Anna and the French Kiss

by Stephanie Perkins

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “Centuries ago, the students at La Sorbonne—it was back there.” He gestures with his hand. “It’s one of the oldest universities in the world. Anyway, the students were taught in, and spoke to each other in, Latin. And the name stuck.”

  A moment of reserve. “That was it? The whole story?”

  “Yes. God, you’re right. That was pants.”

  I sidestep another aggressive couscous vendor. “Pants?”

  “Rubbish. Crap. Shite.”

  Pants. Oh heavens, that’s cute.

  We turn a corner and—there it is—the River Seine. The lights of the city bob in the ripples of the water. I suck in my breath. It’s gorgeous. Couples stroll along the riverbank, and booksellers have lined up dirty cardboard boxes of paperback books and old magazines for browsing. A man with a red beard strums a guitar and sings a sad song. We listen for a minute, and St. Clair tosses a few euros into the man’s guitar case.

  And then, as we’re turning our attention back toward the river, I see it.

  Notre-Dame.

  I recognize it from photographs, of course. But if St-Etienne is a cathedral, then it is nothing, NOTHING compared to Notre-Dame. The building is like a great ship steaming downriver. Massive. Monstrous. Majestic. It’s lit in a way that absurdly reminds me of Disney World, but it’s so much more magical than anything Walt could have dreamed up. Mounds of green vines spill down the walls and into the water, completing the fairy tale.

  I slowly exhale. “It’s beautiful.”

  St. Clair is watching me.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.” I don’t know what more to say.

  We have to cross a bridge to get to it. I hadn’t realized it was built on an island. St. Clair tells me we’re walking to the Île de la Cité, the Island of the City, and it’s the oldest district in all of Paris. The Seine twinkles below us, deep and green, and a long boat strung with lights glides underneath the bridge. I peer over the edge. “Look! That guy is so trashed. He’s totally gonna fall off the bo—” I glance back and find St. Clair toddling on the road, several feet away from the edge of the bridge.

  For a moment, I’m confused. Then it hits me. “What? You aren’t afraid of heights?”

  St. Clair keeps his eyes forward, on the illuminated figure of Notre-Dame. “I just can’t fathom why anyone would stand on a ledge when there’s a respectable amount of walking space right next to it.”

  “Oh, it’s about walking space, is it?”

  “Drop it, or I’ll quiz you about Rasputin. Or French verb conjugation.”

  I lean over the side of the bridge and pretend to wobble. St. Clair turns pale. “No! Don’t!” He stretches out his arms like he wants to save me, then clutches his stomach like he’s about to vomit instead.

  “Sorry!” I jump away from the ledge. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was so bad.”

  He shakes a hand, motioning for me to stop talking. The other hand still clings to his queasy stomach.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, after a moment.

  “Come on.” St. Clair sounds peeved, as if I was the one holding us back. He gestures to Notre-Dame. “That’s not why I brought you here.”

  I can’t fathom anything better than Notre-Dame. “We’re not going inside?”

  “Closed. Plenty of time to see it later, remember?” He leads me into the courtyard, and I take the opportunity to admire his backside. Callipygian. There is something better than Notre-Dame.

  “Here,” he says.

  We have a perfect view of the entrance—hundreds and hundreds of tiny figures carved into three colossal archways.The statues look like stone dolls, each one separate and individualized. “They’re incredible,” I whisper.

  “Not there. Here.” He points to my feet.

  I look down, and I’m surprised to find myself standing in the middle of a small stone circle. In the center, directly between my feet, is a coppery-bronze octagon with a star.Words are engraved in the stone around it: POINT ZÉRO DES ROUTES DE FRANCE.

  “Mademoiselle Oliphant. It translates to ‘Point zero of the roads of France.’ In other words, it’s the point from which all other distances in France are measured.” St. Clair clears his throat. “It’s the beginning of everything.”

  I look back up. He’s smiling.

  “Welcome to Paris, Anna. I’m glad you’ve come.”

  chapter nine

  St. Clair tucks the tips of his fingers into his pockets and kicks the cobblestones with the toe of his boots. “Well?” he finally asks.

