Anna and the French Kiss (28 page)

Dave winks, and I shake my head but follow him anyway. Why can’t I say no to cute boys? I expect him to stop once we’re in the stairwell, but he descends the entire way. We go outside and onto the street. “Better, right?” he asks. “Who wants to be stuck inside on a day like today?”

It’s freezing out, and I
would
rather be in school, but I hold my tongue. We sit on a chilly bench, and Dave is prattling about snowboarding or skiing or something. I’m distracted. I wonder if Professeur Gillet will let me make up the quiz points. I wonder if she’s checking the hallway. I wonder if I’m about to get in more trouble.

“You know, I’m kinda glad we got kicked out,” Dave says.

“Huh?” I turn my attention back to him. “Why?”

He smiles. “I never get to see you alone.”

And then—just like that—Dave leans over, and we’re kissing.

I. Am kissing. Dave Higgenbaum.

And it’s . . . nice.

A shadow falls over us, and I break apart from his lips, which have already grown overactive. “Crap, did we miss the bell?” he asks.

“No,” St. Clair says. “You have five more minutes of teeth gnashing to enjoy.”

I shrink back in mortification. “What are you doing here?”

Meredith stands behind him, holding a stack of newspapers. She grins. “We should be asking you that question. But we’re running an errand for Professeur Hansen.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Hiii, Dave,” Mer says.

He nods at her, but he’s watching St. Clair, whose face is cold and hard.

“Anyway! We’ll let you get back to ... what you were doing.” Mer’s eyes twinkle as she tugs on St. Clair’s arm. “See you, Anna. Bye, Dave!”

St. Clair shoves his hands in his pockets. He won’t meet my gaze as he stalks away, and my stomach turns over. “What’s that guy’s problem?” Dave asks.

“Who? Étienne?” I’m surprised when this name rolls out of my mouth.

“Étienne?” He raises his eyebrows. “I thought his name was St. Clair.”

I want to ask,
Then why did you call him
that guy
?
But that’s rude. I shrug.

“Why do you hang out with him, anyway? Girls are always going on and on about him, but I don’t see what’s so great.”

“Because he’s funny,” I say. “He’s a really nice guy.”

Nice
.That was how I described Dave to St. Clair the other day. What’s wrong with me? As if Dave is anything like St. Clair. But he looks disgruntled, and I feel bad. It’s not fair to compliment St. Clair to Dave’s face. Not after kissing him.

Dave shoves his hands into his pockets. “We should get back.”

We shlump upstairs, and I imagine Professeur Gillet waiting for us, smoke pouring from her nostrils like an incensed dragon. But when we get there, the hall is empty. I peek into her classroom window as she finishes up her lecture. She sees me and nods.

I don’t believe it.

Dave was right. She never knew we were gone.

chapter thirty-seven

Okay, so Dave Isn’t as attractive as St. Clai,. He’s kind of gangly, and his teeth are sort of bucked, but his tan-but-freckled nose is cute. And I like how he brushes his shaggy hair from his eyes, and his flirty smile still catches me off guard. And, sure, he’s a
little
immature, but he’s nothing like his friend Mike Reynard, who’s always talking about the Girl with the Pink Stripe’s chest. Even when she’s within hearing distance. And though I don’t think Dave would ever get excited by a history book or wear a funny hat made by his mom, the important thing is this: Dave is available. St. Clair is not.

It’s been a week since we’ve kissed, and we’re dating now by default. Sort of. We’ve taken a few walks, he’s paid for some meals, and we’ve made out in various locations around campus. But I don’t hang out with his friends, and he’s never hung out with mine. Which is good, because they tease me about Dave relentlessly.

I’m lounging around with them in the lobby. It’s late Friday night, so there isn’t a crowd. Nate is behind the front desk, because the regular workers are on strike. Someone is always striking in Paris; it was bound to happen here sooner or later. Josh sketches Rashmi, who is talking on the phone with her parents in Hindi, while St. Clair and Meredith quiz each other for a government test. I’m checking my email. I’m startled when one appears from Bridgette. She hasn’t written in nearly two months.

I know you don’t want to hear from me, but I thought I’d try one last time. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Toph. I was afraid, because I knew how much you liked him. I hope someday you’ll understand that I didn’t mean to hurt you. And I hope your second semester in France is going well. I’m excited there are only two months until graduation, and I can’t wait till prom! Does SOAP have a prom? Are you going with someone? Whatever happened to that English guy? It sounded like a more-than-friends situation to me. Anyway. I’m sorry, and I hope you’re okay. And I won’t bug you again. And I didn’t use any big words because I know you hate that.

