The pressure is on. They’ve teased me all week, because I’ve avoided anything that requires ordering. I’ve made excuses (“I’m allergic to beef,” “Nothing tastes better than bread,” “Ravioli is overrated”), but I can’t avoid it forever. Monsieur Boutin is working the counter again. I grab a tray and take a deep breath.
“Bonjour, uh . . . soup? Sopa? S’il vous plaît?”
“Hello” and “please.” I’ve learned the polite words first, in hopes that the French will forgive me for butchering the remainder of their beautiful language. I point to the vat of orangey-red soup. Butternut squash, I think. The smell is extraordinary, like sage and autumn. It’s early September, and the weather is still warm. When does fall come to Paris?
“Ah! Soupe,” he gently corrects.
“Sí, soupe. I mean, oui. Oui!” My cheeks burn. “And, um, the uh—chicken-salad-green-bean thingy?”
Monsieur Boutin laughs. It’s a jolly, bowl-full-of-jelly, Santa Claus laugh. “Chicken and haricots verts, oui.You know, you may speek Ingleesh to me. I understand eet vairy well.”
My blush deepens. Of course he’d speak English in an American school. And I’ve been living on stupid pears and baguettes for five days. He hands me a bowl of soup and a small plate of chicken salad, and my stomach rumbles at the sight of hot food.
“Merci,” I say.
“De rien. You’re welcome. And I ’ope you don’t skeep meals to avoid me anymore!” He places his hand on his chest, as if brokenhearted. I smile and shake my head no. I can do this. I can do this. I can—
“NOW THAT WASN’T SO TERRIBLE, WAS IT, ANNA?” St. Clair hollers from the other side of the cafeteria.
I spin around and give him the finger down low, hoping Monsieur Boutin can’t see. St. Clair responds by grinning and giving me the British version, the V-sign with his first two fingers. Monsieur Boutin tuts behind me with good nature. I pay for my meal and take the seat next to St. Clair. “Thanks. I forgot how to flip off the English. I’ll use the correct hand gesture next time.”
“My pleasure. Always happy to educate.” He’s wearing the same clothing as yesterday, jeans and a ratty T-shirt with Napoleon’s silhouette on it. When I asked him about it, he said Napoleon was his hero. “Not because he was a decent bloke, mind you. He was an arse. But he was a short arse, like meself.”
I wonder if he slept at Ellie’s. That’s probably why he hasn’t changed his clothes. He rides the métro to her college every night, and they hang out there. Rashmi and Mer have been worked up, like maybe Ellie thinks she’s too good for them now.
“You know, Anna,” Rashmi says, “most Parisians understand English.You don’t have to be so shy.”
Yeah. Thanks for pointing that out now.
Josh puts his hands behind his head and tilts back his chair. His shirtsleeves roll up to expose a skull-and-crossbones tattoo on his upper right arm. I can tell by the thick strokes that it’s his own design. The black ink is dark against his pale skin. It’s an awesome tattoo, though sort of comical on his long, skinny arm. “That’s true,” he says. “I barely speak a word, and I get by.”
“That’s not something I’d brag about.” Rashmi wrinkles her nose, and Josh snaps forward in his chair to kiss it.
“Christ, there they go again.” St. Clair scratches his head and looks away.
“Have they always been this bad?” I ask, lowering my voice.
“No. Last year they were worse.”
“Yikes. Been together long, then?”
“Er, last winter?”
“That’s quite a while.”
He shrugs and I pause, debating whether I want to know the answer to my next question. Probably not, but I ask anyway. “How long have you and Ellie been dating?”
St. Clair thinks for a moment. “About a year now, I suppose.” He takes a sip of coffee—everyone here seems to drink it—then slams down the cup with a loud CLUNK that startles Rashmi and Josh. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says. “Did that bother you?”
He turns to me and opens his brown eyes wide in exasperation. I suck in my breath. Even when he’s annoyed, he’s beautiful. Comparing him to Toph isn’t even possible. St. Clair is a different kind of attractive, a different species altogether.
“Change of subject.” He points a finger at me. “I thought southern belles were supposed to have southern accents.”
