Anna and the French Kiss

chapter thirteen

“Un place s’il vous plaît.”

One place, please. I double-checked my pronunciation before stepping up to the box office and sliding over my euros.The woman selling tickets doesn’t blink, just rips my ticket in half and hands me the stub. I accept it graciously and stammer my thanks. Inside the theater, an usher examines my stub. She tears it slightly, and I know from watching my friends that I’m supposed to give her a small tip for this useless tradition. I touch the Canadian patch for luck, but I don’t need it. The handoff is easy.

I did it. I did it!

My relief is so profound that I hardly notice my feet carve their way into my favorite row. The theater is almost empty. Three girls around my age are in the back, and an elderly couple sits in front of me, sharing a box of candy. Some people are finicky about going to the theater alone, but I’m not. Because when the lights go down, the only relationship left in the room is the one between the movie and me.

I sink into the springy chair and lose myself in the previews. French commercials are interspersed between them, and I have fun trying to guess what they’re for before the product is shown. Two men chase each other across the Great Wall of China to advertise clothing. A scantily clad woman rubs herself against a quacking duck to sell furniture. A techno beat and a dancing silhouette want me to what? Go clubbing? Get drunk?

I have no idea.

And then Mr. Smith Goes to Washington begins. James Stewart plays a naive, idealistic man sent into the Senate, where everyone believes they can take advantage of him. They think he’ll fail and be driven out, but Stewart shows them all. He’s stronger than they gave him credit for, stronger than they are. I like it.

I think about Josh. I wonder what kind of senator his father is.

The dialogue is translated across the bottom of the screen in yellow. The theater is silent, respectful, until the first gag. The Parisians and I laugh together. Two hours speed by, and then I’m blinking in a streetlamp, lost in a comfortable daze, thinking about what I might see tomorrow.

“Going to the movies again tonight?” Dave checks my page number and flips his French textbook open to the chapter about family. As usual, we’ve paired up for an exercise in conversational skills.

“Yup. The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. You know, to get into the holiday spirit.” Halloween is this weekend, but I haven’t seen any decorations here. That must be an American thing.

“The original or the remake?” Professeur Gillet marches past our desks and Dave quickly adds, “Je te présente ma famille. Jean-Pierre est ... l’oncle.”

“Um. What?”

“Quoi,” Professeur Gillet corrects. I expect her to linger, but she moves on. Phew.

“Original, of course.” But I’m impressed he knew it was remade.

“That’s funny, I wouldn’t have taken you for a horror fan.”

“Why not?” I bristle at the implication. “I appreciate any well-made film.”

“Yeah, but most girls are squeamish about that sort of thing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” My voice rises, and Madame Guillotine jerks her head up from across the room. “Marc est mon ... frère,” I say, glancing down at the first French word I see. Brother. Marc is my brother. Whoops. Sorry, Sean.

Dave scratches his freckled nose. “You know. The chick suggests a horror movie to her boyfriend so she can get all scared and cling onto him.”

I groan. “Please. I’ve seen just as many scared boyfriends leave halfway through a movie as scared girlfriends—”

“And how many movies will this make this week anyway, Oliphant? Four? Five?”

Six actually. I saw two on Sunday. I’ve settled into a routine: school, homework, dinner, movie. I’m slowly making my way across the city, theater by theater.

I shrug, not willing to admit this to him.

“When are you gonna invite me along, huh? Maybe I like scary movies, too.”

I pretend to study the family tree in my textbook. This isn’t the first time he’s hinted at this sort of thing. And Dave is cute, but I don’t like him that way. It’s hard to take a guy seriously when he still tips over backward in his chair, just to annoy a teacher.

“Maybe I like going alone. Maybe it gives me time to think about my reviews.” Which is true, but I refrain from mentioning that usually I’m not alone. Sometimes Meredith joins me, sometimes Rashmi and Josh. And, yes, sometimes St. Clair.

“Right.Your reviews.” He yanks my spiral notebook out from underneath Level One French.

“Hey! Give that back!”

“What’s your website again?” Dave flips through the pages as I try to grab it. I don’t take notes while watching the films; I’d rather hold off until I’ve had time to think about them. But I like to jot down my first impressions afterward.

“Like I’d tell you. Give it back.”

“What’s the deal with these, anyway? Why don’t you go to the movies for fun, like a normal person?”

“It is fun. And I’ve told you before, it’s good practice. And I can’t see classics like these on the big screen back home.” Not to mention I can’t see them in such glorious silence. In Paris, no one talks during a movie. Heaven help the person who brings in a crunchy snack or crinkly cellophane.

“Why do you need to practice? It’s not like it’s hard or something.”

“Yeah? I’d like to see you write a six-hundred-word review about one. ‘I liked it. It was cool. There were explosions.’” I snatch again at my notebook, but he holds it above his head.

He laughs. “Five stars for explosions.”

“Give. That. BACK!”

A shadow falls over us. Madame Guillotine hovers above, waiting for us to continue. The rest of the class is staring. Dave lets go of the notebook, and I shrink back.

“Um ... très bien, David,” I say.

“When you ’ave finished zis fascinating dee-scussion, plizz return to ze task at ’and.” Her eyes narrow. “And deux pages about vos familles, en français, pour lundi matin.”

We nod sheepishly, and her heels clip away. “For lundi matin? What the heck does that mean?” I hiss to Dave.

Madame Guillotine doesn’t break stride. “Monday morning, Mademoiselle Oliphant.”

