Four

I don’t see Meg or Landon again until Monday at school, which is just as well. Between the report I had to write on Crime and Punishment, working on my writing samples for college applications, and calculus problems out the wazoo, I didn’t have time for much socializing.

It’s fourth period, right before lunch, and I look up from my psychology book to see Meg waving her arms at me like an idiot in the hallway. Before Mr. Henshaw can see her, I spring from my desk and approach his, asking for the hall pass.

“Are you having some kind of fit or something?” I hiss as soon as I’m in the hallway.

Meg’s expression is rapturous. “She answered you, Sam. She answered you.”

I know immediately what she’s talking about and my heart gives a loud ka-thunk in my chest. “Where?” I ask.

“Music room.” Meg does a little ballet twirl, then freezes, eyes wide and full of drama. “Hurry.”

We take off jogging (well, I jog; Meg sort of skips and leaps) toward the music wing of the school, which is way on the other side of the building, past the cafeteria.

Before we get to the double doors that lead into the band room, the sound of a saxophone and a brushed drum surrounds me like a night breeze, chill and bluesy. I stop, letting the sound carry me away, and Meg has to grab my hand and pull me the rest of the way to the doors.

“Look,” she whispers, pointing to the tiny square of glass in one door that is our only view of the jazz ensemble within.

I draw in a deep breath, casting an apprehensive glance to Meg before looking through the smudged pane.

The jazz band sits in a semicircle, save for a drum set and keyboard off to one side. No one’s playing, though, except for the drummer and a saxophone player, whose face is obstructed by a tall music stand.

I scan the rest of the ensemble’s faces as they watch the sax player with slack-jawed awe. There are a few kids I know from my days in the middle school band, back when I used to pretend to play trumpet in the back row. Landon also plays trumpet, and like schoolwork, is decent at it without any practicing. Meg still plays violin in the orchestra, and she’ll slap you if you give her any shit about it. At any rate, I’m no stranger to the way instruments and bands work, which is what makes this sight so weird. I’m pretty sure they’re all supposed to be playing.

“Which . . .” I start to ask Meg, but right then the sax player steps out from behind the music stand and I stop breathing.

He’s gorgeous. Okay, that’s an understatement. The sax player is stunning. He’s tall and slender, with thick, wavy hair the color of the midnight sky that falls nearly to his chin, and large, dark brown eyes that complement features like a strong jaw and patrician nose.

“Meg,” I say, snapping to get her attention. “The list. What was on my list?”

“Um, let’s see . . .” She pauses to think, eyes all squinty, lips pursed. “Thick hair, nice eyes . . .”

“Yes, yes,” I say, motioning to go on as my gaze travels back to the sax player. The rest of the band has started to join in, reluctantly tearing their admiring stares away from him. “Sexy, right? Attractive. Talented. He’s all of those things.”

“And you can bet he’s got the rest, Sam. Taste? Style? Ambition? Just look at him.” Contrary to her words, her hand is on my shoulder, pulling me away from the door. She’s laughing a little, like she can barely contain herself. “Foreign exchange student. He was in Madame Vinson’s class this morning. Sam, he’s from Paris.”

Oh my god. A sexy French exchange student. Who plays jazz. I turn back to look at him more through the window, saying to Meg, “Your goddess doesn’t half-ass anything, does She?”

Meg giggles. “Of course not.”

“What’s his name?”

“Gus,” Meg says, popping up to look through the window with me.

Gus. It’s not quite as romantic as I’d pictured it, but it’s kind of cute.

“I mean, that’s his nickname. His real name is Augustin Chevalier. And Chevalier means—”

“Knight,” I finish for her, a dreamy smile forming on my lips. “My knight in shining armor?”

Meg bumps me with her shoulder, laughing. “Perhaps. We’ll see. Class is ending soon. You can ask him out and decide for yourself.”

“Ask him out?” My voice rises up with alarm, loud enough to be heard over the jazz ensemble playing. For as much work as I’d put into this list, I guess I kind of figured the boy would at least do the asking. Was I going to have to do everything? “But,” I say, starting into what might be a litany of excuses, “do you know for sure I’m . . . you know . . . his type?”

“He’s gay, if that’s what you’re asking. He said so when he introduced himself to the class this morning.” Meg turns away from the window to study me, her lips making a flat line across her face. “Don’t chicken out on me. The Goddess has answered you. You can’t blow Her off.”

