French Kiss

by Aimee Friedman

  French

  Kiss

  Aimee Friedman

  For Gérard

  You will do foolish things,

  but do them with enthusiasm.

  —Colette

  I’m in Paris. Don’t you worry about me.

  —Carrie Bradshaw

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraphs

  CHAPTER ONE Ooh La La

  CHAPTER TWO Practice Makes Perfect

  CHAPTER THREE Paris in the Springtime

  CHAPTER FOUR A Royal Mess

  CHAPTER FIVE Au Revoir

  CHAPTER SIX On the Run

  CHAPTER SEVEN Eurotrash

  CHAPTER EIGHT X Marks the Spot

  CHAPTER NINE Between Two Boys

  CHAPTER TEN Truth and Consequences

  CHAPTER ELEVEN Voulez-Vous?

  CHAPTER TWELVE L’Amour

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN The Party Crashers

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN Best Bets

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN New Jersey Kiss

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ooh La La

  “Tomorrow,” Alexandria St. Laurent announced to her best friends, Portia and Maeve, over sushi in the school cafeteria. “I am taking a ‘me’ day.” She flashed a sparkly grin, tossed her silky white-blonde hair over one shoulder, and reached for the wasabi. Not that Alexa needed any more spice in her life; her pulse was already racing with excitement.

  “Why?” Portia snapped, raising one thin, dark eyebrow. “Tomorrow’s the Friday before spring break. Ms. St. Laurent can’t be bothered to show up?” Scowling, Portia shook out her chestnut ringlets and boldly plucked a cigarette from her patent leather clutch, just daring Mrs. Jacobson, the assistant principal, to bust her ass for smoking.

  Alexa rolled her sapphire-blue eyes and tugged on one dangly crystal-encrusted earring. “Portia, you know I’m swamped.” Cramming her fuzzy shrugs, silk camisoles, and spike-heeled shoe collection into her Coach bags was the least of Alexa’s worries. She needed a manicure, a seaweed facial, and—since she was about to spend one full, delicious week with her olive-skinned, drop-dead sexy boyfriend—a Brazilian bikini wax.

  Alexa St. Laurent took her vacations very, very seriously.

  Especially this one. Because she and said boyfriend, Diego Mendieta, would be celebrating their one-year anniversary—a first for Alexa—in Paris.

  Oui. Paris. Also known as Alexa’s favorite city in the world. With a shiver of anticipation, she closed her eyes and summoned up the light-spangled romantic bridges, perfect for late-night kissing; the cozy corner cafés, where couples held hands over flutes of sweet kir; the hidden, narrow streets, made for getting wonderfully lost…

  “Oh, God,” Maeve wailed, jerking Alexa out of her Parisian reverie. “You’re going to have the best time, Alexa, while I’ll be here all alone—” Breaking into sobs, Maeve pushed her sushi aside and dropped her head onto the sleeve of her striped Stella McCartney boatneck, her wavy red hair falling over her tearstained face.

  A group of gossip-hungry junior girls in short Princy skirts and Tylie Malibu boots scuttled past, gazing in curiosity at the holy Alexa-Maeve-Portia trinity. In the halls of Oakridge High School, the three girls were practically celebrities. Alexa had once lapped up the attention, but now, by March of her senior year, she was growing weary of the spotlight. Sometimes she wanted to don her oversized shades and Gucci head scarf and go into hiding.

  As Maeve continued to sniffle and sob, Alexa bit her glossy bottom lip, trying not to snort. Maeve had split with her longtime boyfriend, Misha, in January, but still acted as if the pain were fresh. The two of them had been planning a deluxe spring-break jaunt to Bora Bora, but when Misha had ditched Maeve for her (now former) BFF, Sabina, the vacation plans, needless to say, crumbled. Now, any time the subject of spring break came up, Maeve would dissolve into a quivering mess. Alexa was done with her friend’s whole melodrama.

  And, really, too wrapped up in her Paris trip to care.

  After all, for Alexa, Paris was more than just a destination—it was her hometown. She had been born, and grew up, steps from the Champs-Elysées, but her fabulous French lifestyle—flaky croissants every morning, a view of the Seine from her bedroom window, designer boutiques around the corner—had come to a tragic end at the tender age of seven. It was then that her father’s architecture job had whisked the family across the ocean to, of all places, suburban New Jersey.

