Anna and the French Kiss

by Stephanie Perkins

  Cherrie nods. “All of the best underage bands play here.”

  “Oh.” Bridge hadn’t mentioned she was playing in a bowling alley. But that’s okay, it’s still a huge deal. And I’d forgotten about the whole underage thing.Which is silly, because it’s not like I’ve lived in France that long.

  Inside, we’re told we have to buy a lane in order to stay for the show. This also means we have to rent bowling shoes. Um, no.There’s no way I’m wearing bowling shoes. Hundreds of people use those things and, what, one spritz of Lysol is supposed to kill all of their nasty stinky feet germs? I don’t think so.

  “That’s okay,” I say when the man drops them on the counter. “You can keep them.”

  “Lady.You ain’t allowed to play without shoes.”

  “I’m not playing.”

  “Lady. Take the shoes.You’re holdin’ up the line.”

  Matt grabs them. “Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I forgot how you are with stuff like this.” And then Cherrie huffs, so he carries her shoes, too. He hides them underneath some plastic orange shell chairs, and we stroll over to the stage, which is pushed against the far wall. A small crowd has gathered. Bridge and Toph aren’t anywhere to be seen, and I don’t recognize anyone else.

  “I think they’re going first,” Matt says.

  “You mean they’re the opening act in an underage bowling alley?” I ask.

  He cuts his eyes at me, and I feel about two feet tall. Because he’s right.This is still awesome! It’s their first show! But the sinking feeling returns as we mill around. Giveaway T-shirts stretched over monstrous beer bellies. Puffy NFL jackets and porky jowls. Granted, I’m in a bowling alley, but the differences between Americans and Parisians are shocking. I’m ashamed to see my country the way the French must see us. Couldn’t these people have at least brushed their hair before leaving their houses?

  “I need a licorice rope,” Cherrie announces. She marches toward the snack stand, and all I can think is these people are your future.

  The thought makes me a little happier.

  When she comes back, I inform her that just one bite of her Red Dye #40-infused snack could kill my brother. “God, morbid,” she says.Which makes me think of St. Clair again. Because when I told him the same thing three months ago, instead of accusing me of morbidity, he asked with genuine curiosity, “Why?”

  Which is the polite thing to do when someone offers you such an interesting piece of conversation.

  I wonder if St. Clair has seen his mom yet. Hmm, he’s been in California for two hours. His father was going to pick him up and drive him straight to the hospital. He’s probably with her right now. I should send him a text, some well-wishes. I pull out my phone just as the tiny crowd erupts with cheers.

  I forget about the text.

  The Penny Dreadfuls emerge, pulsating with excitement and energy, from . . . the staff room. Okay. So it’s not as glamorous as emerging from a backstage, but they do look GREAT. Well, two of them do.

  The bassist is the same as always. Reggie used to come into work, mooching free tickets off Toph for the latest comic book movies. He has these long bangs that droop over half his face and cover his eyes, and I could never tell what he thought about anything. I’d be like, “How was the new Iron Man?” And he’d say, “Fine,” in this bored voice. And because his eyes were hidden, I didn’t know if he meant a good fine, or a so-so fine, or a bad fine. It was irritating.

  But Bridgette is radiant. She’s wearing a tank top that shows off her toned arms, and her blond hair is in Princess Leia buns with chopsticks through them. I wonder if that was Seany’s idea. She finds me immediately, and her face lights up like a Christmas tree. I wave as she lifts the sticks above her head, counts off the song, and then she’s flying. Reggie drives out a matching bass line, and Toph—I save him for last, because I know that once my eyes lock on him, they aren’t moving.

  Because Toph. Is still. Totally. Hot.

  He’s slashing at his guitar like he wants to use it for kindling, and he has that angry punk rock scream, and his forehead and sideburns are already glistening with sweat. His pants are tight and bright blue plaid, something that NO ONE else I know could pull off, and it reminds me of his Blue Raspberry Mouth, and it’s so dead sexy I could die.

  And then . . . he spots me.

