Anna and the French Kiss

“How dare you talk to me like this?” His father is enraged. “And in public! You need a smack in the head —”

St. Clair switches back to French. “I’d like to see you try. Here, in front of everyone.” He points at his cheek. “Why don’t you, Father?”

“Why, you—”

“Monsieur St. Clair!” A friendly woman in a low-cut dress calls from across the boulevard, and St. Clair and his father both turn in surprise.

Monsieur St. Clair. She’s talking to his dad. That’s so weird.

She strolls over and kisses his father on both cheeks. His father returns les bises, smiling graciously. His whole manner is transformed as he introduces her to his son. She looks surprised at the mention of a son, and St. Clair—Étienne—scowls. His father and the woman chat, and St. Clair is forgotten. He crosses his arms. Uncrosses them. Kicks his boots. Puts his hands in his pockets, takes them out.

A lump rises in my throat.

His father keeps flirting with the woman. She touches his shoulder and leans into him. He flashes a brilliant grin, a dazzling grin—St. Clair’s grin—and it’s odd to see it on another person’s face. And that’s when I realize what Mer and Josh said is true. His father is charming. He has that natural charisma, just like his son. The woman continues to flirt, and St. Clair trudges away. They don’t notice. Is he crying? I lean forward for a better look and find him staring right at me.

Oh, no. Oh no oh no oh NO.

He stops. “Anna?”

“Um. Hi.” My face is on fire. I want to rewind this reel, shut it off, destroy it.

His expression runs from confusion to anger. “Were you listening to that?”

“I’m sorry—”

“I can’t believe you were eavesdropping!”

“It was an accident. I was passing by, and . . . you were there. And I’ve heard so much about your father, and I was curious. I’m sorry.”

“Well,” he says, “I hope what you saw met your grandest expectations.” He stalks past me, but I grab his arm.

“Wait! I don’t even speak French, remember?”

“Do you promise,” he says slowly, “that you didn’t understand a single word of our conversation?”

I let go of him. “No. I heard you. I heard the whole thing.”

St. Clair doesn’t move. He glares at the sidewalk, but he’s not mad. He’s embarrassed.

“Hey.” I touch his hand. “It’s okay.”

“Anna, there’s nothing ‘okay’ about that.” He jerks his head toward his father, who is still flirting with the woman. Who still hasn’t noticed his son has disappeared.

“No,” I say, thinking quickly. “But you once told me no one chooses their family. It’s true for you too, you know.”

He stares at me so hard that I’m afraid I’ll stop breathing. I gather my courage and lace my arm through his. I lead him away. We walk for a block, and I ease him onto a bench beside a café with pale green shutters. A young boy, sitting inside, tugs at the curtains and watches us. “Tell me about your father.”

He stiffens.

“Tell me about your father,” I repeat.

“I hate him.” His voice is quiet. “I hate him with every fiber of my being. I hate what he’s done to my mother and what he’s done to me. I hate that every time we meet, he’s with a different woman, and I hate that they all think he’s this wonderful, charming bloke, when really he’s a vicious bastard who’d sooner humiliate me than discuss my education rationally.”

“He’s chosen your college for you. And that’s why you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“He doesn’t want me to be near her. He wants to keep us apart, because when we’re together we’re stronger than he is.”

I reach over and squeeze his hand. “St. Clair, you’re stronger than him now.”

“You don’t understand.” He pulls his hand away from mine. “My mum and I depend on him. For everything! He has all of the money, and if we upset him, Mum is on the street.”

I’m confused. “But what about her art?”

He snorts. “There’s no money in that. And what money there was, my father has control over.”

I’m silent for a moment. I’ve blamed so many of our problems on his unwillingness to talk, but that wasn’t fair. Not when the truth is so awful. Not when his father has been bullying him his whole life. “You have to stand up to him,” I say.

“It’s easy for you to say—”

“No, it’s not easy for me to say! It’s not easy for me to see you like this. But you can’t let him win. You have to be smarter than him, you have to beat him at his own game.”

“His own game?” He gives a disgusted laugh. “No, thank you. I’d rather not play by his rules.”

My mind is working in overdrive. “Listen to me, the second that woman showed up, his personality completely changed—”

“Oh, you noticed, did you?”

“Shut up and listen, St. Clair. This is what you’re gonna do. You’re going back there right now, and if she’s still there, you’re telling her how happy you are that he’s sending you to Berkeley.”

He tries to interrupt, but I push forward. “And then you’re going to his art gallery, and you’re telling everyone who works there how happy you are that he’s sending you to Berkeley. Then you’re calling your grandparents, and you’re telling them how happy you are that he’s sending you to Berkeley. And then you’re telling his neighbors, his grocer, the man who sells him cigarettes, EVERYONE in his life how happy you are that he’s sending you to Berkeley.”

He’s biting his thumbnail.

“And he’ll be pissed as hell,” I say, “and I wouldn’t trade places with you for a second. But he’s clearly a man who believes in keeping up appearances. So what’s he gonna do? He’ll send you to Berkeley to save face.”

St. Clair pauses. “It’s mad, but . . . it’s so mad it might work.”

“You don’t always have to solve your problems alone, you know. This is why people talk to their friends.” I smile and widen my eyes for emphasis.

He shakes his head, trying to speak.

“GO,” I say. “Quick, while she’s still there!”

St. Clair hesitates again, and I push him up. “Go. Go go go!”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Thank you.”

“Go.”

He does.

chapter forty-five

I return to Résidence Lambert. I’m anxious to know what’s happening, but St. Clair has to deal with his father on his own. He has to stand up for himself. The glass banana bead on my dresser snags my attention, and I cradle it in my hand. He’s given me so many gifts this year—the bead, the left-handed notebook, the Canadian flag. It feels good to have finally given him something back. I hope my idea works.

I decide to pull out my homework. I’m flipping through my papers when I discover the assignment for English. Our last unit, poetry.The Neruda book. It sits on the shelf above my desk in the same place it’s been since Thanksgiving. Because it was a schoolbook, right? Just another gift?

Wrong. So very, very wrong.