  For the next eleven years, Alexa’s persistent homesickness had only been alleviated by a few, all-too-short trips back to see her French side of the family: her rolling-in-euros aunt and uncle, Aziza and Julien St. Laurent, and their two kids—her cousins, Pierre and Raphaëlle. In fact, on this trip, Alexa had planned for her and Diego to stay with said cousins in their funky Le Marais flat. But because the St. Laurents would be at their country house in Avignon for a long weekend, Alexa and Diego would have to spend their first three days in a hotel—which Alexa actually wasn’t thrilled about. In Paris, she resented anything that made her feel even remotely like a tourist.

  “Sweetie, you’ll survive in Oakridge for a week,” Portia was murmuring as she patted Maeve’s plump, ring-bedecked hand. “It’s not like my break’s going to be all that fabulous.” At this, Portia cast a quick, withering glance in Alexa’s direction.

  Alexa felt a cold tightening in her stomach. She detested arguing with her friends, but she was also never one to shy away from a confrontation. “Is there a problem, Portia?” Alexa asked coolly, toying with the bejeweled buttons on her fitted periwinkle Nanette Lepore blazer. Portia would be spending the week on her parents’ yacht off the coast of Bermuda—hardly slumming. Besides, Alexa thought, it was Portia’s own fault for waiting until the eleventh hour to make her plans.

  “Hmm. Now you notice?” Portia retorted, narrowing her yellow-brown eyes at Alexa while twirling the unlit cigarette between her fingers. Then she turned back to Maeve and draped a skinny arm around the weeping girl’s shoulders, playing up the oh-so-sympathetic-friend role.

  Whatever. With a dismissive sigh, Alexa crossed her long, denim-clad legs and poked at her avocado roll with a slender finger. She was so not going to feed into Portia’s mysterious bout of bitchiness, which, now that Alexa thought about it, had been building all week. Yesterday, Portia had blown off Alexa’s suggestion that the two of them drive to New York City for a Marc Jacobs sample sale with an icy “Why don’t you ask Mr. Princeton instead?” That was Portia’s nickname for Diego; he was a freshman at the university and, in Portia’s opinion, way too arrogant about it.

  And, in Alexa’s opinion, Portia was just jealous because she’d never had a college boyfriend.

  “Ooh la la, Alexa St. Laurent! Why ze sour face?”

  Alexa turned in her orange plastic seat, her spirits immediately lifting. The laughing, melodic voice could only belong to one person: Holly Jacobson. Bestest childhood friends, Alexa and Holly had drifted apart in middle school, only to become kind of close again after spending a whirlwind week together in South Beach last year.

  Sure enough, there stood Holly, her light-brown ponytail bobbing as she tried to balance her lunch tray against her hip, adjust her backpack on her shoulder, and smile at Alexa all at once. Holly’s tray bore a whole-wheat turkey sandwich, a bag of soy chips, an apple, and a bottle of Gatorade—the typical sporty-girl lunch, cobbled together from the cafeteria’s blah options. Students weren’t allowed off campus for lunch, but Alexa and her crew had deftly worked around that rule: Every morning, they’d stop by the Oakridge gourmet food shop for sushi, fennel salad, or brie, and store their treats in Maeve’s portable
cooler until lunchtime.

  For a split second, Alexa wondered if Holly planned to join her table, and she felt a pinprick of concern. Alexa and Holly rarely, if ever, associated in school. They occasionally chatted on the phone and sometimes met for lattes over the weekend—but always just the two of them. Alone. It was kind of ridiculous, really; Alexa often felt as if she and Holly were carrying on an illicit affair. Now, she sneaked a precautionary glance at her friends; Maeve, oblivious as ever, was blowing her nose, but Portia was regarding Holly with a cruel smirk.

  If Holly noticed Portia’s less-than-welcoming expression, she didn’t show it. “I was on my way to sit down,” she told Alexa, and gestured across the cafeteria to where most of the senior athletes were gathered at a long table. “But then I noticed you pouting over here,” she went on with a grin. “Shouldn’t you be all giddy about Paree?”