At lunch, I slam my food tray down on the table. Lentil soup spills over the side of my bowl, and my plum rolls away. St. Clair catches it. “What’s eating you?” he asks.

“French.”

“Not going well?”

“Not going well.”

He places the plum back on my tray and smiles. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

“Easy for you to say, Monsieur Bilingual.”

His smile fades. “Sorry.You’re right, that was unfair. I forget sometimes.”

I stir my lentils aggressively. “Professeur Gillet always makes me feel stupid. I’m not stupid.”

“Of course you aren’t. It’d be mad for anyone to expect fluency. It takes time to learn anything, especially a language.”

“I’m just so tired of going out there”—I gesture at the windows—“and being helpless.”

St. Clair is surprised at my suggestion. “You aren’t helpless. You go out every night, often on your own. That’s a far cry from when you arrived. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“Hmph.”

“Hey.” He scoots closer. “Remember what Professeur Cole said when she was talking about the lack of translated novels in America? She said it’s important to expose ourselves to other cultures, other situations. And that’s exactly what you’re doing. You’re going out, and you’re testing the waters.You ought to be proud of yourself. Screw French class, that means sod-all.”

I crack a smile at his Briticism. Speaking of translation. “Yeah, but Professeur Cole was talking about books, not real life. There’s a big difference.”

“Is there? What about film? Aren’t you the one who’s always going on about cinema as a reflection of life? Or was that some other famous film critic I know?”

“Shut up. That’s different.”

St. Clair laughs, knowing he’s caught me. “See? You ought to spend less time worrying about French, and more time ...” He trails off, attention snagged by something behind me. His expression is of growing revulsion.

I turn to find Dave, kneeling on the cafeteria floor behind us. His head is bowed, and he thrusts a small plate in the air before me. “Allow me to present this éclair with my humblest apologizes.”

My face burns. “What are you doing?”

Dave looks up and grins. “Sorry about the extra assignment. That was my fault.”

I’m speechless. When I don’t take the dessert, he rises and delivers it in front of me with a grand flourish. Everyone is staring. He nabs a chair from the table behind us and wedges himself between St. Clair and me.

St. Clair is incredulous. “Make yourself at home, David.”

Dave doesn’t seem to hear him. He dips his finger in the sticky chocolate icing and licks it off. Are his hands clean? “So. Tonight. Texas Chain Saw Massacre. I’ll never believe you aren’t afraid of horror films if you don’t let me take you.”

Oh my God. Dave is NOT asking me out in front of St. Clair. St. Clair hates Dave; I remember him saying it before we saw It Happened One Night. “Uh . . . sorry.” I grasp for an excuse. “But I’m not going. Anymore. Something came up.”

“Come on. Nothing could be that important on a Friday night.” He pinches my arm, and I glance desperately at St. Clair.

“Physics project,” he cuts in, glaring at Dave’s hand. “Last minute. Loads to do. We’re partners.”

“You have all weekend to do homework. Loosen up, Oliphant. Live a little.”

“Actually,” St. Clair says, “it sounds like Anna has quite a bit of additional work to do this weekend. Thanks to you.”

Dave finally turns around to face St. Clair. They exchange scowls.

“I’m sorry,” I say. And I mean it. I feel awful for turning him down, especially in front of everyone. He’s a nice guy, despite what St. Clair thinks.

But Dave looks at St. Clair again. “It’s cool,” he says after a moment. “I get it.”

“What?” I’m confused.

“I didn’t realize ...” Dave motions between St. Clair and me.

“No! No. There’s nothing. There. I mean it, we’ll see something soon. I’m just busy tonight. With the physics thing.”

Dave looks annoyed, but he shrugs his shoulders. “No biggie. Hey, you going to the party tomorrow night?”

Nate is throwing a Halloween bash for Résidence Lambert. I wasn’t planning to attend, but I lie to make him feel better. “Yeah, probably. I’ll see you there.”

He stands up. “Cool. I’m holding you to that.”

“Right. Sure. Thanks for the éclair!” I call after him.

“You’re welcome, beautiful.”

Beautiful. He called me beautiful! But wait. I don’t like Dave.

Do I like Dave?

“Wanker,” St. Clair says, the moment he’s out of earshot.

“Don’t be rude.”

He stares at me with an unfathomable expression. “You weren’t complaining when I made an excuse for you.”

I push the éclair away. “He put me on the spot, that’s all.”

“You ought to thank me.”

“Thank you,” I say sarcastically. I’m aware of the others staring at us. Josh clears his throat and points at my finger-smudged dessert. “You gonna eat that?” he asks.

“Be my guest.”

St. Clair stands so suddenly that his chair clatters over.

“Where are you going?” Mer asks.

“Nowhere.” He stalks away, leaving us in surprised silence. After a moment, Rashmi leans forward. She raises her dark eyebrows. “You know, Josh and I saw them fighting a couple nights ago.”

“Who? St. Clair and Dave?” Mer asks.

“No, St. Clair and Ellie. That’s what this is about, you know.”

“It is?” I ask.

“Yeah, he’s been on edge all week,” Rashmi says.

I think about it. “That’s true. I’ve heard him pacing his room. He never used to do that.” It’s not like I make a point of listening, but now that I know that St. Clair lives above me, I can’t help but notice his comings and goings.

Josh gives me a weird look.

“Where did you see them?” Mer asks Rashmi.

“In front of the Cluny métro.We were gonna say hi, but when we saw their expressions, we went the other way. Definitely not a conversation I wanted to interrupt.”

“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?