Anna and the French Kiss

to order in French. “Oui, oui!” I’d say, pointing at random words on the chalkboard. Then Chef Handlebar would present me with something revolting, and I’d have to buy it out of shame. Of course I meant to order the roasted pigeon! Mmm! Just like Nanna’s.

Meredith and her friends are lounging at the same table as this morning. I take a deep breath and join them. To my relief, no one looks surprised. Meredith asks St. Clair if he’s seen his girlfriend yet. He relaxes into his chair. “No, but we’re meeting tonight.”

“Did you see her this summer? Have her classes started? What’s she taking this semester?” She keeps asking questions about Ellie to which he gives short replies. Josh and Rashmi are making out—I can actually see tongue— so I turn to my bread and grapes. How biblical of me.

The grapes are smaller than I’m used to, and the skin is slightly textured. Is that dirt? I dip my napkin in water and dab at the tiny purple globes. It helps, but they’re still sort of rough. Hmm. St. Clair and Meredith stop talking. I glance up to find them staring at me in matching bemusement. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Continue your grape bath.”

“They were dirty.”

“Have you tried one?” she asks.

“No, they’ve still got these little mud flecks.” I hold one up to show them. St. Clair plucks it from my fingers and pops it into his mouth. I’m hypnotized by his lips, his throat, as he swallows.

I hesitate.Would I rather have clean food or his good opinion?

He picks up another and smiles. “Open up.”

I open up.

The grape brushes my lower lip as he slides it in. It explodes in my mouth, and I’m so startled by the juice that I nearly spit it out.The flavor is intense, more like grape candy than actual fruit. To say I’ve tasted nothing like it before is an understatement. Meredith and St. Clair laugh. “Wait until you try them as wine,” she says.

St. Clair twirls a forkful of pasta. “So. How was French class?”

The abrupt subject change makes me shudder. “Professeur Gillet is scary. She’s all frown lines.” I tear off a piece of baguette. The crust crackles, and the inside is light and springy. Oh, man. I shove another hunk into my mouth.

Meredith looks thoughtful. “She can be intimidating at first, but she’s really nice once you get to know her.”

“Mer is her star pupil,” St. Clair says.

Rashmi breaks apart from Josh, who looks dazed by the fresh air. “She’s taking advanced French and advanced Spanish,” she adds.

“Maybe you can be my tutor,” I say to Meredith. “I stink at foreign languages. The only reason this place overlooked my Spanish grades was because the head reads my father’s dumb novels.”

“How do you know?” she asks.

I roll my eyes. “She mentioned it once or twice in my phone interview.” She kept asking questions about casting decisions for The Lighthouse. Like Dad has any say in that. Or like I care. She didn’t realize my cinematic tastes are a bit more sophisticated.

“I’d like to learn Italian,” Meredith says. “But they don’t offer it here. I want to go to college in Rome next year. Or maybe London. I could study it there, too.”

“Surely Rome is a better place to study Italian?” I ask.

“Yeah, well.” She steals a glance at St. Clair. “I’ve always liked London.”

Poor Mer. She’s got it bad.

“What do you want to do?” I ask him. “Where are you going?”

St. Clair shrugs. It’s slow and full-bodied, surprisingly French. The same shrug the waiter at the restaurant last night gave me when I asked if they served pizza. “Don’t know. It depends, though I’d like to study history.” He leans forward, like he’s about to share a naughty secret. “I’ve always wanted to be one of those blokes they interview on BBC or PBS specials.You know, with the crazy eyebrows and suede elbow patches.”

Just like me! Sort of. “I want to be on the classic movies channel and discuss Hitchcock and Capra with Robert Osborne. He hosts most of their programs. I mean I know he’s an old dude, but he’s so freaking cool. He knows everything about film.”

“Really?” He sounds genuinely interested.

“St. Clair’s head is always in history books the size of dictionaries,” Meredith interrupts. “It’s hard to get him out of his room.”

“That’s because Ellie’s always in there,” Rashmi says drily.

“You’re one to talk.” He gestures toward Josh. “Not to mention . . . Henri.”

“Henri!” Meredith says, and she and St. Clair burst into laughter.

“One frigging afternoon, and you’ll never let me forget it.” Rashmi glances at Josh, who stabs his pasta.

“Who’s Henri?” I trip over the pronunciation. En-ree.

“This tour guide on a field trip to Versailles sophomore year,” St. Clair says. “Skinny little bugger, but Rashmi ditched us in the Hall of Mirrors and threw herself at him—”

“I did not!”

Meredith shakes her head. “They groped, like, all afternoon. Full public display.”

“The whole school waited on the bus for two hours, because she forgot what time we were supposed to meet back,” he says.

“It was NOT two hours—”

Meredith continues. “Professeur Hansen finally tracked her down behind some shrubbery in the formal gardens, and she had teeth marks all over her neck.”

“Teeth marks!” St. Clair snorts.

Rashmi fumes. “Shut up, English Tongue.”

“Huh?”

“English Tongue,” she says. “That’s what we all called you after your and Ellie’s breathtaking display at the street fair last spring.” St. Clair tries to protest, but he’s laughing too hard. Meredith and Rashmi continue jabbing back and forth, but . . . I’m lost again. I wonder if Matt is a better kisser now that he has someone more experienced to practice on. He was probably a bad kisser because of me.

Oh, no.

I’m a bad kisser. I am, I must be.

Someday I’ll be awarded a statue shaped like a pair of lips, and it’ll be engraved with the words WORLD’S WORST KISSER. And Matt will give a speech about how he only dated me because he was desperate, but I didn’t put out, so I was a waste of time because Cherrie Milliken liked him all along and she totally puts out. Everyone knows it.

Oh God. Does Toph think I’m a bad kisser?

It only happened once. My last night at the movie theater was also the last night before I left for France. It was slow, and we’d been alone in the lobby for most of the evening. Maybe because it was my final shift, maybe because we wouldn’t see each other again for four months, maybe because it felt like a last chance—whatever the reason, we were reckless. We were brave. The flirting escalated all night long, and by the time we were told to go home, we couldn’t walk away. We just kept . . . drawing out the conversation.

And then, finally, he said he would miss me.

And then, finally, he kissed me under the buzzing marquee.

And then I left.

“Anna? Are you all right?” someone asks.

The whole table is staring at me.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. “Um.Where’s the bathroom?” The bathroom is my favorite excuse for any situation. No one ever inquires further once you mention it.

“The toilets are down the hall.” St. Clair looks concerned but doesn’t dare ask. He’s probably afraid I’ll talk about tampon absorbency or mention the dreaded P-word.

I spend the rest of lunch in a stall. I miss home so much that it physically hurts. My head throbs, my stomach is nauseous, and it’s all so unfair. I never asked to be sent here. I had my own friends and my own inside jokes and