  Alexa laughed, her earlier irritation dissolving. Leave it to sensitive Holly to pick up on her pissiness from a mile away. Plus, Holly had a point: Why was Alexa even allowing any weirdness with Portia to bother her, considering the yummy adventures that lay ahead? Brushing off her brooding, Alexa reached up to squeeze Holly’s elbow affectionately. “I’m over the moon, chérie,” she replied breezily. “I was just trying to figure out which nightclub Diego and I should visit first. Decisions, decisions…”

  Holly nodded, her freckled cheeks coloring, and Alexa felt the tiniest stab of guilt. Once upon a time, Holly had harbored a huge crush on Diego, and she’d even been the one to innocently introduce him to Alexa. Though Alexa knew for a fact that Holly was good and over Diego—randomly enough, Holly was now dating Alexa’s ex, Tyler Davis—the past love triangle remained a source of slight friction between the two girls. “You must be psyched for London,” Alexa added, smoothly changing the subject. “You’re leaving tomorrow night, right?”

  “London?” Portia cut in, and even Maeve abandoned her Kleenex to glance up at Holly in surprise. “As in, London, England? Why are you going there?” Portia asked, leaning back in her seat and blatantly looking Holly up and down.

  Alexa couldn’t help it—she, too, sized up her old friend. Last year, a standard Holly ensemble would have been Puma racing pants, Sauconys, and a gray Oakridge High Track & Field T-shirt. Today, Holly was wearing a burgundy cardigan over a fitted white V-neck, tan bell-bottom cords, a big-buckled belt, and wine-colored crushed velvet flats that Alexa had seen—but scorned—at the Nine West in the Galleria last week. Not half bad, Alexa decided. Also, Holly had recently grown out her chin-length hair, so that it fell to her shoulders, and her once short, straight bangs now framed her face in soft, flattering layers.

  Still, it wasn’t only the outfit and the new ‘do that made her old friend look different, Alexa realized. The once super-shy Holly now gave off a confident vibe that turned her gray-green eyes bright and, apparently, lent her enough boldness to stop by Alexa’s lunch table in the first place—something the old Holly would never have dared.

  But now that shyness seemed to be returning under Portia and Maeve’s scrutinizing gazes. Alexa looked on sympathetically as Holly shifted her weight from one foot to the other and studied the tiled floor. “Um, it’s not really London,” Holly amended, her face turning progressively pinker. “The girls’ track team—we’re, I guess, attending this international meet in Wimbledon? And since I’m, uh, the captain…I need to, you know, go…” She shrugged and Alexa sighed, wishing Holly could finish the sentence without fumbling so much.

  “I love Wimbledon!” Maeve cried, her round hazel eyes lighting up. “I’ve been there zillions of times to see Andy play.” She rested her chin in her hands dreamily while Alexa fought back a giggle; Maeve’s hopeless obsession with Andy Roddick was legendary.

  Portia flicked her hand as if there were an invisible mosquito buzzing around their table. “I have, too, but come on, Maevie. It’s such a drab little village.” The corners of her Urban Decay-stained lips curved up in a smile. “Though that makes perfect sense for you, doesn’t it, Holly?”

  “Portia…” Alexa warned, rolling her eyes. She was sick of having to navigate the treacherous waters between her friends and Holly.

  Holly swallowed hard and tightened her hold on her lunch tray. Alexa could tell from the set of her mouth that Holly was pissed, but Alexa also knew her timid friend would never fight back. “I should go,” Holly muttered, backing away. Then she glanced at Alexa, and her face brightened slightly. “Hey, Alexa, call me if you want while you’re in Paris, okay?” she offered. “I’m getting one of those world phones so I’ll be able to use my cell.”

  Only because your overprotective parents are making you, Alexa thought, smiling and fluttering her fingers up at Holly. Alexa knew that the chances she’d actually contact Holly were slim to none—why would any sane girl take a break from Paris and her boyfriend to place a phone call?

  Twirling a strand of flaxen hair around one finger, Alexa watched as Holly hurried over to the jock lunch table. She took a seat across from her track team cocaptains, Meghan and Jess, and next to Tyler Davis. Holly turned and said something to Tyler that made him laugh, and then he leaned in and kissed her. So that was where Holly’s confidence came from, Alexa mused, as Holly casually reached over and stroked the back of Tyler’s neck. Have they done it yet? Alexa wondered, suddenly intrigued.

  “Ugh,” Portia groaned, breaking into Alexa’s thoughts. “Dork central. Please tell me you girls noticed those lame Nine West flats?”

