by L. Philips
“Sam.”
Landon’s familiar voice causes the flapping to stutter. I turn to my right, where Landon is standing with a group of guys I recognize from the baseball team. He breaks away from the group and jogs to me.
“Baseball players now?” I ask, brow arching.
“Hey, they’re in the state championship this Saturday. Just wishing them luck.” He smiles lazily, glancing back at them to wave as we walk away. Because he’s sly, I’m sure I’m the only one in the hallway who notices when his eyes drift down to check out the third baseman’s ass. “Where are you off to?”
“Meg didn’t tell you?” I ask, surprised. I was sure Meg would run to tell Landon first thing, followed shortly by the whole school. “I’m walking the new foreign exchange student home.”
“The French guy?” I nod. Landon is sufficiently impressed. “Wow. That was . . . fast. How did you manage to—”
“Are you doubting my skills?” I say, smirking at him, but my stomach does a somersault when I turn and see the band room door up ahead. He’s not the only one doubting.
“Baby, I know your moves. I know your lines. So yeah, you could say I’m doubting a little.” Landon laughs as I plow my shoulder into his arm and send him stumbling. When he rights himself he looks at me with those big eyes of his, and although they’re still alight with humor, they’ve softened considerably. “Is he as gorgeous as everyone says?”
“Sexy. Attractive. Nice eyes. Thick hair. Talented,” I rattle off, counting on my fingers.
“Sounds familiar,” Landon says, then his eyes go wide. “You don’t actually think . . .”
I snort. “Of course not. A mere coincidence, that’s my theory. But still, it’s pretty weird, you have to admit. And he showed up today. Some fluky mix-up about a scholarship. I mean, what are the odds?”
“Yeah,” Landon mumbles, and gets that look on his face that he gets when his brain has moved on to a subject different from what the rest of us are discussing. I’m probably boring the hell out of him.
“Okay, well, I need to go to the band room,” I say when we get to the door. It’s a welcome excuse to part ways since the conversation has obviously run its course.
“Samson. Zere you are. I zought maybe I would ’ave to walk ’ome alone.” Gus walks through the door, slipping his hand easily into mine, as if it belongs there, as if we’ve done this for years—as if he owns me. And he just might. “But you ’ave brought anozer boy?”
“Um,” I stammer. Just then I realize that Gus’s irises are so dark I can barely see the pupils in them. They’re gorgeous, and it’s distracting, to say the least. “Sorry, Gus. This is Landon.”
Gus shrugs the strap of his saxophone case higher on his shoulder (still no books; is he just smart enough to go without?) and extends his free hand to Landon. “I am Augustin René Chevalier. You are Samson’s friend?”
“Yeah,” Landon says, shaking Gus’s proffered hand. His face is pinched into a weird smile, like it’s horribly difficult to conjure something more for the sexiest Frenchman this side of the Atlantic. I shoot him a death glare and the smile becomes wider, if not stretched a little too thin. “You know, I could just give you guys a ride.”
“Eet ees so kind of you to offer, Landon, but I want as much time as I can wiz Samson. You understand, of course?”
I don’t really catch Landon’s answer because all the butterflies in my stomach swoop up to my ears and all I can hear is the thundering beat of my pulse. Gus wants as much time as possible. With me.
He must have said something else because he squeezes my hand gently to get my attention and leans down to my eye level. “Should we go?”
I nod, unable to trust my voice, and give Landon a sheepish wave as I walk hand in hand with Gus out the doors. Once we’re in the fresh air, with the sun shining down as warm as it can in October, my heartbeat returns to steady, and my ears become unclogged. All around us, Athens High School’s student body is talking, getting into secondhand cars, and scattering in every direction. The hubbub seems even more full of excitement than usual, and I grin like an idiot.
“Zis Landon,” Gus begins, once we’re out of earshot of other students. Gus is, luckily, headed west in the direction of my house, not that it matters. He’s the Pied Piper and I’m a rat. “Ees ’e a lover?”
“What? No,” I say quickly. But Gus’s perfect face is wearing an expression that tells me he’s both doubtful of my words and amused by them. “He was,” I amend.
