Anna and the French Kiss

“What were they fighting about?” Mer asks.

“Dunno. Couldn’t hear them.”

“It’s her. She’s so different now.”

Rashmi frowns. “She thinks she’s so much better than us, now that she’s at Parsons.”

“And the way she dresses,” Mer says, with an unusual bitter streak. “Like she thinks she’s actually Parisian.”

“She was always that way.” Rashmi huffs.

Josh is still quiet. He polishes off the éclair, wipes the white fluff from his fingers, and pulls out his sketchbook. The way he focuses on it, deflecting Meredith and Rashmi’s conversation, is . . . purposeful. I get the feeling he knows more about St. Clair’s situation than he’s letting on. Do guys talk about things like that with each other? Could it be possible?

Are St. Clair and Ellie breaking up?

chapter fourteen

“Don’t y’all think it’s kind of a cliché to have a picnic in a graveyard on Halloween?”

The five of us—Mer, Rashmi, Josh, St. Clair, and I—are traipsing through the Cimetière du Père- Lachaise, located on a hillside overlooking Paris. It’s like a miniature city itself. Wide pathways act as roads through neighborhoods of elaborate tombs. They remind me of tiny Gothic mansions with their arched doorways and statuary and stained-glass windows. A stone wall with guardsmen and iron gates runs the perimeter. Mature chestnuts stretch their branches overhead and wave their last remaining golden leaves.

It’s a quieter city than Paris, but no less impressive.

“Hey, did y’all hear Anna say ‘y’all’?” Josh asks.

“Oh my God, I so did not.”

“You so did,” Rashmi says. She adjusts the pack on her shoulders and follows Mer down yet another path. I’m glad my friends know their way around, because I’m lost. “I told you you’ve got an accent.”

“It’s a cemetery, not a graveyard,” St. Clair says.

“There’s a difference?” I ask, thankful for an opportunity to ignore The Couple.

“A cemetery is a plot of land set specifically aside for burial, while a graveyard is always located in a churchyard. Of course, now the words are practically interchangeable, so it doesn’t really matter—”

“You know more useless crap, St. Clair. Good thing you’re so darn cute,” Josh says.

“I think it’s interesting,” Mer says.

St. Clair smiles. “At least ‘cemetery’ sounds classier. And you must admit—this place is pretty classy. Or, I’m sorry.” He turns back to me. “Would you rather be at the Lambert bash? I hear Dave Higgenbottom is bringing his beer bong.”

“Higgenbaum.”

“That’s what I said. Higgenbum.”

“Oh, leave him alone. Besides, by the time this place closes, we’ll still have plenty of time to party.” I roll my eyes at this last word. None of us have plans to attend, despite what I told Dave yesterday at lunch.

St. Clair nudges me with a tall thermos. “Perhaps you’re upset because he won’t have the opportunity to woo you with his astonishing knowledge of urban street racing.”

I laugh. “Cut it out.”

“And I hear he has exquisite taste in film. Maybe he’ll take you to a midnight showing of Scooby-Doo 2.”

I whack St. Clair with my bag, and he dodges aside, laughing.

“Aha! Here it is!” Mer calls out, having located the appropriate patch of greenery. She unrolls a blanket onto the small lawn while Rashmi and I unpack tiny apples and prosciutto sandwiches and stinky cheeses from our backpacks. Josh and St. Clair chase each other around the nearby monuments. They remind me of the little French schoolboys I see in our neighborhood. All they need are the matching woolen sweaters.

Mer pours everyone coffee from St. Clair’s thermos, and I sip happily, enjoying the pleasant warmth that spreads throughout my body. I used to think coffee was bitter and disgusting, but like everyone else, I’m up to several cups a day. We tear into the food and, like magic, the guys are back. Josh sits cross-legged next to Rashmi, while St. Clair scoots between Meredith and me.

“You have leaves in your hair.” Mer giggles and pulls one of the brown skeletons from St. Clair’s locks. He takes it from her, crunches it to dust, and blows it into her curls. They laugh, and my gut twinges.

“Maybe you should put on The Hat,” I say. He asked me to carry it before we left. I chuck my bag into his lap, perhaps a little too hard. St. Clair oofs and jerks forward.

“Watch it.” Josh bites into a pink apple and talks through a full mouth. “He has parts down there you don’t have.”

“Ooo, parts,” I say. “Intriguing. Tell me more.”

Josh smiles sadly. “Sorry. Privileged information. Only people with parts can know about said parts.”

St. Clair shakes the rest of the leaves from his hair and puts on The Hat. Rashmi makes a face at him. “Really? Today? In public?” she asks.

“Every day,” he says. “As long as you’re with me.”

She snorts. “So what’s Ellen doing tonight?”

“Ugh. Ellie’s attending some terrible costume party.”

“You don’t like costume parties?” Mer asks.

“I don’t do costumes.”

“Just hats,” Rashmi says.

“I didn’t realize anyone outside of SOAP was celebrating Halloween,” I say.

“Few people are,” Josh says. “The shopkeepers tried to turn it into a commercial thing years ago. It didn’t catch on. But give a college chick the chance to dress up like a slutty nurse, and she’s gonna take it.”

St. Clair lobs a chunk of chèvre at Josh’s head, and it smacks his cheek. “Arse. She’s not going as a slutty nurse.”

“Just a regular one?” I ask innocently. “With a low-cut dress and really big breasts?”

Josh and Rashmi crack up, and St. Clair tugs The Hat down over his eyes. “Ughhh, I hate you all.”

“Hey.” Meredith sounds hurt. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Ughhh, I hate you all but Mer.”

A small group of American tourists hovers behind us. They look confused. A bearded guy in his twenties opens his mouth to speak, but Rashmi interrupts him. “Jim Morrison is that way.” She points down the path. Bearded guy smiles in relief, thanks her, and they move on.

“How’d you know what they wanted?” I ask.

“It’s what they always want.”

“When they should be looking for Victor Noir,” Josh says. Everyone else laughs.

“Who?” It’s frustrating being in the dark.

“Victor Noir. He was a journalist shot by Pierre Bonaparte,” St. Clair says, as if that explains anything. He pulls The Hat up off his eyes. “The statue on his grave is supposed to help . . . fertility.”

“His wang is rubbed shiny,” Josh elaborates. “For luck.”

“Why are we talking about parts again?” Mer asks. “Can’t we ever talk about anything else?”

“Really?” I ask. “Shiny wang?”

“Very,” St. Clair says.

“Now that’s something I’ve gotta see.” I gulp my coffee dregs, wipe the bread crumbs from my mouth, and hop up. “Where’s Victor?”

“Allow me.” St. Clair springs to his feet and takes off. I chase after him. He cuts through a stand of bare trees, and I crash through the twigs behind him. We’re both laughing when we hit the pathway and run smack into