“Are you all right, Anna?” St. Clair asks.

“What?” I snap my laptop shut.

“You look like the Mom and Pop Basset Hound Theater closed,” he says.

Bridgette and Toph are going to prom. Why am I upset? I’ve never cared about prom before. But they’ll get those wallet-size pictures. He’ll be in a tux that he’s punk-rocked out with safety pins and she’ll be in a fabulous vintage gown and he’ll have his hands on her waist in some awkward pose and they’ll be captured for all eternity together. And I am never going to prom.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine.” I keep my back to him and wipe my eyes.

St. Clair sits up. “It’s not nothing.You’re crying.”

The front door opens, and the decibel level rises as Dave, Mike, and three junior girls arrive. They’ve been drinking, and they’re laughing loudly. Emily Middlestone, the Girl with the Pink Stripe, clutches Dave’s arm. One of his hands rests casually on her waist. Prom picture. The stab of jealousy surprises me.

Emily’s cheeks are flushed, and she laughs harder than anyone else. Mer nudges me with the toe of her shoe. The others, even Josh and Rashmi, watch the situation with interest. I open my laptop back up, determined not to look as pissed off as I feel.

“Anna!” Dave gives me a gigantic, exaggerated wave. Emily’s face sours. “You missed it!” He shakes her off and staggers toward me with limp arms. He looks like a newly hatched chick with useless wings. “You know that café with the blue window? We stole their outside tables and chairs and set them up in the fountain.You should’ve seen the look on the waiters’ faces when they found them. It was awesome!”

I look at Dave’s feet. They are, indeed, wet.

“What are you doing?” He flops down next to me. “Checking your email?”

St. Clair snorts. “Give the lad a medal for his brilliant skills in detection.”

My friends smirk. I’m embarrassed again, for both Dave and myself. But Dave doesn’t even look at St. Clair, he just keeps grinning. “Well, I saw the laptop, and I saw the cute frown that means she’s concentrating so hard, and I put two and two together—”

“NO,” I tell St. Clair, who opens his mouth to say something else. He shuts it, surprised.

“Wanna come upstairs?” Dave asks. “We’re gonna chill in my room for a while.”

I probably should. He
is
sort of my boyfriend. Plus, I’m annoyed with St. Clair. His hostile stare only makes me more determined. “Sure.”

Dave whoops and pulls me to my feet. He trips over St. Clair’s textbook, and St. Clair looks ready to commit murder. “It’s just a book,” I say.

He scowls in disgust.

Dave takes me to the fifth floor. St. Clair’s floor. I forgot they were neighbors. His room turns out to be the most . . . American place I’ve seen in Paris.The walls are covered in tacky posters—99 BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL,
Reefer Madness
, a woman with huge boobs in a white bikini. Her cleavage is covered with sand, and she’s pouting as if to say:
Can you
believe
this? Sand! At the beach!

The girls pile onto Dave’s unmade bed. Mike hurls himself on top of them, and they squeal and bat at him. I hover in the doorway until Dave pulls me inside and onto his lap. We sit on his desk chair. Another guy comes in. Paul? Pete? Something like that. One of the juniors, a girl with dark hair and tight jeans, stretches in a move designed to show off her belly button ring to Paul/Pete. Oh, please.

The party divides and people make out. Emily doesn’t have a partner, so she leaves, but not before shooting me another bitchy look. Dave’s tongue is in my mouth, but I can’t relax, because he’s slobbering tonight. His hand creeps underneath my shirt and rests against the small of my back. I glance down at his other hand and realize they aren’t much bigger than mine. He has little-boy hands.

“I need to take a leak.” Mike Reynard stands, knocking tonight’s date to the floor. I expect him to exit the room, but, instead, he does the unforgivable. He unzips his pants—right there in front of all of us—and
pees in Dave’s shower
.

And no one says anything.

“Aren’t you going to stop him?”

But Dave doesn’t reply to my question. His head has fallen back, and his mouth is open. Is he
asleep
?

“Everyone pisses in the showers.” Mike curls his lip at me. “What, you wait in line for the bathroom?”

