Stephanie Perkins: Anna and the French Kiss

“No, I’m sorry. I’ve been a jerk. I had no right to be angry with you.”

“That’s not true, I knew how you felt about him, and I kissed him anyway. It wasn’t right. I should have told you that I liked him, too.”

We sit on her bed. She twists a glittery star-shaped ring around her finger. “I knew how you felt about each other. Everyone knew how you felt about each other.”

“But—”

“I didn’t want to believe it. After so long, I still had this . . . stupid hope. I knew he and Ellie were having problems, so I thought maybe—” Meredith chokes up, and it takes a minute before she can continue.

I stir my hot chocolate. It’s so thick it’s nearly a sauce. She taught me well.

“We used to hang out all the time. St. Clair and me. But after you arrived, I hardly saw him. He’d sit next to you in class, at lunch, at the movies. Everywhere . And even though I was suspicious, I knew the first time I heard you call him Étienne—I knew you loved him. And I knew by his response—the way his eyes lit up every time you said it—I knew he loved you, too. And I ignored it, because I didn’t want to believe it.”

The struggle rises inside me again. “I don’t know if he loves me. I don’t know if he does, or if he ever did. It’s all so messed up.”

“It’s obvious he wants more than friendship.” Mer takes my shaking mug. “Haven’t you seen him? He suffers every time he looks at you. I’ve never seen anyone so miserable in my life.”

“That’s not true.” I’m remembering he said the situation with his father is really terrible right now. “He has other things on his mind, more important things.”

“Why aren’t the two of you together?”

The directness of her question throws me. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think there are only so many opportunities . . . to get together with someone. And we’ve both screwed up so many times”—my voice grows quiet—“that we’ve missed our chance.”

“Anna.” Mer pauses. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“But—”

“But what? You love him, and he loves you, and you live in the most romantic city in the world.”

I shake my head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Then let me put it another way. A gorgeous boy is in love with you, and you’re not even gonna try to make it work?”

I’ve missed Meredith. I return to my room feeling both solaced and saddened. If St. Clair and I hadn’t fought in detention today, would I have tried to apologize again? Probably not. School would have ended, we’d have gone our separate ways, and our friendship would have been severed forever.

Oh, no. The horrible truth knocks me over.

How could I have missed it? It’s the same thing. The exact. Same. Thing.

Bridge couldn’t help it.The attraction was there, and I wasn’t there, and they got together, and she couldn’t help it . And I’ve blamed her this entire time. Made her feel guilty for something beyond her control. I haven’t even tried to listen to her; I haven’t answered a single phone call or replied to a single email. And she kept trying anyway. I remember what Matt and Rashmi said again . I really do abandon my friends.

I yank out my luggage and unzip the front pocket. It’s still there. A little beat-up, but a small package wrapped in red-and-white-striped paper. The toy bridge. And then I compose the most difficult letter I’ve ever written. I hope she forgives me.

The rest of the week is quiet. I mail Bridge’s package, I rejoin my friends at our table, and I finish my detention. St. Clair and I still haven’t talked. Well, we’ve spoken a bit, but not about anything important. Mostly we sit beside each other and fidget, which is ridiculous, because isn’t that what this is all about? That we won’t talk?

But breaking old habits isn’t easy.

We sit a row apart in detention. I feel him watching me the entire hour, the entire week. I watch him, too. But we don’t walk together to the dorm; he packs his things slowly to allow me time to leave first. I think we’ve arrived at the same conclusion. Even if we managed to begin something , there’s still no hope for us. School is almost over. Next year, I’ll attend San Francisco State University for film theory and criticism, but he still won’t tell me where he’s going. I flat-out asked him after detention on Friday, and he stammered something about not wanting to talk about it.

At least I’m not the only one who finds change difficult.

On Saturday, the Mom and Pop Basset Hound Theater screens my favorite Sofia Coppola movie, Lost in Translation . I greet the dignified man and Pouce, and slide into my usual seat. It’s the first time I’ve watched this film since moving here. The similarities between the story and my life are not lost on me.

It’s about two Americans, a middle-aged man and a young woman, who are alone in Tokyo. They’re struggling to understand their foreign surroundings, but they’re also struggling to understand their romantic relationships, which appear to be falling apart. And then they meet, and they have a new struggle—their growing attraction to each other, when they both know that such a relationship is impossible.

It’s about isolation and loneliness, but it’s also about friendship. Being exactly what the other person needs. At one point, the girl asks the man, “Does it get easier?” His first reply is “no,” and then “yes,” and then “it gets easier.” And then he tells her, “The more you know who you are, and what you want, the less you let things upset you.”

And I realize ... it’s okay. It’s okay if St. Clair and I never become more than friends. His friendship alone has strengthened me in a way that no one else’s ever has. He swept me from my room and showed me independence. In other words, he was exactly what I needed. I won’t forget it. And I certainly don’t want to lose it.

When the film ends, I catch my reflection in the theater’s bathroom. My stripe hasn’t been retouched since my mother bleached it at Christmas. Another thing I need to learn how to do myself. Another thing I want to learn how to do myself. I pop into the Monoprix next door—which is kind of like a mini SuperTarget—to buy hair bleach, and I’m walking back out when I notice someone familiar across the boulevard.

I don’t believe it. St. Clair.

His hands are in his pockets, and he’s looking around as if waiting for someone. My heart swells. He knows Sofia is my favorite director. He knew I’d come here, and he’s waiting for me to appear. It’s finally time to talk. I soar over the crosswalk to his side of the street. I feel happier than I have in ages. And I’m just about to call his name, when I realize he’s no longer alone.

He’s been joined by an older gentleman.The man is handsome and stands in a way that’s strangely familiar. St. Clair is speaking in French. I can’t hear him, but his mouth moves differently in French. His gestures and his body language change, they become more fluid. A group of businessmen passes by and temporarily bars him from view, because St. Clair is shorter than them.

Wait a second. The man is short, too.

I startle as I realize I’m staring at St. Clair’s father. I look closer. He’s immaculately dressed, very Parisian. Their hair is the same color, although his father’s is streaked with silver and is shorter, tidier. And they have that same air of confidence, although St. Clair looks unsettled right now.

I feel shamed. I did it again. Everything is not always about me. I duck behind a métro sign, but I’ve unwittingly positioned myself in hearing distance. The guilty feeling creeps back in. I should walk away, but . . . it’s St. Clair’s biggest mystery. Right here.