Anna and the French Kiss

chapter twenty-five

Sofia is dead. Because Mom only took her out three times since I left, now she’s stuck in some repair shop on Ponce de Leon Avenue. My car may be a hunk of red scrap metal, but she’s my hunk of red scrap metal. I paid for her with my own money, earned with the stench of theater popcorn in my hair and artificial butter on my arms. She’s named after my favorite director, Sofia Coppola. Sofia creates these atmospheric, impressionistic films with this quiet but impeccable style. She’s also one of only two American women to have been nominated for the Best Director Oscar, for Lost in Translation.

She should have won.

“Why don’t you carpool with your friends?” Mom asks, when I complain about driving her minivan to the Penny Dreadfuls show.

“Because Bridge and Toph will already be there.They have to set up.” Captain Jack wheek wheek wheeks for guinea pig treats, so I pop an orange pellet into his cage and scratch the fuzz behind his ears.

“Can’t Matt drive you?”

I haven’t talked to him in months. I guess he’s going, but ugh, that means Cherrie Milliken is also going. No thanks. “I’m not calling Matt.”

“Well, Anna. It’s Matt or the minivan. I’m not making the choice for you.”

I choose my ex. We used to be good friends, so I’m sort of looking forward to seeing him again. And maybe Cherrie isn’t as bad as I remember. Except she is. She totally is. After only five minutes in her company, I cannot fathom how Bridge stands sitting with her at lunch every day. She turns to look at me in the backseat, and her hair swishes in a vitamin-enriched, shampoo-commercial curtain. “So. How are the guys in Paris?”

I shrug. “Parisian.”

“Ha ha.You’re funny.”

Her lifeless laugh is one of her lesser attributes. What does Matt see in her?

“No one special?” Matt smiles and glances at me through the rearview mirror. I’m not sure why, but I forgot that he has brown eyes. Why do they make some people look amazing and others completely average? It’s the same with brown hair. Statistically speaking, St. Clair and Matt are quite similar. Eyes: Brown. Hair: Brown. Race: Caucasian. There’s a significant difference in height, but still. It’s like comparing a gourmet truffle to a Mr. Goodbar.

I think about the gourmet truffle. And his girlfriend. “Not exactly.”

Cherrie pulls Matt into a story about something that happened in chorus, a conversation she knows I can’t contribute to. Mr. Goodbar fills me in on the who-is-who details, but my mind drifts away. Bridgette and Toph. Will Bridge look the same? Will Toph and I jump in where we left off?

It’s really hitting me now. I’m about to see Toph.

The last time we were together, we kissed. I can’t help but fantasize about our reunion. Toph picking me out of the crowd, being unable to pry his eyes from me, dedicating songs to me. Meeting him backstage. Kissing him in dark corners. I could be on the verge of an entire winter break spent making out with Toph. By the time we arrive at the club, my stomach is in knots, but in such a good way.

Except when Matt opens my door, I realize we aren’t at a club. More like . . . a bowling alley. “Is this the right place?”

Cherrie nods. “All of the best underage bands play here.”

“Oh.” Bridge hadn’t mentioned she was playing in a bowling alley. But that’s okay, it’s still a huge deal. And I’d forgotten about the whole underage thing.Which is silly, because it’s not like I’ve lived in France that long.

Inside, we’re told we have to buy a lane in order to stay for the show. This also means we have to rent bowling shoes. Um, no.There’s no way I’m wearing bowling shoes. Hundreds of people use those things and, what, one spritz of Lysol is supposed to kill all of their nasty stinky feet germs? I don’t think so.

“That’s okay,” I say when the man drops them on the counter. “You can keep them.”

“Lady.You ain’t allowed to play without shoes.”

“I’m not playing.”

“Lady. Take the shoes.You’re holdin’ up the line.”

Matt grabs them. “Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I forgot how you are with stuff like this.” And then Cherrie huffs, so he carries her shoes, too. He hides them underneath some plastic orange shell chairs, and we stroll over to the stage, which is pushed against the far wall. A small crowd has gathered. Bridge and Toph aren’t anywhere to be seen, and I don’t recognize anyone else.

“I think they’re going first,” Matt says.

“You mean they’re the opening act in an underage bowling alley?” I ask.