  “Thank you.” I’m stunned. “It was really sweet of you to bring me here.”

  “Ah, well.” He straightens up and shrugs—that full-bodied French shrug he does so well—and reassumes his usual, assured state of being. “Have to start somewhere. Now make a wish.”

  “Huh?” I have such a way with words. I should write epic poetry or jingles for cat food commercials.

  He smiles. “Place your feet on the star, and make a wish.”

  “Oh. Okay, sure.” I slide my feet together so I’m standing in the center. “I wish—”

  “Don’t say it aloud!” St. Clair rushes forward, as if to stop my words with his body, and my stomach flips violently. “Don’t you know anything about making wishes? You only get a limited number in life. Falling stars, eyelashes, dandelions—”

  “Birthday candles.”

  He ignores the dig. “Exactly. So you ought to take advantage of them when they arise, and superstition says if you make a wish on that star, it’ll come true.” He pauses before continuing. “Which is better than the other one I’ve heard.”

  “That I’ll die a painful death of poisoning, shooting, beating, and drowning?”

  “Hypothermia, not drowning.” St. Clair laughs. He has a wonderful, boyish laugh. “But no. I’ve heard anyone who stands here is destined to return to Paris someday. And as I understand it, one year for you is one year too many. Am I right?”

  I close my eyes. Mom and Seany appear before me. Bridge. Toph. I nod.

  “All right, then. So keep your eyes closed. And make a wish.”

  I take a deep breath. The cool dampness of the nearby trees fills my lungs. What do I want? It’s a difficult question.

  I want to go home, but I have to admit I’ve enjoyed tonight. And what if this is the only time in my entire life I visit Paris? I know I just told St. Clair that I don’t want to be here, but there’s a part of me—a teeny, tiny part—that’s curious. If my father called tomorrow and ordered me home, I might be disappointed. I still haven’t seen the Mona Lisa. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Walked beneath the Arc de Triomphe.

  So what else do I want?

  I want to feel Toph’s lips again. I want him to wait. But there’s another part of me, a part I really, really hate, that knows even if we do make it, I’d still move away for college next year. So I’d see him this Christmas and next summer, and then . . . would that be it?

  And then there’s the other thing.

  The thing I’m trying to ignore. The thing I shouldn’t want, the thing I can’t have.

  And he’s standing in front of me right now.

  So what do I wish for? Something I’m not sure I want? Someone I’m not sure I need? Or someone I know I can’t have?

  Screw it. Let the fates decide.

  I wish for the thing that is best for me.

  How’s that for a generalization? I open my eyes, and the wind is blowing harder. St. Clair pushes a strand of hair from his eyes. “Must have been a good one,” he says.

  On the way back, he leads me to a walk-up sandwich stand for a late-night snack. The yeasty smell is mouthwatering, and my stomach growls in anticipation. We order panini, sandwiches pressed flat on a hot grill. St. Clair gets his stuffed with smoked salmon and ricotta cheese and chives. I order Parma ham and Fontina cheese and sage. He calls it fast food, but what we’re handed looks nothing like the limp sandwiches from Subway.

  St. Cla
ir helps with the euro situation. Thankfully, euros are easy to understand. Bills and cents come in nice, even denominations. We pay and stroll down the street, enjoying the night. Crunching through the crusty bread. Letting the warm, gooey cheese run down our chins.

  I moan with pleasure.

  “Did you just have a foodgasm?” he asks, wiping ricotta from his lips.

  “Where have you been all my life?” I ask the beautiful panini. “How is it possible I’ve never had a sandwich like this before?”

  He takes a large bite. “Mmmph grmpha mrpha,” he says, smiling. Which I’m assuming translates to something like, “Because American food is crap.”

  “Mmmph mrga grmpha mmrg,” I reply. Which translates to, “Yeah, but our burgers are pretty good.”

  We lick the paper our sandwiches were wrapped in before throwing them away. Bliss. We’re almost back to the dormitory, and St. Clair is describing the time he and Josh received detention for throwing chewing gum at the painted ceiling—they were trying to give one of the nymphs a third nipple—when my brain begins to process something. Something odd.