I shake my head. “Only when I talk to my mom.Then it slips out because she has one. Most people in Atlanta don’t have an accent. It’s pretty urban. A lot of people speak gangsta, though,” I add jokingly.
“Fo’ shiz,” he replies in his polite English accent.
I spurt orangey-red soup across the table. St. Clair gives a surprised ha-HA kind of laugh, and I’m laughing, too, the painful kind like abdominal crunches. He hands me a napkin to wipe my chin. “Fo’. Shiz.” He repeats it solemnly.
Cough cough. “Please don’t ever stop saying that. It’s too—” I gasp. “Much.”
“You oughtn’t to have said that. Now I shall have to save it for special occasions.”
“My birthday is in February.” Cough choke wheeze. “Please don’t forget.”
“And mine was yesterday,” he says.
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Yes. It was.” He mops the remainder of my spewed lunch from the tabletop. I try to take the napkins to clean it myself, but he waves my hand away.
“It’s the truth,” Josh says. “I forgot, man. Happy belated birthday.”
“It wasn’t really your birthday, was it? You would’ve said something.”
“I’m serious. Yesterday was my eighteenth birthday.” He shrugs and tosses the napkins onto his empty tray. “My family isn’t one for cakes and party hats.”
“But you have to have cake on your birthday,” I say. “It’s the rules. It’s the best part.” I remember the StarWars cake Mom and Bridge and I made for Seany last summer. It was lime green and shaped likeYoda’s head. Bridge even bought cotton candy for his ear hair.
“This is exactly why I never bring it up, you know.”
“But you did something special last night, right? I mean, Ellie took you out?”
He picks up his coffee, and then sets it back down again without drinking. “My birthday is just another day. And I’m fine with that. I don’t need the cake, I promise.”
“Okay, okay. Fine.” I raise my hands in surrender. “I won’t wish you happy birthday. Or even a belated happy Friday.”
“Oh, you can wish me happy Friday.” He smiles again. “I have no objection to Fridays.”
“Speaking of,” Rashmi says to me. “Why didn’t you go out with us last night?”
“I had plans. With my friend. Bridgette.”
All three of them stare, waiting for further explanation.
“Phone plans.”
“But you’ve been out this week?” St. Clair asks. “You’ve actually left campus?”
“Sure.” Because I have. To get to other parts of campus.
St. Clair raises his eyebrows. “You are such a liar.”
“Let me get this straight.” Josh places his hands in prayer position. His fingers are slender, like the rest of his body, and he has a black ink splotch on one index finger. “You’ve been in Paris for an entire week and have yet to see the city? Any part of it?”
“I went out with my parents last weekend. I saw the Eiffel Tower.” From a distance.
“With your parents, brilliant. And your plans for tonight?” St. Clair asks. “Washing some laundry, perhaps? Scrubbing the shower?”
“Hey. Scrubbing is underrated.”
Rashmi furrows her brow. “What are you gonna eat? The cafeteria will be closed.” Her concern is touching, but I notice she’s not inviting me to join her and Josh. Not that I’d want to go out with them anyway. As for dinner, I’d planned on cruising the dorm’s vending machine. It’s not well stocked, but I can make it work.
“That’s what I thought,” St. Clair says when I don’t respond. He s
hakes his head. His dark messy hair has a few curls in it today. It’s quite breathtaking, really. If there were an Olympics competition in hair, St. Clair would totally win, hands down. Ten-point-oh. Gold medal.
I shrug. “It’s only been a week. It’s not a big deal.”
“Let’s go over the facts one more time,” Josh says. “This is your first weekend away from home?”
“Yes.”
“Your first weekend without parental supervision?”
“Yes.”
“Your first weekend without parental supervision in Paris? And you want to spend it in your bedroom? Alone?” He and Rashmi exchange pitying glances. I look at St. Clair for help, but find him staring at me with his head tilted to the side.
“What?” I ask, irritated. “Soup on my chin? Green bean between my teeth?”
