“I know sneakers aren't very French-I should be wearing pointy boots or scary heels-but at least they aren't white. It's true what they say about white sneakers. Only American tourists wear them,big ugly things made for mowing grass or painting houses.”

“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. I'm 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 it's shaped like a pyramid and the Mona Lisa lives there along with that statue of the women missing her arms. And there are cafes and 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.I've heard they don't like Americans, and they don't like white sneakers.”

“I know you aren't perfect. But it's a person's imperfections that make them perfect for someone else.”

“What's that?""My friend St. Clair bought it for me. So I wouldn't feel out of place."She raises her eyebrows as she pulls back onto the road. "Are there a lot of Canadians in Paris?"My face warms. "I just felt,you know, stupid for a while. Like one of those lame American tourists with the white sneakers and the cameras around their necks? So he bought it for me, so I wouldn't feel....embarrassed. American.""Being American is nothing to be ashamed of," she snaps."God,Mom,I know.I just meant-forget it.""Is this the English boy with the French father?""What does that have anything to do with it?" I'm angry. I don't like what she's implying. "Besides,he's American. He was born here? His mom lives in San Francisco. We sat next to each other on the plane."We stop at a red light.Mom stares at me. "You like him.""OH GOD,MOM.""You do.You like this boy.""He's just a friend.He has a girlfriend.""Anna has a boooy-friend," Seany chants."I do not!""ANNA HAS A BOOOY-FRIEND!"I take a sip of coffee and choke. It's disgusting. It's sludge. No, it's worse than sludge-at least sludge is organic. Seany is still taunting me. Mom reaches around and grabs his legs,which are kicking her seat again.She sees me making a face at my drink."My,my. Once semester in France, and suddenly we're Miss Sophisticated. Your father will be thrilled."Like it was my choice! Like I asked to go to Paris! And how dare she mention Dad."ANNNN-A HAS A BOOOY-FRIEND!"We merge back onto the interstate. It's rush hour,and the Atlanta traffic has stopped moving. The car behind ours shakes us with its thumping bass. The car in front sprays a cloud of exhaust straight into our vents.Two weeks.Only two more weeks.s”

“I told him your loins were clearly burning, and he should man up and make a move.""You did not!""I did. And if he doesn't, then I suggest you jump his bones."...I finally register what he's wearing. It's a handsome skinny black suit with a shiny sheen. The pants are too short - on purpose, of course - exposing his usual pointy shoes and a pair of blue socks that match my dress exactly.And I totally want to jump him.”

“I don't know.  I don't really like old movies.  The acting is so, 'Hey buddy, ol' pal.  Let's go wear our hats and have a big misunderstanding”

“Madame Guillotine gets mad at me. Not because I told them to shove it, but because I didn’t say it in French. What is wrong with this school?”