Anna and the French Kiss by Stephanie Perkins Page A

blacks and whites and grays on-screen. Clark Gable pretends to sleep and places his hand in the center of an empty bus seat. After a moment of irritation, Claudette Colbert gingerly plucks it aside and sits down. Gable smiles to himself, and St. Clair laughs.
    It’s odd, but I keep finding myself distracted. By the white of his teeth through the darkness. By a wavy bit of his hair that sticks straight out to the side. By the soft aroma of his laundry detergent. He nudges me to silently offer the armrest, but I decline and he takes it. His arm is close to mine, slightly elevated. I glance at his hands. Mine are tiny compared to his large, knuckly boy hands.
    And, suddenly, I want to touch him.
    Not a push, or a shove, or even a friendly hug. I want to feel the creases in his skin, connect his freckles with invisible lines, brush my fingers across the inside of his wrist. He shifts. I have the strangest feeling that he’s as aware of me as I am of him. I can’t concentrate. The characters on the screen are squabbling, but for the life of me, I don’t know what about. How long have I not been paying attention?
    St. Clair coughs and shifts again. His leg brushes against mine. It stays there. I’m paralyzed. I should move it; it feels too unnatural. How can he not notice his leg is touching my leg? From the corner of my eye, I see the profile of his chin and nose, and—oh, dear God—the curve of his lips.
    There. He glanced at me. I know he did.
    I bore my eyes into the screen, trying my best to prove that I am Really Interested in this movie. St. Clair stiffens but doesn’t move his leg. Is he holding his breath? I think he is. I’m holding mine. I exhale and cringe—it’s so loud and unnatural.
    Again. Another glance. This time I turn, automatically, just as he’s turning away. It’s a dance, and now there’s a feeling in the air like one of us should say something. Focus, Anna. Focus. “Do you like it?” I whisper.
    He pauses. “The film?”
    I’m thankful the shadows hide my blush.
    “I like it very much,” he says.
    I risk a glance, and St. Clair stares back. Deeply. He has not looked at me like this before. I turn away first, then feel him turn a few beats later.
    I know he is smiling, and my heart races.

chapter twelve
    To: Anna Oliphant
    From: James Ashley
    Subject: Gentle Reminder
Hello, honey. It’s been a while since we’ve spoken. Have you checked your voice mail? I’ve called several times, but I assume you’re busy exploring Paree. Well, this is just a gentle reminder to call your dear old dad and tell him how your studies are going. Have you mastered French yet? Tasted foie gras? What exciting museums have you visited? Speaking of exciting, I’m sure you’ve heard the good news. The Incident debuted at number one on the NY Times ! Looks like I’ve still got the magic touch. I’m leaving for a southeastern tour next week, so I’ll see your brother soon and give him your best. Keep laser-focused on school, and I’ll see YOU at Christmas.
    Josh leans his lanky body over my shoulder and peers at my laptop. “Is it just me, or is that ‘YOU’ sort of threatening?”
    “No. It’s not just YOU,” I say.
    “I thought your dad was a writer. What’s with the ‘laser-focused’ ‘gentle reminder’ shit?”
    “My father is fluent in cliché. Obviously, you’ve never read one of his novels.” I pause. “I can’t believe he has the nerve to say he’ll ‘give Seany my best.’”
    Josh shakes his head in disgust. My friends and I are spending the weekend in the lounge because it’s raining again. No one ever mentions this, but it turns out Paris is as drizzly as London. According to St. Clair, that is, our only absent member. He went to some photography show at Ellie’s school. Actually, he was supposed to be back by now.
    He’s running late. As usual.
    Mer and Rashmi are curled up on one of the lobby couches, reading our