“She’s not my goddess,” I argue.

“Oh, now She’s not your goddess, even though just a few minutes ago She had answered your prayers.” Meg sighs and puts a hand on my upper arm, squeezing slightly. “Look, Sam. I know. This is hard, and it’s been since Landon, but . . . it’s also been since Landon, if you catch my drift here. You need to go for it.”

I glance one more time into the band room. Gus’s saxophone emits a plaintive melody, floating around the band’s supporting chord progression. It’s beautiful, and so is he, and Meg’s right. I’m so tired of being lonely and he seems so wonderful. I need to go for this.

Just then the bell rings, and the jazz students start toward the doors. Panicked, I grab Meg by the wrist and drag her, squealing, into the main hallway outside the music wing.

“Where are you going?”

“We can’t be right outside those doors!” I explain, exasperated. “He’ll think we’re stalking him.”

“Relax,” she says, and takes off back toward the band room. “I told him to wait for us. He wants to meet you.”

“Oh my god, Meg. No,” I say, mortified. I can actually feel the blush forming on my skin, but I run to follow her anyway.

As soon as I’m back in the music wing I hear a deep, silky voice say, “Ah, Meg. Eet ees so nice to see you again. But where ees zis boy you ’ave told me about?”

I am totally unprepared as I turn the corner and Gus’s eyes meet mine. I halt so suddenly that my sneakers squeak on the floor and it feels like my thundering heart slams into my rib cage from the inertia. It seems to right itself, only to get stuck in my throat so that I can’t speak and all I can hear is its stuttering beat in my ears.

“Meg!” the silky voice says again, but this time that lovely voice is attached to eyes that are so rich and dark, I have to wonder how they’re real. Then he turns them on Meg. “You ’ave lied to me. Your Sam ees not ’andsome, as you said.” My stupid, spazzoid heart plummets into my stomach at that. Then, with a smirk so sexy it should be outlawed, Gus turns back to me and says, “Il est magnifique!”

“That means—”

“I know what it means,” I cut Meg off and take a step closer to Gus, now wishing that she’d just go away and let me have a moment alone with a sexy Frenchman. A sexy Frenchman who thinks I’m gorgeous. “I’m Sam,” I say, extending my hand.

“Samuel?” Gus asks. The vowels take their time on his tongue, and the el is accented. It’s got a delicious, exotic feel to it, so it’s a shame that’s not really my name. He takes my hand in his, not shaking it but using it to draw me closer.

“Samson, actually.”

“Samson,” Gus repeats, and screw Samuel. Samson sounds much better from that mouth. “I am Augustin René Chevalier. But everyone calls me Gus.”

It sounds a little like goose to be honest, but it’s adorable. I let him fold my hand into his. The jazz band is piling out of the instrument closet, headed to their next classes, and I can see them but I can’t really hear them. It’s like Gus and I have our own little private bubble.

“Welcome to Athens High School,” I say, cheesy as it is. “In the middle of a semester, even. Odd how that happened . . .”

Gus only smiles and starts to walk toward the classrooms. I don’t know where his saxophone is. I don’t know where his book bag is. Maybe sexy French students don’t use books. And he hasn’t dropped my hand so, good heavens, I’m holding hands with a boy in the hallway.

“Oui. I should not ’ave arrived until January, but my school sent me early on uh . . . Meg, what ees zat word?”

“Scholarship,” Meg says from behind us, and I’d completely forgotten that she was there. I turn my head to look at her, and she glances pointedly at my hand joined with Gus’s before wiggling her eyebrows.

“Merci. Scholarship. But perhaps eet was perfect timing, no?” Gus squeezes my hand and my gaze is drawn back to his amazing eyes.

“Oui,” I answer (and how embarrassing, I sound breathless even to myself), and squeeze back. “If you would like someone to show you around Athens—”

“Ah, zat would be très bon! I ’ave not seen any of zis town since I ’ave arrived.” As we near the cafeteria, I can’t help but notice a few students staring, and even more whispering. I fight to keep a triumphant smile from forming on my lips. Yep, that’s me, Sam Raines, holding hands with a gorgeous French guy. Eat your hearts out.

“I, um, I have lunch now,” I stammer out, and Gus pouts.

“I do not eat until after ze next class. May I see you after school, Samson?” His eyes sparkle with the most flattering hopefulness.

I shiver at the sound of my name. “Yes. Please. Can I meet you . . . ?”