  Maeve nodded sagely, her crying jag forgotten. “Bad news. I mean, yeah, everyone knows that Tyler Davis has lifted Holly Jacobson a few rungs up the social ladder,” she added. “But, Lex, it’s probably not too smart to be seen with her, don’t you think?”

  “Excuse me?” Alexa snapped, anger flushing her peaches-and-cream skin hot as she studied Portia and Maeve across the table. “Last time I checked, Maevie, it was not your job to dictate who I do or do not talk to.” Alexa was absolutely over that petty high school mentality. Ever since getting accepted early decision to Columbia in December, she’d been living with one pencil-heeled Christian Louboutin boot in college. And, of course, she’d grown accustomed to lounging in Diego’s dorm room every afternoon and attending Princeton parties every Saturday night. Not for the first time, the large, brightly lit Oakridge High cafeteria seemed tiny—suffocating—to Alexa.

  And suddenly, so did her friends.

  “I’m sorry, Lex, but—” Maeve began, looking huffy.

  “I so don’t need this bullshit right now,” Alexa declared, reaching down to scoop up her purple suede Michael Kors satchel. She pushed her chair back.

  “Fine,” Portia said silkily, snatching up her silver-plated lighter from the table. “Go run off to Mr. Princeton. He’s all that matters to you anyway—right, Alexandria? You’re so high on the fact that you have an older boyfriend that you don’t give a damn about leaving your best friends in the lurch for our last spring break together.” Portia slid the cigarette between her lips and lit it, her trembling fingers betraying her fury.

  Aha! Alexa thought, pausing mid-escape. So that explained both Portia’s hostility and why she’d held off on making vacation plans for so long. She’d been expecting that Alexa would—what? Invite the girls along to Paris? Scrap the incredible plans she and Diego had made forever ago so the three of them could fly to Panama City and spend a week dozing on the beach? Last year, South Beach had been a much-needed sun-splashed change of scene from wintry, ordinary Oakridge. But this year Alexa craved a different kind of experience. And she’d already made that crystal-clear to her friends.

  “Nobody told you to wait for me,” Alexa shot back, meeting Portia’s glare. “You knew I was doing Paris with Diego. Besides, don’t be so dramatic, Portia—we can still go away on spring breaks together when we’re in college.” But can we? Alexa wondered. Will we still be as close by then?

  “That’s not the point,” Maeve jumped in, glancing questioningly at Portia, who gave a quick nod of appr
oval and blew out a curl of smoke. “We’re worried about you, Alexa. You get way too into the guys you date. It’s like…you don’t know how to be independent.”

  “Not independent?” Alexa repeated in horror. She slapped her hand down on the table, her thick ivory bangle knocking against the Formica. “God. How could you say that? Have you even been friends with me for these past four years?”

  “I don’t know,” Portia replied softly, removing the cigarette from her mouth and examining the bright orange tip. She flicked her eyes back to Alexa. “Have we? Are we still your friends?”

  “Yeah,” Maeve echoed. “Are we?”

  Alexa shook her head, unsure how to respond. She hated feeling misunderstood like this. True friends were supposed to know her—to get her. Right? Alexa St. Laurent considered herself the crown princess of independence, and she was appalled that anyone—let alone Portia and Maeve—would think otherwise.

  But she remembered this tricky issue cropping up with the girls before—their constant complaining that Alexa put her boyfriends over her friend-friends. Since hooking up with Diego, Alexa had made an effort to blend her two worlds better—organizing movie nights, throwing an everyone’s-invited New Year’s bash at her house—but neither Diego nor her girlfriends seemed to take to one another very eagerly. Maybe, Alexa realized, as she gazed at Portia and Maeve’s scornful faces, I end up spending more time with my boyfriend because I don’t want to spend time with…them.

  Alexa was debating whether or not to say these words when the assistant principal, as expected, came barreling toward their table. Uptight Mrs. Jacobson often patrolled the cafeteria at lunchtime, hoping to catch someone doing something illegal.

  “Portia Florentino-Cohen,” she snapped, gray-green eyes flashing behind her square, red-framed glasses, “extinguish that cigarette right now.” Alexa could already hear the kids at the next table—J.D., Tracey, Tabitha, and other popular seniors whom she considered casual friends—laughing over this predictable showdown.