  Toph raises his eyebrows and smiles, this lazy grin that makes my insides explode. Matt and Cherrie and I thrash and jump around, and it’s so exhilarating that I don’t even care that I’m dancing with Cherrie Milliken. “Bridge is fantastic!” she says.

  “I know!” My heart bursts with pride. Because she’s my best friend, and I’ve always known how talented she was. Now everyone else does, too. And I don’t know what I was expecting—maybe that Reggie’s bangs would get in the way of his playing—but he’s also pretty great. His hand tears over the strings, pushing a wicked bass line that whips us into a frenzy. The only teeny tiny minor weakness in the whole thing is . . . Toph.

  Don’t get me wrong. His antiestablishment, I’m-a-loser lyrics are perfect. Catchy. There’s so much rage and passion that even the redneck behind the shoe counter is bobbing his head. And, of course, Toph looks the part.

  It’s his actual guitar playing that’s weak. But it’s not like I know that much about guitars. I’m sure it’s a difficult instrument, and he’ll totally get better with practice. It’s hard to master something if you’re always stuck behind a snack counter. And he plays loud, and it riles us up. I forget I’m in a bowling alley, and I forget I’m rocking out with my ex-boyfriend and his girlfriend, and it’s all over way too quickly.

  “We’re the Penny Dreadfuls, thanks for coming out to see us. My name is Toph, that’s Reggie on bass, and the hottie in the back is Bridge.”

  I whoop and holler.

  She beams at Toph. He waggles his eyebrows back and then turns to the crowd and leers. “And, oh yeah. Don’t screw her, ’cause I already am. SUCK IT, ATLANTA. GOOD NIGHT!”

  chapter twenty-six

  Wait. What?

  I’m sorry, what did he just say?

  Toph kicks over the microphone stand in a grand, asshole gesture, and the three of them jump off the stage. It’s a little less dramatic when they have to come right back to take apart their stuff before the next band comes on. I try to catch Bridge’s eye, but she won’t look at me. Her gaze is locked on her cymbal stands. Toph takes a swig of bottled water, gives me a wave, then grabs his amp and heads for the parking lot.

  “Woo! They were great!” Cherrie says.

  Matt claps me on the back. “What’d ya think? She played me some of their stuff a few weeks ago, so I knew it’d be awesome.”

  I’m blinking back tears. “Um. What did he just say?”

  “He said she played some of their songs for us a few weeks ago,” Cherrie says, too close to my face.

  I back up. “No. What did Toph just say? Before the Atlanta part?”

  “What, ‘Don’t screw my girlfriend’?” Cherrie asks.

  I can’t breathe. I’m having a heart attack.

  “Are you okay?” Matt asks.

  Why won’t Bridge look at me? I stumble forward, but Matt grabs me. “Anna. You knew she and Toph were dating, right?”

  “I’ve gotta talk to Bridge.” My throat is closing. “I don’t understand—”

  Matt swears. “I can’t believe she didn’t tell you.”

  “How . . . how long?”

  “Since Thanksgiving,” he says.

  “Thanksgiving? But she didn’t say . . . she never said ...”

  Cherrie is gleeful. “You didn’t know?”

  “NO, I DIDN’T KNOW.”

  “Come on, Anna.” Matt tries to lead me away, but I push him aside and jump onstage. I open my mouth, but no words come out.

  Bridge finally looks at me. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

  “You’re sorry? You’ve been dating Toph for the last month, and you’re sorry?”

  “It just happened. I meant to
tell you, I wanted to tell you—”

  “But you lost control over your mouth? Because it’s easy, Bridge. Talking is easy. Look at me! I’m talking right—”

  “You know it wasn’t that easy! I didn’t mean for it to happen, it just did—”

  “Oh, you didn’t mean to wreck my life? It just ‘happened’?”

  Bridge stands up from behind her drums. It’s impossible, but she’s taller than me now. “What do you mean, wreck your life?”

  “Don’t play dumb, you know exactly what I mean. How could you do this to me?”

  “Do what? It’s not like you were dating!”

  I scream in frustration. “We certainly won’t be now!”

  She sneers. “It’s kind of hard to date someone who’s not interested in you.”

  “LIAR!”

  “What, you ditch us for Paris and expect us to put our lives on hold for you?”

