, tucking my head against his chest. “Do I really have to go to school today?”
“I’m not getting you in trouble again.”
I look pointedly at my closed door. And then back at him.
“Okay.” He grins. “Maybe I’m willing to throw you under the bus for that one.”
When Kurt hears that Josh is in my bedroom, he insists on sneaking back to the dorm with me for lunch. I’m proud of him for breaking another rule, but I’m worried about what will happen. There’s not the slightest hesitation when they see each other. Josh greets Kurt with the same genuine and enthusiastic embrace that he gave St. Clair.
“I hope those are tears of happiness,” Kurt says, when he looks at me.
“They are,” I say.
“I’m glad you’re back together,” Kurt tells Josh. “And I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me, too,” Josh says.
“I like Isla better when you’re dating. I didn’t think that would be true – I thought I liked her more without you – but that wasn’t the case at all.”
Josh laughs. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“She’s been miserable company,” Kurt says.
Josh laughs harder, delighted for this news, as I whack Kurt’s arm. But I’m grinning, too.
“Will you be staying here?” Kurt asks Josh.
Josh and I immediately tense. I’m sure he’s reliving the same memory – Kurt, unable to lie. Barcelona.
“I am,” Josh says. “I don’t want to get Isla in trouble, but I’m good at keeping quiet.”
“I won’t say anything to anyone,” Kurt says quickly. “And if Nate corners me, I’ll tell him you’ve been staying at a hostel. Not here.”
I can tell that Josh is as surprised as I am. “I appreciate that,” he says. “But I won’t let you lie for me. If we’re caught, we’ll deal with the consequences ourselves.”
Kurt ponders this for a moment. “You’ve changed.”
Josh smiles. “So have you.”
“Oh,” Kurt says. “You guys should tell Hattie this time, though.”
“Definitely,” Josh and I say together.
We stay together happily and quietly. Josh doesn’t let me skip any more school lunches or break any additional rules. Only the big, obvious, boy-in-my-room one.
It’s wonderful sharing a space with him.
While I do my homework, he draws. We each have our own space inside of this shared space. I imagine that our apartment next fall might feel like this. The thought fills me with more joy than I thought possible. I borrow Hattie’s television, and from the opening ceremonies onward, the games are never turned off. The spirit of the events – of being in the host country – is thrilling. But, even better, the sound of the television is incredibly handy when it comes to muffling untoward noises.
As always, the women’s figure skating isn’t until the end of the games. The short programme is first, and we’re excited when Cricket’s twin, Calliope, bursts into first place with an acrobatically powerful performance. In the stands, the camera shows Cricket and Lola exploding from their seats with joy, but the announcers focus on Calliope’s curse instead. Predictions are made that she’ll be too scared to pull off her second event.
“Why can’t they let her enjoy this moment?” I say.
“Don’t worry,” Josh says. “Assholes always eat their own words.”
Two nights later, it happens. It’s the free skate. Her gaze is sharp, and her black costume is shimmering and transcendent. Her music is from the 1968 film Romeo and Juliet, and she becomes Juliet – in love, in death – before the entire world. She wins the gold medal by a landslide. Cricket and Lola clutch each other and cry. I even see Anna and St. Clair jumping up and down behind them. But Calliope is all triumphant grin.
“Told you,” Josh says, as if he can predict the future. But maybe he can. He’s always known what he’s wanted, and he’s getting everything that he asked for. I haven’t always known. But now I have what I want, too. The rest, the unknown…it’ll come.
And I’m looking forward to it.
The medal programme ends, we turn off the television, and – as we wrap ourselves around each other – we’re faced with the truth that our time together is coming to an end, too. Josh holds me tighter, but it’s not enough to stop the clock. The next evening, the Olympic flame is extinguished. The games are over. And he’s gone.
Chapter thirty-four
It’s midnight. It’s sweltering.
It’s the top of June.
I cross Amsterdam Avenue underneath a clear sky. I’m nervous, but it’s a good nervous. An anticipatory nervous. In the past few months, the last traces of shyness and doubt have been removed from my step. I’ve found the Right Way.
And I’m walking straight towards it.
The golden light of Kismet winks at me. There. In the window. Everything about this moment is exactly how I pictured it. His shoulders are rounded down, and his head is cocked to the right. His nose is nearly touching the tip of his pen. He arrived earlier this evening on a flight from DC.
I stop directly in front of the window. The light changes on the surface of his paper, and he looks up. We smile softly.
I touch my hand to the glass. Hi, I mouth.
Josh touches the other side. Hi.
He nods towards the door for me to come in. I open it, and I’m greeted by the warm fragrance of strong coffee. He stands. I walk straight into his embrace. We kiss, and we kiss, and we kiss. He tastes like Josh. He smells like Josh. He feels like Josh.
“You’re so real,” I say.
He touches my cheek. “I was thinking the same thing. I love the real you. I’ve missed the real you.” His finger is splotched with fresh ink, and I feel the tiniest wet drop against my skin. He tries to wipe it away, but I stop him.