“In ze band room. I will ’ave to take my instrument ’ome wiz me.”

I wince. “I walk home. I mean, I don’t have a car.”

“And I cannot drive in zis country, but I walk too. Walk togezer, zen?”

I have to lift my chin a little to see into his eyes, as he’s just enough taller than me to merit it. “Sounds great,” I say, even though I have no clue where he lives and even if we’d be walking in the same direction. Whatever. I’ll walk a hundred miles in the wrong direction if he wants, as long as he keeps looking at me and talking like that.

“I will see you after school, Samson. I will be counting ze minutes.”

“Me too,” I say, and he squeezes my hand again and disappears into a crowd of students all headed toward the science wing.

When I turn around to find Meg, I’m sure I look dumbfounded. I can feel my mouth hanging open in utter shock-induced stupidity. Sort of like how the cheerleaders look when you ask them a question with a big word in it.

My words come out in a rasp. “He just . . .”

“I know.”

“He held my hand.”

“He did.”

“He wants to see me after school.”

“I heard.”

“Meg,” I say, poking her forearm repeatedly, “did that really just happen?”

“I believe that, yes, an incredibly hot foreign exchange student wants you to be his lover, which is, I must say, très romantique. So, uh . . . you can thank me with a dinner at Seven Sauces whenever. Maybe after your wildly successful first date.” Meg’s grinning as she studies a hangnail with too much concentration.

I sigh. Dinner at Seven Sauces, the best restaurant in town, is going to eat a huge hole in my wallet, but hey, the list was Meg’s idea. I suppose she deserves it, but I can’t let her be right that easily. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Maybe he’s got horrible taste in movies or something. He may not be a Perfect Ten.”

Meg narrows her eyes at me. “Please. He’s practically an eleven. Just so you know, I’m going to have the filet mignon and the lobster. And maybe some of that delicious scallop dish. Bring your credit card.”

She leaves me alone to walk back to get my things, and by the time I sit down at the lunch table with her, she has a list of possible desserts she wants as well. As I listen to her ramble on about chocolate torte, my mind wanders back to the feel of Gus’s hand in mine, and the rest of the lunch period passes in a blur of jazz music and blissful daydreams.

As I gather my things from my locker at the end of the day, there’s a riot of butterflies in my stomach that won’t stop fluttering no matter what I do. By the time I’m passing the cafeteria, it’s not just a handful of butterflies but an entire freaking flock, and they’re all flapping their wings in mismatched staccato rhythms.

“Sam.”

Landon’s familiar voice causes the flapping to stutter. I turn to my right, where Landon is standing with a group of guys I recognize from the baseball team. He breaks away from the group and jogs to me.

“Baseball players now?” I ask, brow arching.

“Hey, they’re in the state championship this Saturday. Just wishing them luck.” He smiles lazily, glancing back at them to wave as we walk away. Because he’s sly, I’m sure I’m the only one in the hallway who notices when his eyes drift down to check out the third baseman’s ass. “Where are you off to?”

“Meg didn’t tell you?” I ask, surprised. I was sure Meg would run to tell Landon first thing, followed shortly by the whole school. “I’m walking the new foreign exchange student home.”

“The French guy?” I nod. Landon is sufficiently impressed. “Wow. That was . . . fast. How did you manage to—”

“Are you doubting my skills?” I say, smirking at him, but my stomach does a somersault when I turn and see the band room door up ahead. He’s not the only one doubting.

“Baby, I know your moves. I know your lines. So yeah, you could say I’m doubting a little.” Landon laughs as I plow my shoulder into his arm and send him stumbling. When he rights himself he looks at me with those big eyes of his, and although they’re still alight with humor, they’ve softened considerably. “Is he as gorgeous as everyone says?”

“Sexy. Attractive. Nice eyes. Thick hair. Talented,” I rattle off, counting on my fingers.

“Sounds familiar,” Landon says, then his eyes go wide. “You don’t actually think . . .”

I snort. “Of course not. A mere coincidence, that’s my theory. But still, it’s pretty weird, you have to admit. And he showed up today. Some fluky mix-up about a scholarship. I mean, what are the odds?”

“Yeah,” Landon mumbles, and gets that look on his face that he gets when his brain has moved on to a subject different from what the rest of us are discussing. I’m probably boring the hell out of him.

“Okay, well, I need to go to the band room,” I say when we get to the door. It’s a welcome excuse to part ways since the conversation has obviously run its course.