  We have just passed the third movie theater in one block.

  Granted, these are small theaters. One-screeners, most likely. But three of them. In one block! How did I not notice this earlier?

  Oh. Right. The cute boy.

  “Are any of those in English?” I interrupt.

  St. Clair looks confused. “Pardon?”

  “The movie theaters. Are there any around here that play films in English?”

  He cocks an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you don’t know.”

  “What? Don’t know what?”

  He’s gleeful to know something I don’t. Which is annoying considering we’re both aware that he knows everything about Parisian life, whereas I have the savvy of a chocolate croissant. “And I was under the impression that you were some kind of cinema junkie.”

  “What? Know what?”

  St. Clair gestures around in an exaggerated circle, clearly loving this. “Paris . . . is the film appreciation . . . capital . . . of the world.”

  I stop dead. “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not.You’ll never find a city that loves film more. There are hundreds, maybe even thousands, of theaters here.”

  My heart feels like it’s falling inside my chest. I’m dizzy. It can’t be true.

  “More than a dozen in our neighborhood alone.”

  “What?”

  “You honestly didn’t notice?”

  “No, I didn’t notice! How come no one told me?” I mean, this should have been mentioned Day One, Life Skills Seminars. This is very important information here! We resume walking, and my head strains in every direction to read the posters and marquees. Please be in English. Please be in English. Please be in English.

  “I thought you knew. I would have said something.” He finally looks apologetic. “It’s considered pretty high art here. There are loads of first-run theaters, but even more—what do you call them?—revival houses. They play the classics and run programs devoted to different directors or genres or obscure Brazilian actresses or whatever.”

  Breathe, Anna, breathe. “And are they in English?”

  “At least a third of them, I suppose.”

  A third of them! Of a few hundred—maybe even thousand!—theaters.

  “Some American films are dubbed into French, but mainly those are the ones for children. The rest are left in English and given French subtitles. Here, hold on.” St. Clair plucks a magazine called Pariscope from the racks of a newsstand and pays a cheerful man with a hooked nose. He thrusts the magazine at me. “It comes out every Wednesday. ‘VO’ means version originale. ‘VF’ means version française, which means they’re dubbed. So stick to VO. The listings are also online,” he adds.

  I tear through the magazine, and my eyes glaze over. I’ve never seen so many movie listings in my life.

  “Christ, if I’d known that’s all it took to make you happy, I wouldn’t have bothered with the rest of this.”

  “I love Paris,” I say.

  “And I’m sure it loves you back.”

  He’s still talking, but I’m not listening. There’s a Buster Keaton marathon this week. And another for teen slasher flicks. And a whole program devoted to 1970s car chases.

  “What?” I realize he’s waiting for an answer to a question I didn’t hear. When he doesn’t reply, I glance up from the listings. His gaze is frozen on a figure that has just stepped out of our dorm.

  The girl is about my height. Her long hair is barely styled, but in a fashionable, Parisian sort of way. She’s wearing a short silver dress that sparkles in the lamplight, and a red coat. Her leather boots snap and click against the sidewalk. She’s looking back over her shoulder toward Résidence Lambert with a slight frown, but then she turns and notices St. Clair. Her entire being lights up.

  The magazine slackens in my hands. She can only be one person.

  The girl breaks into a run and launches herself into his arms. They kiss, and she laces her fingers through his hair. His beautiful, perfect hair. My stomach drops, and I turn from the spectacle.

  They break apart, and she starts talking. Her voice is surprisingly low—sultry—but she speaks rapidly. “I know we weren’t gonna see each other tonight, but I was in the neighborhood and thought you might want to go to that club I was telling you about. You know, the one Matthieu recommended? But you weren’t there, so I found Mer and I’ve been talking to her for the last hour, and where were you? I called your cell three times but it went straight to voice mail.”