“Ah. And ’e ees not anymore?”
“Not anymore,” I answer, keeping my gaze locked on his to discourage any doubt. “Not for years.”
“And zere ’as been no one else?”
“For me or for him?”
Gus laughs. “For you, Samson. I am curious about you.”
“No. No one else.” I feel my face color, but Gus pulls me closer to him so that our shoulders are touching as we walk. We start up a hill and I silently thank my lucky stars (or the Goddess?) that I’ve been walking these hills since I was five. Wheezing is so unsexy.
“You were in love wiz ’im.”
“I . . .” I want to protest, or change the subject— anything that will steer us away from the topic of Landon and toward more important things. Things like trips abroad or the Eiffel Tower or why, exactly, it’s called French kissing. But Gus is looking at me so sweetly, so intently, like he has a genuine interest in every detail of my life, that I give in. “Yes. You could tell?”
His smile is almost pitying. “Oui. Zere was a certain . . . feeling zere, yes. But eet ees old, just a glimmer.”
“And you? Have you ever been in love?”
The question seems to delight Gus and his steps quicken, though they’re still graceful. It reminds me of Meg. “Of course! To love ees divine, yes? Eet ees essential to ze soul. Wizout love we would not ’ave poetry, or paintings, or songs.”
I have often heard people say they were swooning, but until the moment Gus began to talk of love, I hadn’t really understood the meaning of the word. Suddenly I’m light-headed, almost dizzy, and the edges of everything around us feather and blur. It is as though I’m viewing everything through a translucent film of bliss.
Then, as he talks, the butterflies calm themselves into a soothing stir, and I listen. He tells me about his home, a little village just outside of Paris, about his music, about his family. The cadence of his voice rises and falls like a familiar melody, and pretty soon I’m telling him about myself in the same patterns. I learn that he dreams of working for a politician one day, that he’s no good at sports, that he digs the American indie rock scene, and he passes the time with his friends at home dancing in clubs and lounging in parks. All of this, of course, while cracking a self-deprecating joke every now and then.
I can only smile as I think of all the desserts Meg is going to order at Seven Sauces. She was right. Gus is the Perfect Ten, and she is never going to let me forget it.
We come to a stop in front of a small but beautiful house on a street several blocks away from mine. It’s covered in ivy and has a stone walkway and a few trellises, like a little cottage in an enchanted wood.
“Zis ees ze Ewings’ ’ouse. Zey are my parents ’ere in America.”
I pull my eyes away from the house and look into Gus’s eyes. “Are they nice?”
“Wonderful, Samson. Zey are very kind.” His lips curl into an apologetic smile. “I would invite you in, but I am not sure of zeir rules. Zey will not be ’ome until zis evening.”
Although one part of me wants to say, “Who cares about their rules? Let’s go make out,” another part of me, a bigger part, is swooning again over the fact that this boy has manners and behaves like a gentleman. It makes me wonder if he’ll open doors for me or stand when I leave the dinner table.
“I understand. Can I . . . can I call you?”
Gus looks f
lattered by my request, which in turn flatters me. He hands me his phone so that I can put my number into it. “Of course! ’Ere. You must take my number. And . . . would it be too forward to ask you to ’ave dinner wiz me zis Friday evening?”
“If it is, that’s okay with me.” I laugh breathlessly. (Geez, Sam.) “I could give you a tour of Athens too. Show you around.”
As we exchange phones, I’m already making a list of places I’ve got to take him—places where we can dance, listen to music, have a good meal, and get to know each other. Places where I can shine and show him I could be his Perfect Ten too.
“I’d be honored to show you around town,” I say, and sure, it sounds like a cheesy line from an old movie, but right now I kind of feel like I’m stuck in one. “I’ll call you tonight and we’ll make plans.”
“I will be waiting by ze phone.” Gus smiles, slow and dangerous, and then he lifts a hand and settles his palm on my cheek. Before I can tell myself to be cool, I’m leaning into his touch like some lovesick teenager. Which isn’t exactly off base.
