Read Anna and the French Kiss for Free Online Page B

I describe St. Clair, and mention how in physics he leaned over Meredith to borrow a pen from me, right when Professeur Wakefield was assigning lab partners. So the teacher thought he was sitting next to me, and now St. Clair is my lab partner for the WHOLE YEAR.
    Which was the best thing that happened all day.
    I also tell Bridge about the mysterious Life class, La Vie, because she and I spent the entire summer speculating. (Me: “I bet we’ll debate the Big Bang and the Meaning of Life.” Bridge: “Dude, they’ll probably teach you breathing techniques and how to convert food into energy.”) All we did today was sit quietly and work on homework.
    What a pity.
    I spent the period reading the first novel assigned for English. And, wow. If I hadn’t realized I was in France yet, I do now. Because Like Water for Chocolate has sex in it. LOTS of sex. A woman’s desire literally lights a building on fire, and then a soldier throws her naked body onto a horse, and they totally do it while galloping away. There’s no way they would have let me read this back in the Bible Belt. The sexiest we ever got was The Scarlet Letter .
    I must tell Bridge about this book.

    It’s almost midnight when I finish the email, but the hallway is still noisy.The juniors and seniors have a lot of freedom because, supposedly, we’re mature enough to handle it. I am, but I have serious doubts as to my classmates.The guy across the hall already has a pyramid of beer bottles stacked outside his door because, in Paris, sixteen-year-olds are allowed to drink wine and beer. You have to be eighteen to get hard liquor.
    Not that I haven’t seen that around here, too.
    I wonder if my mother had any idea it’d be legal for me to get wasted when she agreed to this. She looked pretty surprised when they mentioned it at the Life Skills Seminars, and I got a long lecture on responsibility that night at dinner. But I don’t plan on getting drunk. I’ve always thought beer smells like urine.
    There are a few part-timers who work the front desk, but only one live-in Résidence Director. His name is Nate, and his apartment is on the first floor. He’s in graduate school at some university around here. SOAP must pay him a lot to live with us.
    Nate is in his twenties, and he’s short and pale and has a shaved head. Which sounds strange but is actually attractive. He’s soft-spoken and seems like the kind of guy who’d be a good listener, but his tone exudes responsibility and a don’t-mess-with-me attitude. My parents loved him. He also has a bowl of condoms next to his door.
    I wonder if my parents saw that.
    The freshmen and sophomores are in another dormitory. They have to share rooms, and their floors are divided by sex, and they have tons of supervision. They also have enforced curfews. We don’t.We just have to sign a log whenever we come and go at night so Nate knows we’re still alive.Yeah. I’m sure no one ever takes advantage of this high security.
    I drag myself down the hall to use the bathroom. I take my place in line—there’s always a line, even at midnight—behind Amanda, the girl who attacked St. Clair at breakfast. She smirks at my faded jeans and my vintage Orange Crush T-shirt.
    I didn’t know she lived on my floor. Super.
    We don’t speak. I trace the floral pattern on the wallpaper with my fingers. Résidence Lambert is a peculiar mix of Parisian refinement and teenage practicality. Crystal light fixtures give the dormitory halls a golden glow, but fluorescent bulbs hum inside our bedrooms. The floors are glossy hardwood but lined with industrial-grade rugs. Fresh flowers and Tiffany lamps grace the lobby, but the chairs are ratty love seats, and the tables are carved with initials and rude words.
    “So you’re the new Brandon ,” Amanda says.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Brandon. Number twenty-five. He was expelled from school last year; one of the teachers found coke in his backpack.” She looks me over again and frowns.