  St. Clair looks disoriented. “Er. Ellie, this is Anna. She hadn’t left the dorm all week, so I thought I’d show her—”

  To my amazement, Ellie breaks into an ear-to-ear smile. Oddly enough, it’s this moment I realize that despite her husky voice and Parisian attire, she’s sort of . . . plain. But friendly-looking.

  That still doesn’t mean I like her.

  “Anna! From Atlanta, right? Where’d you guys go?”

  She knows who I am? St. Clair describes our evening while I contemplate this strange development. Did he tell her about me? Or was it Meredith? I hope it was him, but even if it was, it’s not like he said anything she found threatening. She doesn’t seem alarmed that I’ve spent the last three hours in the company of her very attractive boyfriend. Alone.

  Must be nice to have that kind of confidence.

  “Okay, babe.” She cuts him off. “You can tell me the rest later. You ready to go?”

  Did he say he’d go with her? I don’t remember, but he nods his head. “Yeah. Yeah, let me grab my, er—” He glances at me, and then toward the entrance of our dorm.

  “What? You’re already dressed to go out. You look great. C’mon.” She tugs his arm, linking it to hers. “It was nice to meet you, Anna.”

  I find my voice. “Yeah. Nice to meet you, too.” I turn to St. Clair, but he won’t look at me properly. Fine. Whatever. I give him my best I-don’t-care-that-you-have-a-girlfriend smile and a cheerful “Bye!”

  He doesn’t react. Okay, time to go. I bolt away and pull out my building key. But as I unlock the door, I can’t help but glance back. St. Clair and Ellie are striding into the darkness, arms still linked, her mouth still chattering.

  As I pause there, St. Clair’s head turns back to me. Just for a moment.

  chapter ten

  It’s better this way. It is.

  As the days pass, I realize that I’m glad I met his girlfriend. It’s actually a relief. There are few things worse than having feelings for someone you shouldn’t, and I don’t like where my thoughts were headed. And I certainly don’t want to be another Amanda Spitterton-Watts.

  St. Clair is just friendly. The whole school likes him—the professeurs, the popular kids, the unpopular kids—and why wouldn’t they? He’s smart and funny and polite. And, yes, ridiculously attractive. Although, for being so well liked, he doesn’t hang out with many people. Just our little group.
And since his best friend is usually distracted by Rashmi, he’s taken to hanging out with, well . . . me.

  Since our night out, he’s sat next to me at every meal. He teases me about sneakers, asks about my favorite films, and conjugates my French homework. And he defends me. Like last week in physics when Amanda called me la moufette in a nasty way and held her nose as I walked by her desk, St. Clair told her to “bugger off” and threw tiny wads of paper into her hair for the rest of class.

  I looked up the word later, and it means “skunk.” So original.

  But then, just as I feel those twinges again, he disappears. I’ll be staring out my window after dinner, watching the sanitation workers tidy the street in their bright green uniforms, when he’ll emerge from our dorm and vanish toward the métro.

  Toward Ellie.

  Most nights I’m studying in the lobby with our other friends when he comes home. He’ll plop down beside me and crack a joke about whatever drunken junior is hitting on the girl behind the front desk. (There’s always a drunken junior hitting on the girl behind the front desk.) And is it my imagination, or is his hair more disheveled than usual?

  The thought of St. Clair and Ellie doing—things—makes me more jealous than I care to admit. Toph and I email, but the messages have never been more than friendly. I don’t know if this means he’s still interested or if it means he’s not, but I do know that emailing is not the same as kissing. Or things.

  The only one who understands the St. Clair situation is Mer, but I can’t say anything to her. Sometimes I’m afraid she might be jealous of me. Like I’ll catch her watching the two of us at lunch, and when I ask her to pass me a napkin, she’ll kind of chuck it at me instead. Or when St. Clair doodles bananas and elephants into the margins of my homework, she’ll grow rigid and silent.

  Maybe I’m doing her a favor. I’m stronger than she is, since I haven’t known him as long. Since he’s always been off-limits. I mean, poor Mer. Any girl faced with daily attention from a gorgeous boy with a cute accent and perfect hair would be hard-pressed not to develop a big, stinking, painful, all-the-time, all-consuming crush.