St. Clair smiles to himself. “I like your stripe,” he finally says. He reaches out and touches it lightly. “You have perfect hair.”
chapter seven
The party people have left the dorm. I munch on vending machine snacks and update my website. So far I’ve tried: a Bounty bar, which turned out to be the same thing as a Mounds, and a package of madeleines, shell-shaped cakes that were stale and made me thirsty. Together they’ve raised my blood sugar to a sufficient working level.
Since I have no new movies to review for Femme Film Freak (as I’m severed from everything good and pure and wonderful about America—the cinema), I fiddle with the layout. Create a new banner. Edit an old review. In the evening, Bridge emails me:
Went with Matt and Cherrie M (for meretricious) to the movies last night. And guess what? Toph asked about you!! I told him you’re great BUT you’re REALLY looking forward to your December visit. I think he got the hint. We talked about his band for a minute (still no shows, of course) but Matt was making faces the whole time, so we had to go. You know how he feels about Toph. OH! And Cherrie tried to talk us into seeing your dad’s latest tearjerker. I KNOW.
You suck. Come home.
Bridge
Meretricious. Showily attractive but cheap or insincere. Yes! That is so Cherrie. I just hope Bridge didn’t make me sound too desperate, despite my longing for Toph to email me. And I can’t believe Matt is still weird around him, even though we’re not dating anymore. Everyone likes Toph. Well, sometimes he annoys the managers, but that’s because he tends to forget his work schedule. And call in sick.
I read her email again, hoping for the words Toph says he’s madly in love with you, and he’ll wait for all eternity to appear. No such luck. So I browse my favorite message board to see what they’re saying about Dad’s new film. The reviews for The Decision aren’t great, despite what it’s raking in at the box office. One regular, clockworkorange88, said this: It sucked balls. Dirty balls. Like I-ran-a-mile-in-July-while-wearing-leather-pants balls.
Sounds about right.
After a while I get bored and do a search for Like Water for Chocolate. I want to make sure I haven’t missed any themes before writing my essay. It’s not due for two weeks, but I have a lot of time on my hands right now. Like, all night.
Blah blah blah. Nothing interesting. And I’m just about to recheck my email when this passage leaps from the screen: Throughout the novel, heat is a symbol for sexual desire. Tita can control the heat inside her kitchen, but the fire inside of her own body is a force of both strength and destruction.
“Anna?” Someone knocks on my door, and it startles me out of my seat.
No. Not someone. St. Clair.
I’m wearing an old Mayfield Dairy T-shirt, complete with yellow-and-brown cow logo, and hot pink flannel pajama bottoms covered in giant strawberries. I am not even wearing a bra.
“Anna, I know you’re in there. I can see your light.”
“Hold on a sec!” I blurt. “I’ll be right there.” I grab my black hoodie and zip it up over the cow’s face before wrenching open the door. “Hisorryaboutthat. Come in.”
I open the door wide but he stands there for a moment, just staring at me. I can’t read the expression on his face. Then he breaks into a mischievous smile and brushes past me.
“Nice strawberries.”
“Shut up.”
“No, I mean it. Cute.”
And even though he doesn’t mean it like I-want-to-leave-my-girlfriend-and-start-dating-you cute, something flickers inside of me. The “force of strength and destruction” Tita de la Garza knew so well. St. Clair stands in the center of my room. He scratches his head, and his T-shirt lifts up on one side, exposing a slice of bare stomach.
Foomp! My inner fire ignites.
“It’s really . . . er . . . clean,” he says.
Fizz. Flames extinguished.
“Is it?” I know my room is tidy, but I haven’t even bought a proper window cleaner yet. Whoever cleaned my windows last had no idea how to use a bottle of Windex. The key is to only spray a little at a time. Most people spray too much and then it gets in the corners, which are hard to dry without leaving streaks or lint behind—
“Yes. Alarmingly so.”
St. Clair wanders around, picking up things and examining them like I did in Meredith’s room. He inspects the collection of banana and elephant figurines lined up on my dresser. He holds up a glass elephant and raises his dark eyebrows in question.
“It’s my nickname.”
“Elephant?” He shakes his head. “Sorry, I don’t see it.”