  My jaw drops. “I didn’t ditch you. They sent me away.”

  “Ooo, yeah. To Paris. Meanwhile, I’m stuck here in Shitlanta, Georgia, at the same shitty school, doing shitty babysitting jobs—”

  “If babysitting my brother is so shitty, why do you do it?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Because you want to turn him against me, too? Well. Congratulations, Bridge. It worked. My brother loves you and hates me. So you’re welcome to move in when I leave again, because that’s what you want, right? My life?”

  She shakes with fury. “Go to hell.”

  “Take my life. You can have it. Just watch out for the part where my BEST FRIEND SCREWS ME OVER!” I knock over a cymbal stand, and the brass hits the stage with an earsplitting crash that reverberates through the bowling alley. Matt calls my name. Has he been calling it this entire time? He grabs my arm and leads me around the electrical cords and plugs and onto the floor and away, away, away.

  Everyone in the bowling alley is staring at me.

  I duck my head so my hair covers my face. I’m crying. This would have never happened if I hadn’t given Toph her number. All of those late-night practices and . . . he said they’ve had sex! What if they’ve had it at my house? Does he come over when she’s watching Seany? Do they go in my bedroom?

  I’m going to be sick. I’m going to be sick. I’m going to be—

  “You’re not going to be sick,” Matt says, and I didn’t know I was talking out loud, but I don’t care because my best friend is dating Toph. She’s dating Toph. She’s dating Toph. She’s dating—Toph.

  Toph’s here.

  Right in front of me, in the parking lot. His slender body is relaxed, and he leans his blue plaid hips against his car. “What’s up, Annabel Lee?”

  He was never interested in me. She said that.

  Toph opens his arms for a hug, but I’m already bolting for Matt’s car. I hear his peeved, “What’s with her?” and Matt replying something in disgust, but I don’t know what, and I’m running and running and running, and I want to be as far away from them, as far away from this night, as possible. I wish I were in bed. I wish I were home.

  I wish I were in Paris.

  chapter twenty-seven

  Anna. Anna, slow down. Bridgette’s dating Toph?” St. Clair asks over the phone.

  “Since Thanksgiving. She’s been ly-lying to me this whole time!”

  The Atlanta skyline is a blur outside the car window.The towers are illuminated in blue and white lights. They’re more disjointed than the buildings in Paris; they have no relationship. They’re just stupid rectangles designed to be taller, better than the others.

  “I need you to take a deep breath,” he says. “All right? Take a deep breath and start from the beginning.”

  Matt and Cherrie watch me in the rearview mirror as I relate the story again. The line grows quiet. “Are you there?” I ask. I’m startled when a pink tissue appears in my face. It’s attached to Cherrie’s hand. She looks guilty.

  I accept the tissue.

  “I’m here.” St. Clair is angry. “I’m just sorry I’m not there. With you. I wish there was something I could do.”

  “Wanna come beat her up for me?”

  “I’m packing my throwing stars right now.”

  I sniffle and wipe my nose. “I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I thought he liked me. That’s the worst part, knowing he was never even interested.”

  “Bollocks. He was interested.”

  “No, he wasn’t,” I say. “Bridge said so.”

  “Because she’s jealous! Anna, I was there that first night he called you. I’ve seen how he looked at you in pictures.” I protest, but he interrupts. “Any bloke with a working prick would be insane not to like you.”

  There’s a shocked pause, on both ends of the line.

  “Because, of course, of how intelligent you are. And funny. Not that you aren’t attractive. Because you are. Attractive. Oh, bugger ...”

  I wait.

  “Are you still there, or did you hang up because I’m such a bleeding idiot?”

  “I’m here.”

  “God, you made me work for that.”

  St. Clair said I’m attractive. That’s the second time.

  “You’re so easy to talk to,” he continues, “that sometimes I forget you’re not one of the guys.”

  Scratch that. He thinks I’m Josh. “Just drop it. I can’t take being compared to a guy right now—”

  “That’s not what I meant—”

  “How’s your mom? I’m sorry, I’ve hogged our entire conversation, and this was supposed to be about her, and I didn’t even ask—”

  “You did ask. It was the first thing you said when you answered. And technically I called you. And I was calling to see how the show went, which is what we’ve been talking about.”

