Stephanie Perkins - Anna and the French Kiss  

Table of Contents

Dutton Books

A member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Published by the Penguin Group | Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. | Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) | Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England | Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephens Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) | Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) | Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi110 017, India | Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) | Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa | Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright (c) 2010 by Stephanie Perkins

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Published in the United States by Dutton Books,
a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
www.penguin.com/youngreaders

eISBN : 978-1-101-44549-5

http://us.penguingroup.com

For Jarrod, best friend & true love

chapter one

Here is everything I know about France: Madeline and Amelie and Moulin Rouge . The Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe, although I have no idea what the function of either actually is. Napoleon, Marie Antoinette, and a lot of kings named Louis. Im not sure what they did either, but I think it has something to do with the French Revolution, which has something to do with Bastille Day. The art museum is called the Louvre and its shaped like a pyramid and the Mona Lisa lives there along with that statue of the woman missing her arms. And there are cafes or bistros or whatever they call them on every street corner. And mimes. The food is supposed to be good, and the people drink a lot of wine and smoke a lot of cigarettes.

Ive heard they dont like Americans, and they dont like white sneakers.

A few months ago, my father enrolled me in boarding school. His air quotes practically crackled over the phone line as he declared living abroad to be a good learning experience and a keepsake Id treasure forever. Yeah. Keepsake. And I wouldve pointed out his misuse of the word had I not already been freaking out.

Since his announcement, Ive tried yelling, begging, pleading, and crying, but nothing has convinced him otherwise. And now I have a new student visa and a passport, each declaring me: Anna Oliphant, citizen of the United States of America. And now Im here with my parentsunpacking my belongings in a room smaller than my suitcasethe newest senior at the School of America in Paris.

Its not that Im ungrateful. I mean, its Paris . The City of Light! The most romantic city in the world! Im not immune to that. Its just this whole international boarding school thing is a lot more about my father than it is about me. Ever since he sold out and started writing lame books that were turned into even lamer movies, hes been trying to impress his big-shot New York friends with how cultured and rich he is.

My father isnt cultured. But he is rich.

It wasnt always like this.When my parents were still married, we were strictly lower middle class. It was around the time of the divorce that all traces of decency vanished, and his dream of being the next great Southern writer was replaced by his desire to be the next published writer. So he started writing these novels set in Small Town Georgia about folks with Good American Values who Fall in Love and then contract Life-Threatening Diseases and Die.

Im serious.

And it totally depresses me, but the ladies eat it up.They love my fathers books and they love his cable-knit sweaters and they love his bleachy smile and orangey tan. And they have turned him into a bestseller and a total dick.

Two of his books have been made into movies and three more are in production, which is where his real money comes from. Hollywood. And, somehow, this extra cash and pseudo-prestige have warped his brain into thinking that I should live in France. For a year. Alone. I dont understand why he couldnt send me to Australia or Ireland or anywhere else where English is the native language. The only French word I know is oui , which means yes, and only recently did I learn its spelled o-u-i and not w-e-e.

At least the people in my new school speak English. It was founded for pretentious Americans who dont like the company of their own children. I mean, really. Who sends their kid to boarding school? Its so Hogwarts. Only mine doesnt have cute boy wizards or magic candy or flying lessons.

Instead, Im stuck with ninety-nine other students. There are twenty-five people in my entire senior class, as opposed to the six hundred I had back in Atlanta. And Im studying the same things I studied at Clairemont High except now Im registered in beginning French.

Oh, yeah. Beginning French. No doubt with the freshmen. I totally rock.

Mom says I need to lose the bitter factor, pronto, but shes not the one leaving behind her fabulous best friend, Bridgette. Or her fabulous job at the Royal Midtown 14 multiplex. Or Toph, the fabulous boy at the Royal Midtown 14 multiplex.

And I still cant believe shes separating me from my brother, Sean, who is only seven and way too young to be left home alone after school. Without me, hell probably be kidnapped by that creepy guy down the road who has dirty Coca-Cola towels hanging in his windows. Or Seany will accidentally eat something containing Red Dye # 40 and his throat will swell up and no one will be there to drive him to the hospital. He might even die. And I bet they wouldnt let me fly home for his funeral and Id have to visit the cemetery alone next year and Dad will have picked out some god-awful granite cherub to go over his grave.

And I hope Dad doesnt expect me to fill out college applications to Russia or Romania now. My dream is to study film theory in California. I want to be our nations greatest female film critic. Someday Ill be invited to every festival, and Ill have a major newspaper column and a cool television show and a ridiculously popular website. So far I only have the website, and its not so popular.Yet.

I just need a little more time to work on it, thats all.

Anna, its time.

What? I glance up from folding my shirts into perfect squares.

Mom stares at me and twiddles the turtle charm on her necklace. My father, bedecked in a peach polo shirt and white boating shoes, is gazing out my dormitory window. Its late, but across the street a woman belts out something operatic.