He cuts his eyes at me, and I feel about two feet tall. Because he’s right.This is still awesome! It’s their first show! But the sinking feeling returns as we mill around. Giveaway T-shirts stretched over monstrous beer bellies. Puffy NFL jackets and porky jowls. Granted, I’m in a bowling alley, but the differences between Americans and Parisians are shocking. I’m ashamed to see my country the way the French must see us. Couldn’t these people have at least brushed their hair before leaving their houses?

“I need a licorice rope,” Cherrie announces. She marches toward the snack stand, and all I can think is these people are your future.

The thought makes me a little happier.

When she comes back, I inform her that just one bite of her Red Dye #40-infused snack could kill my brother. “God, morbid,” she says.Which makes me think of St. Clair again. Because when I told him the same thing three months ago, instead of accusing me of morbidity, he asked with genuine curiosity, “Why?”

Which is the polite thing to do when someone offers you such an interesting piece of conversation.

I wonder if St. Clair has seen his mom yet. Hmm, he’s been in California for two hours. His father was going to pick him up and drive him straight to the hospital. He’s probably with her right now. I should send him a text, some well-wishes. I pull out my phone just as the tiny crowd erupts with cheers.

I forget about the text.

The Penny Dreadfuls emerge, pulsating with excitement and energy, from . . . the staff room. Okay. So it’s not as glamorous as emerging from a backstage, but they do look GREAT. Well, two of them do.

The bassist is the same as always. Reggie used to come into work, mooching free tickets off Toph for the latest comic book movies. He has these long bangs that droop over half his face and cover his eyes, and I could never tell what he thought about anything. I’d be like, “How was the new Iron Man?” And he’d say, “Fine,” in this bored voice. And because his eyes were hidden, I didn’t know if he meant a good fine, or a so-so fine, or a bad fine. It was irritating.

But Bridgette is radiant. She’s wearing a tank top that shows off her toned arms, and her blond hair is in Princess Leia buns with chopsticks through them. I wonder if that was Seany’s idea. She finds me immediately, and her face lights up like a Christmas tree. I wave as she lifts the sticks above her head, counts off the song, and then she’s flying. Reggie drives out a matching bass line, and Toph—I save him for last, because I know that once my eyes lock on him, they aren’t moving.

Because Toph. Is still. Totally. Hot.

He’s slashing at his guitar like he wants to use it for kindling, and he has that angry punk rock scream, and his forehead and sideburns are already glistening with sweat. His pants are tight and bright blue plaid, something that NO ONE else I know could pull off, and it reminds me of his Blue Raspberry Mouth, and it’s so dead sexy I could die.

And then . . . he spots me.

Toph raises his eyebrows and smiles, this lazy grin that makes my insides explode. Matt and Cherrie and I thrash and jump around, and it’s so exhilarating that I don’t even care that I’m dancing with Cherrie Milliken. “Bridge is fantastic!” she says.

“I know!” My heart bursts with pride. Because she’s my best friend, and I’ve always known how talented she was. Now everyone else does, too. And I don’t know what I was expecting—maybe that Reggie’s bangs would get in the way of his playing—but he’s also pretty great. His hand tears over the strings, pushing a wicked bass line that whips us into a frenzy. The only teeny tiny minor weakness in the whole thing is . . . Toph.

Don’t get me wrong. His antiestablishment, I’m-a-loser lyrics are perfect. Catchy. There’s so much rage and passion that even the redneck behind the shoe counter is bobbing his head. And, of course, Toph looks the part.

It’s his actual guitar playing that’s weak. But it’s not like I know that much about guitars. I’m sure it’s a difficult instrument, and he’ll totally get better with practice. It’s hard to master something if you’re always stuck behind a snack counter. And he plays loud, and it riles us up. I forget I’m in a bowling alley, and I forget I’m rocking out with my ex-boyfriend and his girlfriend, and it’s all over way too quickly.

“We’re the Penny Dreadfuls, thanks for coming out to see us. My name is Toph, that’s Reggie on bass, and the hottie in the back is Bridge.”

I whoop and holler.

She beams at Toph. He waggles his eyebrows back and then turns to the crowd and leers. “And, oh yeah. Don’t screw her, ’cause I already am. SUCK IT, ATLANTA. GOOD NIGHT!”