“Please,” I say. “Leave it. I’ve missed the real you, too.”
Josh squeezes both of my hands with both of his.
“What are you working on?” I ask.
“The last page.” He gestures towards the table, where a pencilled sketch is being turned into inked brushstrokes. It’s a drawing of us, in this café, in this moment.
I smile up at him. “It’s beautiful. But what comes next?”
“The best part.” And he pulls me back into his arms. “The happily ever after.”
Acknowledgements
This book – and myself – were rescued from the brink on three separate occasions: (1) in November 2011 by Carolyn Mackler and Sara Zarr, (2) in July 2012 by Holly Black, and (3) in daily phone calls with Myra McEntire. I will for ever be grateful for their concern, caring, and counsel. Thank you, you astounding women, you.
Myra, you deserve your own paragraph. Because…TWYLA.
Thank you, Kate Schafer Testerman, for being my rock. My cheerful, encouraging, tough-as-an-Olympic-gymnast rock.
Thank you, Julie Strauss-Gabel, for your unrivalled patience and intuition. For recognizing my three girls as individuals and for helping me craft their worlds. Further thanks to everyone at the Penguin Young Reader’s Group for providing me with support and enthusiasm in equal measure. Exclamation points for: Lindsey Andrews, Lauren Donovan, Melissa Faulner, Anna Jarzab, Rosanne Lauer and Elyse Marshall.
Love and so much thanks to my family: Mom, Dad, Kara, Chris, Beckham, J.D., Fay and Roger. You, too, Mr Tumnus.
Thank you, Kiersten White. Words never seem enough when thanking you. You have listened to me talk about this novel for a long, long time. Few people would be able to do that with such genuine compassion and understanding.
Thanks to my Asheville friends: Alexandra Duncan, Alan Gratz, Beth Revis, Megan Shepherd and Meagan Spooner. Everyone at Malaprop’s Bookstore and Café. And, especially, Lauren
Biehl for in-person ensuring my return to health and happiness.
Thank you to Gayle Forman and Daisy Whitney for the impeccable, honest feedback. Thanks to Jim Di Bartolo for my ongoing education in comics, Manning Krull and Marjorie Mesnis for making it look like I can speak French, Hope Larson and Delia Sherman for answering very specific questions, Brian Sulkis for being great company and an inspiration, and Jon Skovron for guiding me through the most intimidating subject matter. And thank you, Natalie Whipple, for spending so much time teaching me about something that no longer exists inside this novel. You are a fantastic ally.
Thank you to all of the kind readers, authors, booksellers, librarians, educators, and Nerdfighters that I meet on my travels. Giant bear hugs to Robin Benway, Amy Spalding, Margaret Stohl, Laini Taylor, Jade Timms, and everyone on the retreat in San Miguel de Allende for listening and for laughing in the right places.
Finally, thank you to Jarrod Perkins. I’m crying now just because I typed your name. I love you more than anyone. Ever. Times a hundred million billion. Étienne, Cricket, and Josh – they were all you, but none of them came even close to you. You are my best friend. You are my true love. You are my happily ever after.
If you’ve loved Isla and the Happily Ever After, read on for a sneak preview of Anna and the French Kiss…
Here is everything I know about France: Madeline and Amélie and Moulin Rouge. The Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe, although I have no idea what the function of either actually is. Napoleon, Marie Antoinette, and a lot of kings named Louis. I’m not sure what they did either, but I think it has something to do with the French Revolution, which has something to do with Bastille Day. The art museum is called the Louvre and it’s shaped like a pyramid and the Mona Lisa lives there along with that statue of the woman missing her arms. And there are cafés or bistros or whatever they call them on every street corner. And mimes. The food is supposed to be good, and the people drink a lot of wine and smoke a lot of cigarettes.
I’ve heard they don’t like Americans, and they don’t like white sneakers.
A few months ago, my father enrolled me in boarding school. His air quotes practically crackled over the phone line as he declared living abroad to be a “good learning experience” and a “keepsake I’d treasure for ever”. Yeah. Keepsake. And I would’ve pointed out his misuse of the word had I not already been freaking out.
Since his announcement, I’ve tried yelling, begging, pleading, and crying, but nothing has convinced him otherwise. And now I have a new student visa and a passport, each declaring me: Anna Oliphant, citizen of the United States of America. And now I’m here with my parents – unpacking my belongings in a room smaller than my suitcase – the newest senior at the School of America in Paris.
It’s not that I’m ungrateful. I mean, it’s Paris. The City of Light! The most romantic city in the world! I’m not immune to that. It’s just this whole international boarding school thing is a lot more about my father than it is about me. Ever since he sold out and started writing lame books that were turned into even lamer movies, he’s been trying to impress his big-shot New York friends with how cultured and rich he is.
My father isn’t cultured. But he is rich.
It wasn’t always like this. When my parents were still married, we were strictly lower middle class. It was around the time of the divorce that all traces of decency vanished, and his dream of being the next great Southern writer was replaced by his desire to be the next published writer. So he started writing these novels set in Small Town Georgia about folks with Good American Values who Fall in Love and then contract Life-Threatening Diseases and Die.
