Anna and the French Kiss

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.

Not that that’s what’s happening to me.

Like I said. It’s a relief to know it won’t happen. It makes things easier. Most girls laugh too hard at his jokes and find excuses to gently press his arm. To touch him. Instead, I argue and roll my eyes and act indifferent. And when I touch his arm, I shove it. Because that’s what friends do.

Besides, I have more important things on my mind: movies.

I’ve been in France for a month, and though I have ridden the elevators to the top of La Tour Eiffel (Mer took me while St. Clair and Rashmi waited below on the lawn—St. Clair because he’s afraid of falling and Rashmi because she refuses to do anything touristy), and though I have walked the viewing platform of L’Arc de Triomphe (Mer took me again, of course, while St. Clair stayed below and threatened to push Josh and Rashmi into the insane traffic circle), I still haven’t been to the movies.

Actually, I have yet to leave campus alone. Kind of embarrassing.

But I have a plan. First, I’ll convince someone to go to a theater with me. Shouldn’t be too difficult; everyone likes the movies. And then I’ll take notes on everything they say and do, and then I’ll be comfortable going back to that theater alone. And one theater is better than no theaters.

“Rashmi. What are you doing tonight?”

We’re waiting for La Vie to begin. Last week we learned about the importance of eating locally grown food, and before that, how to write a college application essay.Who knows what they’ll drag out today? Meredith and Josh are the only ones not here, Josh because he’s a junior, and Mer because she’s taking that extra language class, advanced Spanish. For fun. Craziness.

Rashmi taps her pen against her notebook. She’s been working on her essay to Brown for two weeks now. It’s one of the only universities to offer an Egyptology degree, and the only one she wants to attend. “You don’t understand,” she said, when I’d asked why she hadn’t finished it yet. “Brown turns away eighty percent of its applicants.”

But I doubt she’ll have any problems. She hasn’t received less than an A on anything this year, and the majority were perfect scores. I’ve already mailed in my college applications. It’ll be a while before I hear back, but I’m not worried. They weren’t Ivy League.

I’m trying to be friendly, but it’s tricky. Last night, while I was petting her rabbit, Isis, Rashmi reminded me twice not to tell anyone about her, because animals are against dorm rules. As if I’d tattle. Besides, it’s not like Isis is a secret. The smell of bunny pee outside her door is unmistakable.

“Nothing, I guess,” she says, in response to my question about her evening.

I take a deep breath to steady my nerves. It’s ridiculous how difficult a question can be when the answer means so much. “Wanna go to the movies? They’re showing It Happened One Night at Le Champo.” Just because I haven’t gone out doesn’t mean I haven’t pored over the glorious Pariscope.

“They’re showing what? And I’m not gonna tell you how badly you just butchered that theater’s name.”

“It Happened One Night. Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert. Won five Academy Awards. It was a big deal.”

“In what century?”

“Ha ha. Honestly, you’ll like it. I hear it’s great.”

Rashmi rubs her temples. “I don’t know. I don’t really like old movies. The acting is so, ‘Hey buddy, ol’ pal. Let’s go wear our hats and have a big misunderstanding.’”

“Aw, come off it.” St. Clair looks up from a thick book about the American Revolution. He sits on my other side. It’s weird to think he knows more American history than I do. “Isn’t that the charm? The hats and the misunderstandings?”

“So why don’t you go with her?” Rashmi asks.

“Because he’s going out with Ellie,” I say.

“How do you know what I’m doing tonight?” he asks.

“Please?” I beg her. “Pretty please? You’ll like it, I swear. So will Josh and Mer.”

Rashmi opens her mouth to protest just as the teacher arrives. Every week it’s someone new—sometimes administration, sometimes a professeur. This time, I’m surprised to see Nate. I guess all staff members are forced to take a turn. He rubs his shaved head and smiles pleasantly at our class.

“How do you know what I’m doing tonight?” St. Clair repeats.

“Pleeeeease,” I say to her.

She gives a resigned grimace. “Fine. But I’m picking the next movie.”

Yippee!

Nate clears his throat, and Rashmi and St. Clair look up. That’s one thing I like about my new friends. They respect the teachers. It drives me nuts to see students talk back or ignore them, because my mom is a teacher. I wouldn’t want anyone being rude to her. “All right, people, enough. Amanda, enough.” In his quiet but firm way, Nate shuts her up. She flips her hair and sighs, with a glance toward St. Clair.

He ignores her. Ha.

“I have a surprise for you,” Nate says. “Since the weather is turning, and there aren’t many warm days left, I’ve arranged for you guys to spend the week outdoors.”

We’re going outside for class credit. I love Paris!

“I’ve organized a scavenger hunt.” Nate holds up a stack of papers. “There are two hundred items on this list.You’ll be able to find them all in our neighborhood, but you may have to ask the locals for help.”

Oh hell no.

“You’ll be taking pictures of the items, and you’ll be working in two teams.”