French kiss (2 page)

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Davis has lifted Holly Jacobson a few rungs up the social ladder," she added. "But, Lex, it's probably not too smart to be seen with her, don't you think?"

"Excuse
me?" Alexa snapped, anger flushing her peaches-and-cream skin hot as she studied Portia and Maeve across the table. "Last time I checked, Maevie, it was
not
your job to dictate who I do or do not talk to." Alexa was absolutely over that petty high school mentality. Ever since getting accepted early decision to Columbia in December, she'd been living with one pencil-heeled Christian Louboutin boot in college. And, of course, she'd grown accustomed to lounging in Diego's dorm room every afternoon and attending Princeton parties every Saturday night. Not for the first time, the large, brightly lit Oakridge High cafeteria seemed tiny suffocating -- to Alexa.

And suddenly, so did her friends.

"I'm sorry, Lex, but --" Maeve began, looking huffy.

"I so don't need this bullshit right now," Alexa declared, reaching down to scoop up her purple suede Michael Kors satchel. She pushed her chair back.

"Fine," Portia said silkily, snatching up her silver-plated lighter from the table. "Go run off to Mr. Princeton. He's all that matters to you anyway right, Alexandria? You're so high on the fact that you have an older boyfriend that you don't give a damn about

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leaving your best friends in the lurch for our
last
spring break together." Portia slid the cigarette between her lips and lit it, her trembling fingers betraying her fury.

Aha!
Alexa thought, pausing mid-escape. So that explained both Portia's hostility
and
why she'd held off on making vacation plans for so long. She'd been expecting that Alexa would what? Invite the girls along to Paris? Scrap the incredible plans she and Diego had made forever ago so the three of them could fly to Panama City and spend a week dozing on the beach? Last year, South Beach had been a much-needed sun-splashed change of scene from wintry, ordinary Oakridge. But this year Alexa craved a different kind of experience. And she'd already made that crystal-clear to her friends.

"Nobody told you to wait for me," Alexa shot back, meeting Portia's glare. "You knew I was doing Paris with Diego. Besides, don't be so dramatic, Portia -- we can still go away on spring breaks together when we're in college."
But can we?
Alexa wondered.
Will we still be as close by then?

"That's not the point," Maeve jumped in, glancing questioningly at Portia, who gave a quick nod of approval and blew out a curl of smoke. "We're worried about you, Alexa. You get way too into the guys

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you date. It's like... you don't know how to be independent."

"Not independent?" Alexa repeated in horror. She slapped her hand down on the table, her thick ivory bangle knocking against the Formica. "God. How could you say that? Have you even
been
friends with me for these past four years?"

"I don't know," Portia replied softly, removing the cigarette from her mouth and examining the bright orange tip. She flicked her eyes back to Alexa. "Have we? Are we
still your
friends?"

"Yeah," Maeve echoed. "Are we?"

Alexa shook her head, unsure how to respond. She hated feeling misunderstood like this. True friends were supposed to
know
her to get her. Right? Alexa St. Laurent considered herself the crown
princess
of independence, and she was appalled that anyone -- let alone Portia and Maeve -- would think otherwise.

But she remembered this tricky issue cropping up with the girls before -- their constant complaining that Alexa put her boyfriends over her friend-friends. Since hooking up with Diego, Alexa
had
made an effort to blend her two worlds better organizing movie nights, throwing an everyone's-invited New Year's bash at her house -- but neither Diego nor her girlfriends seemed to take to one another very eagerly.
Maybe,
Alexa

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realized, as she gazed at Portia and Maeve's scornful faces,
I
end up spending more time with my boyfriend because I don't want to spend time with ... them.

Alexa was debating whether or not to say these words when the assistant principal, as expected, came barreling toward their table. Uptight Mrs. Jacobson often patrolled the cafeteria at lunchtime, hoping to catch someone doing something illegal.

"Portia Florentino-Cohen," she snapped, gray-green eyes flashing behind her square, red-framed glasses, "extinguish that cigarette right now." Alexa could already hear the kids at the next table -- J.D., Tracey, Tabitha, and other popular seniors whom she considered casual friends -- laughing over this predictable showdown.

"In a minute, Mrs. J," Portia replied, tapping ash into her empty Diet Pepsi can. "I'm finishing up a discussion with your daughter's very
dearest
friend."

Alexa shot what she hoped was a winning smile at the glowering Mrs. Jacobson -- whom Alexa still thought of as "Holly's mom." Poor Holly had the massive misfortune of having an assistant principal for a mother, which, Alexa knew, made her life unfun both in and out of school. At that moment, Alexa could see Holly cringing in embarrassment as she watched her mom from across the cafeteria.

Mrs. Jacobson rolled up the sleeves of her crisp

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striped blouse as if she was considering decking Portia. "Let me say, Portia, that I know you are on the wait list for Colgate. One
discussion
with their dean could get you rejected so fast your head would spin."

Nice comeback,
Alexa thought, secretly impressed by Mrs. Jacobson's ballsiness. She knew that comment would rattle Portia; despite her parents' generous donations, Portia's college future looked iffy. Even Maeve was more confident about getting accepted to Emory come April. Had Alexa not been so furious, she might have reached across the table to take Portia's hand for comfort.

But Portia only rolled her eyes and stubbed out the cigarette on the side of her can. "Good to know," she said. "I'll just take my activities outside." She stood, gathering her fur-trimmed vest in her arms.

When Mrs. Jacobson finally turned and stalked away, Alexa felt the tension drift back over the table like a cloud of smoke. She realized that, what with all the cigarette commotion, she hadn't answered the girls' question about whether or not they were still her friends.