“Anna Oliphant. ‘Banana Elephant.’ My friend collects those for me, and I collect toy bridges and sandwiches for her. Her name is Bridgette Saunderwick,” I add.
St. Clair sets down the glass elephant and wanders to my desk. “So can anyone call you Elephant?”
“Banana Elephant. And no. Definitely not.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “But not for that.”
“What? Why?”
“You’re fixing everything I set down.” He nods at my hands, which are readjusting the elephant. “It wasn’t polite of me to come in and start touching your things.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” I say quickly, letting go of the figurine. “You can touch anything of mine you want.”
He freezes. A funny look runs across his face before I realize what I’ve said. I didn’t mean it like that.
Not that that would be so bad.
But I like Toph, and St. Clair has a girlfriend. And even if the situation were different, Mer still has dibs. I’d never do that to her after how nice she was my first day. And my second. And every other day this week.
Besides, he’s just an attractive boy. Nothing to get worked up over. I mean, the streets of Europe are filled with beautiful guys, right? Guys with grooming regimens and proper haircuts and stylish coats. Not that I’ve seen anyone even remotely as good-looking as Monsieur Étienne St. Clair. But still.
He turns his face away from mine. Is it my imagination, or does he look embarrassed? But why would he be embarrassed? I’m the one with the idiotic mouth.
“Is that your boyfriend?” He points to my laptop’s wallpaper, a photo of my coworkers and me goofing around. It was taken before the midnight release of the latest fantasy-novel-to-film adaptation. Most of us were dressed like elves or wizards. “The one with his eyes closed?”
“WHAT?” He thinks I’d date a guy like Hercules? Hercules is an assistant manager. He’s ten years older than me and, yes, that’s his real name. And even though he’s sweet and knows more about Japanese horror films than anyone, he also has a ponytail.
A ponytail.
“Anna, I’m kidding. This one. Sideburns.” He points to Toph, the reason I love the picture so much. Our heads are turned into each other, and we’re wearing secret smiles, as if sharing a private joke.
“Oh. Uh . . . no. Not really. I mean, Toph was my almost-boyfriend. I moved away before ...” I trail off, uncomfortable. “Before much could happen.”
St. Clair doesn’t respond. After an awkward silence, he puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Provi
de for all.”
“What?” I’m startled.
“Tout pourvoir.” He nods at a pillow on my bed.The words are embroidered above a picture of a unicorn. It was a gift from my grandparents, and the motto and crest are for the Oliphant clan. A long time ago, my grandfather moved to America to marry my grandmother, but he’s still devoted to all things Scottish. He’s always buying Seany and me things decorated with the clan tartan (blue-and-green-checkered, with black and white lines). For instance, my bedspread.
“Yeah, I know that’s what it means. But how did you know?”
“Tout pourvoir. It’s French.”
Excellent. The Oliphant clan motto, drilled into my head since infancy, turns out to be in FRENCH, and I didn’t even know it. Thanks, Granddad. As if I didn’t already look like a moron. But how was I supposed to know a Scottish motto would be in French? I thought they hated France. Or is that just the English?
Argh, I don’t know. I always assumed it was in Latin or some other dead language.
“Your brother?” St. Clair points above my bed to the only picture I’ve hung up. Seany is grinning at the camera and pointing at one of my mother’s research turtles, which is lifting its neck and threatening to take away his finger. Mom is doing a study on the lifetime reproductive habits of snapping turtles and visits her brood in the Chattahoochee River several times a month. My brother loves to go with her, while I prefer the safety of our home. Snapping turtles are mean.
“Yep. That’s Sean.”
“That’s a little Irish for a family with tartan bedspreads.”
I smile. “It’s kind of a sore spot. My mom loved the name, but Granddad—my father’s father—practically died when he heard it. He was rooting for Malcolm or Ewan or Dougal instead.”
St. Clair laughs. “How old is he?”
“Seven. He’s in the second grade.”
“That’s a big age difference.”
“Well, he was either an accident or a last-ditch effort to save a failing marriage. I’ve never had the nerve to ask which.”
Wow. I can’t believe I just blurted that out.