Read Online Anna and the French Kiss by Stephanie Perkins - Free Book Online Page A

try to exhale, but I no longer know how to breathe. And then I remember I’m not wearing a bra.
    And now I’m paranoid.
    “Okay.” He’s panting. “Here’s the”— pant pant —“plan.”
    I don’t want to feel this way around him. I want things to be normal. I want to be his friend, not another stupid girl holding out for something that will never happen. I force myself up. My hair has gone all crazy and staticky from the pillow fight, so I grab an elastic band off my dresser to pull it back.
    “Put on some proper trousers,” he says. “And I’ll show you Paris.”
    “That’s it? That’s the plan?”
    “The whole shebang.”
    “Wow. ‘Shebang.’ Fancy.”
    St. Clair grunts and chucks the pillow at me. My phone rings. It’s probably my mom; she’s called every night this week. I swipe my cell off my desk, and I’m about to silence the ringer when the name flashes up. My heart stops.
    Toph .

chapter eight
    I hope you’re wearing a beret.” This is how Toph greets me.
    I’m already laughing. He called! Toph called!
    “Not yet.” I pace the short length of my room. “But I could pick one up for you, if you’d like. Get your name stitched onto it.You could wear it instead of your name tag.”
    “I could rock a beret.” There’s a grin in his voice.
    “No one can rock a beret. Not even you.”
    St. Clair is still lying on my bed. He props up his head to watch me. I smile and point to the picture on my laptop. Toph , I mouth.
    St. Clair shakes his head.
    Sideburns .
    Ah , he mouths back.
    “So your sister came in yesterday.” Toph always refers to Bridge as my sister. We’re the same height with the same slender build, and we both have long, stick-straight hair, although hers is blond and mine is brown. And, as people who spend tons of time together are prone to do, we talk the same.Though she uses bigger words. And her arms are sculpted from the drumming. And I have the gap between my teeth, while she had braces. In other words, she’s like me, but prettier and smarter and more talented.
    “I didn’t know she was a drummer,” he says. “She any good?”
    “The best.”
    “Are you saying that because she’s your friend, or because she’s actually decent?”
    “She’s the best,” I repeat. From the corner of my eye, I see St. Clair glance at the clock on my dresser.
    “My drummer abandoned ship. Think she’d be interested?”
    Last summer Toph started a punk band, the Penny Dreadfuls. Many member changes and arguments over lyrical content have transpired, but no actual shows. Which is too bad. I bet Toph looks good behind a guitar.
    “Actually,” I say, “I think she would. Her jerkwad percussion instructor just passed her up as section leader, and she has some rage to funnel.” I give him her number. Toph repeats it back as St. Clair taps an imaginary wristwatch. It’s only nine, so I’m not sure what his rush is. Even I know that’s early for Paris. He clears his throat loudly.
    “Hey, I’m sorry. I need to go,” I say.
    “Is someone there with you?”
    “Uh, yeah. My friend. He’s taking me out tonight.”
    A beat. “He?”
    “He’s just a friend.” I turn my back to St. Clair. “He has a girlfriend.” I squeeze my eyes shut. Should I have said that?
    “So you’re not gonna forget about us? I mean ...” He slows down. “Us here in Atlanta? Ditch us for some Frenchie and never return?”
    My heart thrums. “Of course not. I’ll be back at Christmas.”
    “Good. Okay,Annabel Lee. I should get back to work anyway. Hercules is probably pissed I’m not covering the door. Ciao .”
    “Actually,” I say. “It’s au revoir .”
    “Whatever.” He laughs, and we hang up.
    St. Clair gets up from the bed. “Jealous boyfriend?”
    “I told you. He’s not my boyfriend.”
    “But you like him.”
    I blush. “Well ... yeah.”
    St. Clair’s expression is unreadable. Maybe annoyed. He nods toward my door. “You still want to go out?”
    “What?” I’m