Then Gus leans down and presses his lips to mine. It’s a short kiss, a chaste kiss, but that hardly matters. I’m Molly Ringwald, my wish has come true, and we’re kissing over a cake on my sixteenth birthday. His lips are soft, gentle, and mine feel tingly against them, as if they’re waking up after being asleep for so long. They’ve missed this. I’ve missed this.
A disloyal little whimper of protest breaks through my lips as he pulls away, and those brown eyes of his are dancing with amusement.
“I zink I am going to love America very much,” Gus says, or rather purrs, to me, and I hum my agreement.
“American hospitality cannot be rivaled,” I say back in what I think is a sexy manner. But it’s hard to grade myself on sexiness fairly when the guy who just kissed me blows the curve out of the water.
Gus’s eyes get even darker then, a look so intense and concentrated on me that it has that chorus of butterflies in a tizzy again. For a second I think he’s going to kiss me again, but favored by a goddess or not, I’m not that lucky. Instead, he leans close to me and whispers in that silky voice of his, “Perhaps you will show me more of zat American ’ospitality Friday, Samson? But for now, I must say au revoir.”
“Bye,” I say to him, and fight my lips from forming a pout as he walks toward his house. I watch until he disappears through the door and then turn in the direction of home.
Late that night, after two hours of calculus and Latin and after an hour on the phone with Gus talking about everything and nothing, I call Meg.
“Did he kiss you?” she says before I can even offer a greeting.
“Yeah,” I reply, feeling myself blush, but to stop her from asking the details, I add, “I’m going to take him to dinner Friday. Maybe to see the jazz trio from the university play. I don’t know, I can’t decide, what do you think?”
In her excitement to offer opinions, she forgets to ask more about my walk home with Gus, which is fine with me for some reason. Usually I tell Meg just about everything, but this I want to keep for myself. Gus is too wonderful, too perfect, and I can’t share him just yet.
I think about calling Landon after I hang up with Meg, but that doesn’t feel right either. I’ve lamented my lack of a boyfriend to him, but somehow discussing the perfection of Augustin René Chevalier seems a little cruel. I know we haven’t been anything but friends for years and he’ll be happy for me, but still, he’s an ex, and this is unexplored territory for us. I’m not looking forward to telling him.
With a sigh, I roll over on top of my psychology book and dial the number of Seven Sauces. I make a reservation for me and Meg for Saturday night, absently running a finger over my lips as I do, as if I can still feel the warmth of Gus’s kiss from hours ago. With a kiss like that, it wouldn’t be surprising. And with a kiss like that, I really owe Meg a chocolate torte at the very least.
Five
The week crawls by. Even with walking Gus home every day and talking to him for hours on the phone every night, it’s just not the same as a date. Since that cuts into our after-school Donkey trips, I nearly drive Meg crazy with my ramblings about Gus at lunch. She pays me back by rambling about Michael, who, unfortunately, skips out on his class a few times to sit with Meg at our table. I’m a complete third wheel while she chatters with him, so I scribble notes for stories in my notebook and try not to throw up chicken salad when they kiss.
It’s Wednesday before I talk to Landon again. I see him on my way to the band room, talking to the hippie kids this time, and he gives me a half smile before falling into step beside me.
“Things must be going well.”
“I definitely owe Meg Seven Sauces.”
Landon chuckles but it peters out quickly. “So, is it, like, official now?”
There’s no chance of stopping a smile from spreading across my face so I don’t fight it. It’s too strong, even for Landon’s sake. “I don’t know. I mean, we haven’t even had our first date yet, but we talk all the time. I’ve walked him home twice now. He um . . . well, he kissed me.”
Landon kind of jerks his head back, as if that surprises him, then he gives me a wide smile and shrugs. “Sounds like it’s official to me. So when’s the first date?”
“Friday,” I say. We’ve arrived at the music wing and I stop in front of the doors. It’s a little silly because Landon’s one of my best friends, but I kind of don’t want Gus to see me talking to him again. On the other hand, it’s nice to be able to tell Landon about Gus. I add, “Going to hear some jazz, and I need to figure out a restaurant.”