“Samson. Zere you are. I zought maybe I would ’ave to walk ’ome alone.” Gus walks through the door, slipping his hand easily into mine, as if it belongs there, as if we’ve done this for years—as if he owns me. And he just might. “But you ’ave brought anozer boy?”

“Um,” I stammer. Just then I realize that Gus’s irises are so dark I can barely see the pupils in them. They’re gorgeous, and it’s distracting, to say the least. “Sorry, Gus. This is Landon.”

Gus shrugs the strap of his saxophone case higher on his shoulder (still no books; is he just smart enough to go without?) and extends his free hand to Landon. “I am Augustin René Chevalier. You are Samson’s friend?”

“Yeah,” Landon says, shaking Gus’s proffered hand. His face is pinched into a weird smile, like it’s horribly difficult to conjure something more for the sexiest Frenchman this side of the Atlantic. I shoot him a death glare and the smile becomes wider, if not stretched a little too thin. “You know, I could just give you guys a ride.”

“Eet ees so kind of you to offer, Landon, but I want as much time as I can wiz Samson. You understand, of course?”

I don’t really catch Landon’s answer because all the butterflies in my stomach swoop up to my ears and all I can hear is the thundering beat of my pulse. Gus wants as much time as possible. With me.

He must have said something else because he squeezes my hand gently to get my attention and leans down to my eye level. “Should we go?”

I nod, unable to trust my voice, and give Landon a sheepish wave as I walk hand in hand with Gus out the doors. Once we’re in the fresh air, with the sun shining down as warm as it can in October, my heartbeat returns to steady, and my ears become unclogged. All around us, Athens High School’s student body is talking, getting into secondhand cars, and scattering in every direction. The hubbub seems even more full of excitement than usual, and I grin like an idiot.

“Zis Landon,” Gus begins, once we’re out of earshot of other students. Gus is, luckily, headed west in the direction of my house, not that it matters. He’s the Pied Piper and I’m a rat. “Ees ’e a lover?”

“What? No,” I say quickly. But Gus’s perfect face is wearing an expression that tells me he’s both doubtful of my words and amused by them. “He was,” I amend.

“Ah. And ’e ees not anymore?”

“Not anymore,” I answer, keeping my gaze locked on his to discourage any doubt. “Not for years.”

“And zere ’as been no one else?”

“For me or for him?”

Gus laughs. “For you, Samson. I am curious about you.”

“No. No one else.” I feel my face color, but Gus pulls me closer to him so that our shoulders are touching as we walk. We start up a hill and I silently thank my lucky stars (or the Goddess?) that I’ve been walking these hills since I was five. Wheezing is so unsexy.

“You were in love wiz ’im.”

“I . . .” I want to protest, or change the subject— anything that will steer us away from the topic of Landon and toward more important things. Things like trips abroad or the Eiffel Tower or why, exactly, it’s called French kissing. But Gus is looking at me so sweetly, so intently, like he has a genuine interest in every detail of my life, that I give in. “Yes. You could tell?”

His smile is almost pitying. “Oui. Zere was a certain . . . feeling zere, yes. But eet ees old, just a glimmer.”

“And you? Have you ever been in love?”

The question seems to delight Gus and his steps quicken, though they’re still graceful. It reminds me of Meg. “Of course! To love ees divine, yes? Eet ees essential to ze soul. Wizout love we would not ’ave poetry, or paintings, or songs.”

I have often heard people say they were swooning, but until the moment Gus began to talk of love, I hadn’t really understood the meaning of the word. Suddenly I’m light-headed, almost dizzy, and the edges of everything around us feather and blur. It is as though I’m viewing everything through a translucent film of bliss.

Then, as he talks, the butterflies calm themselves into a soothing stir, and I listen. He tells me about his home, a little village just outside of Paris, about his music, about his family. The cadence of his voice rises and falls like a familiar melody, and pretty soon I’m telling him about myself in the same patterns. I learn that he dreams of working for a politician one day, that he’s no good at sports, that he digs the American indie rock scene, and he passes the time with his friends at home dancing in clubs and lounging in parks. All of this, of course, while cracking a self-deprecating joke every now and then.

I can only smile as I think of all the desserts Meg is going to order at Seven Sauces. She was right. Gus is the Perfect Ten, and she is never going to let me forget it.

