Anna, Anna," Josh interrupts. "If I had a euro for every stupid thing I've done, I could buy the Mona Lisa. You'll be fine.
Stephanie PerkinsOh my. He's English.
"Er. Does Mer live here?"
Seriously, I don't know any American girl who can resist an English accent.
The boy clears his throat. "Meredith Chevalier? Tall girl? Big, curly hair?" Then he looks at me like I'm crazy or half deaf, like my Nana Oliphant. Nanna just smiles and shakes her head whenever I ask, "What kind of salad dressing would you like?" or "Where did you put Granddad's false teeth?"
"I'm sorry." He takes the smallest step away from me. "You were going to bed."
"Yes! Meredith lives here. I've just spent two hours with her." I announce this proudly like my little brother, Seany, whenever he finds something disgusting in the yard. "I'm Anna! I'm new here!" Oh, [Gosh]. What. Is with. The scary enthusiasm? My cheeks catch fire, and it's all so humiliating.
The beautiful boy gives an amused grin. His teeth are lovely - straight on top and crooked on the bottom, with a touch of overbite. I'm a sucker for smiles like this, due to my own lack of orthodontia. I have a gap between my front teeth the size of a raisin.
"Étienne," he says. "I live one floor up."
"I live here." I point dumbly at my room while my mind whirs: French name, English accent, American school. Anna confused.
He raps twice on Meredith's door. "Well. I'll see you around then, Anna."
Eh-t-yen says my name like this: Ah-na.
Stichwörter: anna-and-the-french-kiss
The first thing I notice is his hair - it's the first thing I notice about anyone. It's dark brown and messy and somehow both long and short at the same time. I think of the Beatles, since I've just seen them in Meredith's room. It's artist's hair. Musician hair. I-pretend-I-don't-care-but-I-really-do hair.
Stephanie PerkinsHar. Bloody. Har."
He smiles. "Oh, I see. Known me less than a day and teasing me about my accent. What's next? Care to discuss the state of my hair? My height? My trousers?"
Trousers. Honestly.
I don't understand why things always go from perfect to weird with us. It's like we're incapable of normal human interaction.
Stephanie PerkinsWhy do I care so much about him, and why do I wish I didn't? How can one person make me so confused all of the time?
Stephanie PerkinsMost 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.
What do you guys even do every night?" The words slip from my mouth before I can stop them.
"It," Rashmi says. "They do it. He's ditching us to screw.
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.
I moan with pleasure.
"Did you just have a foodgasm?" he asks, wiping ricotta from his lips.
"Where have you been all my life?" I ask the beautiful panini.
Stichwörter: eating
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