Anna and the French Kiss
Page 26

That must be an American thing.
“The original or the remake?” Professeur Gil et marches past our desks and Dave quickly adds, “Je te présente ma famille. Jean-Pierre est ... l’oncle.”
“Um. What?”
“Quoi, ” Professeur Gil et 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 Guil otine 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 actual y. 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 will ing 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 stil 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 usual y 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 cel ophane.
“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 fal s over us. Madame Guil otine 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 Guil otine doesn’t break stride. “Monday morning, Mademoisel e Oliphant.”
At lunch, I slam my food tray down on the table. Lentil soup spil s over the side of my bowl, and my plum rol s 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’l 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 Gil et 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, especial y 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-al .”
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 smal plate in the air before me. “Al ow me to present this éclair with my humblest apologizes.”