  “Oh.” I fiddle with the stuffed panda on Matt’s floorboard. It’s carrying a satin heart that reads I Wuv u. A gift from Cherrie, no doubt. “But how is she?Your mom?”

  “Mum’s . . . all right.” His voice is suddenly tired. “I don’t know if she’s better or worse than I expected. In some ways, she’s both. I pictured the worst—bruised and skeletal—and I’m relieved it’s not the case, but seeing her in person . . . she’s still lost loads of weight. And she’s exhausted, and she’s in this lead-lined hospital room. With all of these plastic tubes.”

  “Are you allowed to stay with her? Are you there now?”

  “No, I’m at her flat. I’m only allowed a short visit because of the radiation exposure.”

  “Is your dad there?”

  He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I’m afraid I’ve crossed a line. But finally he speaks. “He’s here. And I’m dealing with him. For Mum’s sake.”

  “St. Clair?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.” His voice is quiet as Matt’s car pulls into my neighborhood.

  I sigh. “I need to go. We’re almost home. Matt and Cherrie are giving me a ride.”

  “Matt? Your ex-boyfriend, Matt?”

  “Sofia’s in the shop.”

  A pause. “Mmph.”

  We hang up as Matt parks in my driveway. Cherrie turns around and stares. “That was interesting. Who was that?”

  Matt looks unhappy. “What?” I ask him.

  “You’ll talk to that guy, but you won’t talk to us anymore?”

  “Sorry,” I mumble, and climb out of his car. “He’s just a friend. Thanks for the ride.”

  Matt gets out, too. Cherrie starts to follow, but he throws her a sharp look. “So what does that mean?” he calls out. “We aren’t friends anymore?You’re bailing on us?”

  I trudge toward the house. “I’m tired, Matt. I’m going to bed.”

  He follows anyway. I dig out my house key, but he grabs my wrist to stop me from opening the door. “Listen, I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I just have this one thing to say before you go in there and cry yourself to sleep—”

  “Matt, please—”

 
“Toph isn’t a nice guy. He’s never been a nice guy. I don’t know what you ever saw in him. He talks back to everyone, he’s completely unreliable, he wears those stupid fake clothes—”

  “Why are you telling me this?” I’m crying again. I pull my wrist from his grasp.

  “I know you didn’t like me as much as I liked you. I know you would have rather been with him, and I dealt with that a long time ago. I’m over it.”

  The shame is overwhelming. Even though I knew Matt was aware that I liked Toph, it’s awful to hear him say it aloud.

  “But I’m still your friend.” He’s exasperated. “And I’m sick of seeing you waste your energy on that jerk. You’ve spent all this time afraid to talk about what was going on between you two, but if you’d ever bothered to just ask him, you would have discovered that he wasn’t worth it. But you didn’t. You never asked him, did you?”

  The weight of hurt is unbearable. “Please leave,” I whisper. “Please just leave.”

  “Anna.” His voice levels, and he waits for me to look at him. “It was still wrong of him and Bridge not to tell you. Okay? You deserve better than that. And I sincerely hope whomever you were just talking to”—Matt gestures toward the phone in my purse—“is better than that.”

  chapter twenty-eight

  To: Anna Oliphant

  From: Étienne St. Clair

  Subject: HAPPY CHRISTMAS

  Have you gotten used to the time difference? Bloody hell, I can’t sleep. I’d call, but I don’t know if you’re awake or doing the family thing or what. The bay fog is so thick that I can’t see out my window. But if I could, I am quite certain I’d discover that I’m the only person alive in San Francisco.

  To: Anna Oliphant

  From: Étienne St. Clair

  Subject: I forgot to tell you.

  Yesterday I saw a guy wearing an Atlanta Film Festival shirt at the hospital. I asked if he knew you, but he didn’t. I also met an enormous, hairy man in a cheeky Mrs. Claus getup. He was handing out gifts to the cancer patients. Mum took the attached picture. Do I always look so startled?