“I’ve always been a little partial to Casa Nueva myself,” Landon says, as if I don’t remember that. Landon and I had our first (and third and sixth) date at Casa.
“The jazz trio is playing there, though. I mean, is it weird to eat there and then stick around for the band?”
Landon squints as he thinks. “I don’t know. You might want a change of venue. If nothing else, you’d be able to show him more of the town if you eat somewhere else.”
“Good thinking,” I say. Landon was always good at planning stuff. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Landon grins, then his eyes flick up to something over my shoulder. “Well, have fun. I’ll see you around.”
“Landon. Eet ees good to see you again. Will you be joining us?” Gus appears from behind me, his hand closing over mine, and he pulls me toward him slightly so that our sides are touching. It’s like tiny little flames break out where his body meets mine and all I want to do is kiss him right there in the hallway, detentions be damned.
“No, thank you,” Landon says, voice polite. “Have a nice time. I’ll see you later, Sam.”
As he walks away from us, Gus bends down and gives me my wish, kissing me deeply. Since we’re in school still, he keeps it short, but not before sliding his tongue over mine in a way that’s probably illegal in the red states.
When he pulls away I lean toward him, not ready to give up the closeness, even if we have to knock off the kissing. “Hmnn,” I hum. “So is that just regular kissing in France?”
“Pardon?” Gus asks, and a burst of triumph warms my chest when I see that he’s leaning toward me too, eyes cloudy as if I’ve cast a spell on him.
Ha, maybe I have.
“Oh, ze French kiss. I understand.” He laughs, a sound almost as melodic as his saxophone playing. “You are funny, Samson.”
“I try,” I say, pulling him by the hand through the doors to the outside world, where freedom awaits—and we can kiss all we want. “No fair kissing me like that, by the way.”
“Eet ees more zan fair, Samson. I am no match for ze way you kiss.”
Honestly. Who says stuff like that?
I’ll tell you who. The perfect guy, who magic brought to me.
“Do you really want to go home?” I ask.
“Why? What did you ’ave in mind?”
I shrug. I don’t have anything in mind, besides wanting to prolong our good-bye.
“We could get coffee at the Donkey,” I suggest. “Or go to the College Green and watch the crazy guy preach about the apocalypse, or get something to eat from one of the vendors and sit on the graffiti wall.”
“Zere ees a man ’oo preaches about ze apocalypse?” Gus asks, and it’s as if I’ve just offered him the secret to life.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding my head with enthusiasm. “Apparently we’re abominations, and if we don’t repent, God is going to smite us.”
Gus’s lips form a wicked, mischievous smile at that. And that’s how we end up on the College Green, kissing and laughing on a patch of soft grass while a crazy man rants about hellfire and end times in the background.
It’s not often that people clap when I enter a room, and it’s more than a little strange. Nevertheless, after I emerge from the bathroom in my outfit, I do my little turn on the catwalk while Meg and my mother, Gina, whoop and whistle.
It’s Friday, Date Night, so of course I called Meg in a panic because I have nothing to wear.
Which isn’t true. I have a lot. Like the vintage Guns N’ Roses concert tee I’m wearing, which I found in a thrift store, my dad’s old corduroy blazer over that, my favorite pair of Chucks (houndstooth, thank you very much), and jeans that Meg tells me will “bring all the boys to the yard.” (Her words. Not mine. I wouldn’t be caught dead using that expression.) But this is more about moral support than it is finding the right thing to wear.
Obviously, the outfit works. Both women are beaming at me. Meg’s sitting cross-legged on my bed, eating my mom’s chicken and noodles from a gigantic bowl.
“Gus won’t stand a chance,” she says, smiling around a mouthful.
My mom nods. With her rounded face and orangey-blonde hair, she looks more likely to be Meg’s mother than mine. “You look just like your father in that jacket, Sam. I think he bought that when we were grad students at Denison. Meg, he was so handsome. Like a young Richard Gere.” My mother sighs nostalgically and Meg indulges her with a wink as she sucks up a noodle.