I’m serious.
And it totally depresses me, but the ladies eat it up. They love my father’s books and they love his cable-knit sweaters and they love his bleachy smile and orangey tan. And they have turned him into a bestseller and a total dick.
Two of his books have been made into movies and three more are in production, which is where his real money comes from. Hollywood. And, somehow, this extra cash and pseudo-prestige have warped his brain into thinking that I should live in France. For a year. Alone. I don’t understand why he couldn’t send me to Australia or Ireland or anywhere else where English is the native language. The only French word I know is oui, which means “yes”, and only recently did I learn it’s spelled o-u-i and not w-e-e.
At least the people in my new school speak English. It was founded for pretentious Americans who don’t like the company of their own children. I mean, really. Who sends their kid to boarding school? It’s so Hogwarts. Only mine doesn’t have cute boy wizards or magic candy or flying lessons.
Instead, I’m stuck with ninety-nine other students. There are twenty-five people in my entire senior class, as opposed to the six hundred I had back in Atlanta. And I’m studying the same things I studied at Clairemont High except now I’m registered in beginning French.
Oh, yeah. Beginning French. No doubt with the freshmen. I totally rock.
Mom says I need to lose the bitter factor, pronto, but she’s not the one leaving behind her fabulous best friend, Bridgette. Or her fabulous job at the Royal Midtown 14 multiplex. Or Toph, the fabulous boy at the Royal Midtown 14 multiplex.
And I still can’t believe she’s separating me from my brother, Sean, who is only seven and way too young to be left home alone after school. Without me, he’ll probably be kidnapped by that creepy guy down the road who has dirty Coca-Cola towels hanging in his windows. Or Seany will accidentally eat something containing Red Dye #40 and his throat will swell up and no one will be there to drive him to the hospital. He might even die. And I bet they wouldn’t let me fly home for his funeral and I’d have to visit the cemetery alone next year and Dad will have picked out some god-awful granite cherub to go over his grave.
And I hope Dad doesn’t expect me to fill out college applications to Russia or Romania now. My dream is to study film theory in California. I want to be our nation’s greatest female film critic. Someday I’ll be invited to every festival, and I’ll have a major newspaper column and a cool television show and a ridiculously popular website. So far I only have the website, and it’s not so popular. Yet.
I just need a little more time to work on it, that’s all.
“Anna, it’s time.”
“What?” I glance up from folding my shirts into perfect squares.
Mom stares at me and twiddles the turtle charm on her necklace. My father, bedecked in a peach polo shirt and white boating shoes, is gazing out my dormitory window. It’s late, but across the street a woman belts out something operatic.
My parents need to return to their hotel rooms. They both have early morning flights.
“Oh.” I grip the shirt in my hands a little tighter.
Dad steps away from the window, and I’m alarmed to discover his eyes are wet. Something about the idea of my father – even if it is my father – on the brink of tears raises a lump in my throat.
“Well, kiddo. Guess you’re all grown up now.”
My body is frozen. He pulls my stiff limbs into a bear hug. His grip is frightening. “Take care of yourself. Study hard and make some friends. And watch out for pickpockets,” he adds. “Sometimes they work in pairs.”
I nod into his shoulder, and he releases me. And then he’s gone.
My mother lingers behind. “You’ll have a wonderful year here,” she says. “I just know it.” I bite my lip to keep it from quivering, and she sweeps me into her arms. I try to breathe. Inhale. Count to three. Exhale. Her skin smells like grapefruit body lotion. “I’ll call you the moment I get home,” she says.
Home. Atlanta isn’t my home any more.
“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 fills 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 still needs the vitamin C and he won’t drink the water when I use those vitamin drops—”
She pulls 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 college, but that no matter how many days or months or years I’ve yearned for it, I am still not prepared for when it actually happens.
My mother leaves. I am alone.
Fall in love with more from Stephanie Perkins…
ANNA and the FRENCH KISS
Anna had everything figured out – she was about to start senior year with her best friend, she had a great weekend job, and her huge work crush looked as if it was finally going somewhere… Until her dad decides to send her 4383 miles away to Paris. On her own.
But despite not speaking a word of French, Anna finds herself making new friends, including Étienne St. Clair, the smart, beautiful boy from the floor above. But he’s taken – and Anna might be too. Will a year of romantic near-misses end with the French kiss she’s been waiting for?
“Very sly. Very funny. Very romantic. You should date this book.” Maureen Johnson
Kindle ISBN 9781409579960
LOLA and the BOY NEXT DOOR
Budding designer Lola Nolan doesn’t believe in fashion…she believes in costume. The more sparkly, more fun, more wild – the better. And life is pretty close to perfect in Lola’s world, especially with her hot rocker boyfriend. That is, until the dreaded Bell twins, Calliope and Cricket, return to the neighbourhood and unearth a past of hurt and anguish that Lola thought was long buried.
Isla and the Happily Ever After Page 26