We come to a stop in front of a small but beautiful house on a street several blocks away from mine. It’s covered in ivy and has a stone walkway and a few trellises, like a little cottage in an enchanted wood.

“Zis ees ze Ewings’ ’ouse. Zey are my parents ’ere in America.”

I pull my eyes away from the house and look into Gus’s eyes. “Are they nice?”

“Wonderful, Samson. Zey are very kind.” His lips curl into an apologetic smile. “I would invite you in, but I am not sure of zeir rules. Zey will not be ’ome until zis evening.”

Although one part of me wants to say, “Who cares about their rules? Let’s go make out,” another part of me, a bigger part, is swooning again over the fact that this boy has manners and behaves like a gentleman. It makes me wonder if he’ll open doors for me or stand when I leave the dinner table.

“I understand. Can I . . . can I call you?”

Gus looks flattered by my request, which in turn flatters me. He hands me his phone so that I can put my number into it. “Of course! ’Ere. You must take my number. And . . . would it be too forward to ask you to ’ave dinner wiz me zis Friday evening?”

“If it is, that’s okay with me.” I laugh breathlessly. (Geez, Sam.) “I could give you a tour of Athens too. Show you around.”

As we exchange phones, I’m already making a list of places I’ve got to take him—places where we can dance, listen to music, have a good meal, and get to know each other. Places where I can shine and show him I could be his Perfect Ten too.

“I’d be honored to show you around town,” I say, and sure, it sounds like a cheesy line from an old movie, but right now I kind of feel like I’m stuck in one. “I’ll call you tonight and we’ll make plans.”

“I will be waiting by ze phone.” Gus smiles, slow and dangerous, and then he lifts a hand and settles his palm on my cheek. Before I can tell myself to be cool, I’m leaning into his touch like some lovesick teenager. Which isn’t exactly off base.

Then Gus leans down and presses his lips to mine. It’s a short kiss, a chaste kiss, but that hardly matters. I’m Molly Ringwald, my wish has come true, and we’re kissing over a cake on my sixteenth birthday. His lips are soft, gentle, and mine feel tingly against them, as if they’re waking up after being asleep for so long. They’ve missed this. I’ve missed this.

A disloyal little whimper of protest breaks through my lips as he pulls away, and those brown eyes of his are dancing with amusement.

“I zink I am going to love America very much,” Gus says, or rather purrs, to me, and I hum my agreement.

“American hospitality cannot be rivaled,” I say back in what I think is a sexy manner. But it’s hard to grade myself on sexiness fairly when the guy who just kissed me blows the curve out of the water.

Gus’s eyes get even darker then, a look so intense and concentrated on me that it has that chorus of butterflies in a tizzy again. For a second I think he’s going to kiss me again, but favored by a goddess or not, I’m not that lucky. Instead, he leans close to me and whispers in that silky voice of his, “Perhaps you will show me more of zat American ’ospitality Friday, Samson? But for now, I must say au revoir.”

“Bye,” I say to him, and fight my lips from forming a pout as he walks toward his house. I watch until he disappears through the door and then turn in the direction of home.

Late that night, after two hours of calculus and Latin and after an hour on the phone with Gus talking about everything and nothing, I call Meg.

“Did he kiss you?” she says before I can even offer a greeting.

“Yeah,” I reply, feeling myself blush, but to stop her from asking the details, I add, “I’m going to take him to dinner Friday. Maybe to see the jazz trio from the university play. I don’t know, I can’t decide, what do you think?”

In her excitement to offer opinions, she forgets to ask more about my walk home with Gus, which is fine with me for some reason. Usually I tell Meg just about everything, but this I want to keep for myself. Gus is too wonderful, too perfect, and I can’t share him just yet.

I think about calling Landon after I hang up with Meg, but that doesn’t feel right either. I’ve lamented my lack of a boyfriend to him, but somehow discussing the perfection of Augustin René Chevalier seems a little cruel. I know we haven’t been anything but friends for years and he’ll be happy for me, but still, he’s an ex, and this is unexplored territory for us. I’m not looking forward to telling him.

With a sigh, I roll over on top of my psychology book and dial the number of Seven Sauces. I make a reservation for me and Meg for Saturday night, absently running a finger over my lips as I do, as if I can still feel the warmth of Gus’s kiss from hours ago. With a kiss like that, it wouldn’t be surprising. And with a kiss like that, I really owe Meg a chocolate torte at the very least.