"Do either of you plan on joining me?" Portia was asking, picking up her clutch.

Deliberately, Alexa lifted her eyes to meet Portia's. "No," she replied, after a long moment of silence. "Not at all."
And that,
she thought,
is my real answer.
Knowing that Portia understood what she'd meant, Alexa

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swallowed, fighting back the sudden, hot sting of tears. She couldn't stand crying in public.

Portia gave a short nod and swung around to face Maeve. "Are
you
coming, Maevie?" she demanded.

Maeve glanced from Portia to Alexa, blinking. Alexa unbuckled her satchel and busily dug around for her tube of Laura Mercier lip gloss to indicate she didn't care whom Maeve chose either way. When she glanced up again, Maeve was standing and wearing her woolen pea coat, and she and Portia were moving away from the table.

"See you, Alexa?" Maeve called tremulously over her shoulder.

"If she ever decides we're worthy," Portia said, tugging on Maeve's arm and shooting daggers back at Alexa. "Let's
go."

Alexa watched the two of them trot out the back doors into the school yard and sighed. Portia and Maeve were doing their typical exaggeration thing; Alexa knew she
would
see them again even hang out with them once she was back from Paris. But she also knew that their relationship wouldn't be the same; something irreversible had shifted at that lunch table. Alexa would never feel as tight with the girls as she once had.

Relief sliced through her sadness. In some ways, their fight had been coming for so long that it felt

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almost liberating to have it out of the way. The only thing Alexa was upset about now was that Portia and Maeve beat
her
to making a grand exit.

But, really, who cares?
she realized. What was some stupid schoolgirl bitch session compared to beautiful, sweeping, unforgettable Paris? As she rose to her feet, cleared off the table, and sauntered toward the trash can, Alexa could feel her old optimism bubbling up inside her. Tomorrow, she wouldn't even
be
at school. And tomorrow night, she and Diego would be cuddled close in their Air France seats, sharing mini bottles of champagne and whispering secrets as the sleek airplane zoomed them far, far away from Oakridge.

Heading for the front cafeteria doors, Alexa remembered Holly's words from before and suddenly felt just that:
giddy.
She pictured Diego on the plane, his black eyes sparkling, a slow smile spreading across his face as he moved the armrest up to draw Alexa into his lap. She and Diego hadn't flown together before, but Alexa could imagine him doing something sexy but chivalrous like that. And maybe, when the lights were dimmed and everyone else was asleep, the two of them could indulge in a little beneath-the-airline-blanket action.

Ooh la la indeed.

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chapter two

Practice Makes Perfect

"I'm going to miss my flight!" Holly Jacobson cried, dashing outside with her duffel bag, her honey-brown hair snapping behind her in the brisk nighttime wind. She raced toward the driveway, ignoring the last-minute warnings --"Don't forget to call us from the gate!" "Set your clock five hours ahead!" "Don't speak to strange British men!"-- her parents were yelling from the doorstep.

"We've got plenty of time," her boyfriend, Tyler Davis, said, flashing his trademark relaxed grin as he gallantly lifted Holly's bag and set it in the trunk of his green Audi TT. Holly planted a grateful kiss on his warm, smooth cheek and squeezed his arm.

"But the plane leaves at midnight," she explained, pushing up the sleeve of her fleece and pressing the

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glow function on her digital wristwatch. It was nine fifteen. "You need to get there at least two hours ahead for international departures," she added, quoting her track team coach, Ms. Graham. Holly felt a prickle of anxiety; she'd never flown overseas before. And as pumped as she was to be traveling to England with her friends, part of her was insanely nervous about being so far from home for a full week.

Not to mention saying good-bye to Tyler.

"We're awesome," Tyler said, opening the passenger side door for Holly. "I can totally make it to Newark by ten if there's no traffic and --" His amber-brown eyes sparkling with mischief, he dropped his voice to a whisper and checked the house to make sure Holly's parents couldn't hear. "I speed."

Holly grinned, sliding into the car. "Tyler Davis, you will never in a million years break the New Jersey speed limit."

And that, Holly thought, waving at her parents as she and Tyler backed out of the Jacobsons' driveway, was
why
her super-strict mom and dad adored Tyler so much -- and had even allowed him to drive her to the airport. Tyler was polite in a 1950s-ish way bringing flowers whenever the Jacobsons had him to dinner, making sure Holly was safety inside every time he dropped her off after track practice, even (to Holly's squirming embarrassment) calling her

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dad "sir" whenever the mood struck him. Holly knew she was beyond lucky to have such a sweet boyfriend, but sometimes Tyler and his "golly gee gosh!" vibe made her want to roll her eyes.

As they turned onto Beech Street and cruised toward the intersection, Holly let out a big breath. That afternoon, as soon as she and her mother had come home from school, Holly had been caught up in a packing-and-advice frenzy; it was a huge relief to leave her parents behind. Tyler pulled to a stop in front of the red light, and Holly turned to look at him, her heart swelling. His chiseled profile and wavy, dark blond hair were illuminated by the moonlight spilling in through the window. Really, was it any wonder the boy had almost appeared in an American Eagle ad?

Sometimes, when she and Tyler were curled up in his bedroom watching TV or running side by side in the park near Holly's house or even sitting next to each other in calculus class, Holly would glance his way and catch herself thinking:
Tyler Davis. Captain of the lacrosse team. Oakridge High hottie. My boyfriend.

Even after a full year together, she still found this fact nearly impossible to believe.

Holly had never been in a relationship before -- actually, before Tyler, she'd barely known how to
talk
to boys. But, despite these moments of incredulous wonder, Holly had discovered she was pretty good at