I fight revulsion as I fly down the stairs to my floor. What was I thinking? I could’ve just contracted any number of life-threatening diseases. There’s no way Dave has EVER cleaned his room. I think back to St. Clair’s tidy, pleasant space, and I’m jealous of Ellie in an entirely new way. St. Clair would never hang up a poster of beer bottles or hold house parties in his room or use his shower as a toilet.

How did I end up with Dave? It was never a decision, it just happened. Was I only with him because I’m mad at St. Clair? The thought strikes a nerve. Now I feel ashamed as well as stupid. I reach for my necklace, and a new panic sets in.

Key. I don’t have my key.

Where did I leave it? I curse, because there’s no way I’m going back to Dave’s room. Maybe it’s downstairs. Or maybe I never grabbed it in the first place. Does this mean I have go to the front desk? Except—I swear again—they’re striking. Which means I have to go to Nate’s, which means I have to wake him up in middle of the night. Which means he’ll get mad at me.

Mer’s door flies open. It’s St. Clair.

“Night,” he says, clicking her door shut. She calls good night back. He glares at me, and I flinch. He knew I was out here.

“You and Higgenbaum have a nice time?” He sneers.

I don’t want to talk about Dave. I want to find my freaking room key, and I want St. Clair to go away. “Yes. Great.
Thank you
.”

St. Clair blinks. “You’re crying. That’s the second time tonight.” A new edge to his voice. “Did he hurt you?”

I wipe my eyes. “What?”

“I’ll KILL that bloody—”

He’s already halfway to the stairs before I can yank him back. “No!” St. Clair looks at my hand on his arm, and I hastily remove it. “I’m locked out. I’m just upset because I lost my stupid key.”

“Oh.”

We stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do with ourselves. “I’m going downstairs.” I avoid his gaze. “Maybe I left it there.”

St. Clair follows me, and I’m too exhausted to argue. His boots echo in the empty stairwell.
Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.
The lobby is dark and empty. The March wind rattles the glass on the front door. He fumbles around and switches on a light. It’s a Tiffany lamp, red dragonflies with bulbous turquoise eyes. I start lifting couch cushions.

“But you were on the floor the whole time,” he says. I think back, and he’s right. He points to a chair. “Help me lift this. Maybe it was kicked under here.”

We move it aside. No key.

“Could you have left it upstairs?” He’s uncomfortable, so I know he means at Dave’s.

“I don’t know. I’m so tired.”

“Shall we check?” He hesitates. “Or . . . shall I check?”

I shake my head no, and I’m relieved when he doesn’t press me.

He looks relieved, too. “Nate?”

“I don’t want to wake him.”

St. Clair bites his thumbnail. He’s nervous. “You could sleep in my room. I’ll sleep on the floor, you can have my bed. We don’t have to, er, sleep together. Again. If you don’t want to.”

That’s only the second time, apart from one of his emails at Christmas, either of us has mentioned that weekend. I’m stunned. The temptation makes my entire body ache with longing, but it’s one hundred different kinds of a bad idea. “No. I’d—I’d better get it over with now. Because I’d still have to see Nate in the morning, and then I’d have to explain about . . . about being in your room.”

Is he disappointed? He takes a moment before replying. “Then I’ll go with you.”

“Nate’s gonna be mad.You should go to bed.”

But he marches over to Nate’s room and knocks. A minute later, Nate opens his door. He’s barefoot and wearing an old T-shirt and boxer shorts. I look away, embarrassed. He rubs his shaved head. “Ungh?”

I stare at his diamond-patterned rug. “I locked myself out.”

“Mmm?”

“She forgot her key,” St. Clair says. “Can she borrow your spare?”

Nate sighs but motions us inside. His place is much larger than ours, with a private bath, a sitting room, and a full-size (though tiny by American standards) kitchen in addition to a separate bedroom. He shuffles over to a wooden cupboard in his sitting room. It’s filled with brass keys hanging on nails, a painted golden number above each one. He grabs 408 and hands it to me. “I want that back before breakfast.”

“Of course.” I grasp the key so hard it dents my palm. “I’m sorry.”

“Out,” he says, and we scurry into the hall. I catch a glimpse of his condom bowl, which brings back another uneasy Thanksgiving memory.

“See?” St. Clair switches off the dragonfly lamp. “That wasn’t so terrible.”

The lobby is cloaked in darkness again, the only light coming from the screen saver on the front desk’s computer. I stumble forward, patting the walls for guidance. St. Clair bumps into me. “Sorry,” he says. His breath is warm on my neck. But he doesn’t adjust his body. He stays close behind me as we stumble down the hall.