Anna and the French Kiss (Anglais) Broché – 4 août 2011
Rentrée scolaire 2017 : découvrez notre boutique de livres, fournitures, cartables, ordinateurs, vêtements ... Voir plus.
|Neuf à partir de||Occasion à partir de|
- Choisissez parmi 17 000 points de collecte en France
- Les membres du programme Amazon Prime bénéficient de livraison gratuites illimitées
- Trouvez votre point de collecte et ajoutez-le à votre carnet d’adresses
- Sélectionnez cette adresse lors de votre commande
Produits fréquemment achetés ensemble
Les clients ayant acheté cet article ont également acheté
Description du produit
Table of Contents
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 Stephen’s 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 Delhi—110 017, 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 author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
CIP Data is available.
Published in the United States by Dutton Books,
a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
For Jarrod, best friend & true love
Here is everything I know about France: Madeline and Amélie 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 woman missing her arms. And there are cafés 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.
I’ve heard they don’t like Americans, and they don’t 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 I’d treasure forever.” Yeah. Keepsake. And I would’ve pointed out his misuse of the word had I not already been freaking out.
Since his announcement, I’ve 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 I’m here with my parents—unpacking my belongings in a room smaller than my suitcase—the newest senior at the School of America in Paris.
It’s not that I’m ungrateful. I mean, it’s Paris. The City of Light! The most romantic city in the world! I’m not immune to that. It’s 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, he’s been trying to impress his big-shot New York friends with how cultured and rich he is.
My father isn’t cultured. But he is rich.
It wasn’t 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.
And it totally depresses me, but the ladies eat it up.They love my father’s 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 don’t understand why he couldn’t 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 it’s 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 don’t like the company of their own children. I mean, really. Who sends their kid to boarding school? It’s so Hogwarts. Only mine doesn’t have cute boy wizards or magic candy or flying lessons.
Instead, I’m 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 I’m studying the same things I studied at Clairemont High except now I’m 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 she’s 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 can’t believe she’s separating me from my brother, Sean, who is only seven and way too young to be left home alone after school. Without me, he’ll 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 wouldn’t let me fly home for his funeral and I’d 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 doesn’t 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 nation’s greatest female film critic. Someday I’ll be invited to every festival, and I’ll have a major newspaper column and a cool television show and a ridiculously popular website. So far I only have the website, and it’s not so popular.Yet.
I just need a little more time to work on it, that’s all.
“Anna, it’s 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. It’s late, but across the street a woman belts out something operatic.
My parents need to return to their hotel rooms. They both have early morning flights.
“Oh.” I grip the shirt in my hands a little tighter.
Dad steps away from the window, and I’m alarmed to discover his eyes are wet. Something about the idea of my father—even if it is my father—on the brink of tears raises a lump in my throat.
“Well, kiddo. Guess you’re all grown up now.”
My body is frozen. He pulls my stiff limbs into a bear hug. His grip is frightening. “Take care of yourself. Study hard and make some friends. And watch out for pickpockets,” he adds. “Sometimes they work in pairs.”
I nod into his shoulder, and he releases me. And then he’s gone.
My mother lingers behind. “You’ll have a wonderful year here,” she says. “I just know it.” I bite my lip to keep it from quivering, and she sweeps me into her arms. I try to breathe. Inhale. Count to three. Exhale. Her skin smells like grapefruit body lotion. “I’ll call you the moment I get home,” she says.
Home. Atlanta isn’t my home anymore.
“I love you, Anna.”
I’m crying now. “I love you, too. Take care of Seany for me.”
“And Captain Jack,” I say. “Make sure Sean feeds him and changes his bedding and fills his water bottle. And make sure he doesn’t give him too many treats because they make him fat and then he can’t get out of his igloo. But make sure he gives him at least a few every day, because he still needs the vitamin C and he won’t drink the water when I use those vitamin drops—”
She pulls back and tucks my bleached stripe behind my ear. “I love you,” she says again.
And then my mother does something that, even after all of the paperwork and plane tickets and presentations, I don’t see coming. Something that would’ve happened in a year anyway, once I left for college, but that no matter how many days or months or years I’ve yearned for it, I am still not prepared for when it actually happens.
My mother leaves. I am alone.
I feel it coming, but I can’t stop it.
They left me. My parents actually left me! IN FRANCE!
Meanwhile, Paris is oddly silent. Even the opera singer has packed it in for the night. I cannot lose it. The walls here are thinner than Band-Aids, so if I break down, my neighbors—my new classmates—will hear everything. I’m going to be sick. I’m going to vomit that weird eggplant tapenade I had for dinner, and everyone will hear, and no one will invite me to watch the mimes escape from their invisible boxes, or whatever it is people do here in their spare time.
I race to my pedestal sink to splash water on my face, but it explodes out and sprays my shirt instead. And now I’m crying harder, because I haven’t unpacked my towels, and wet clothing reminds me of those stupid water rides Bridgette and Matt used to drag me on at Six Flags where the water is the wrong color and it smells like paint and it has a billion trillion bacterial microbes in it. Oh God.What if there are bacterial microbes in the water? Is French water even safe to drink?
Pathetic. I’m pathetic.
How many seventeen-year-olds would kill to leave home? My neighbors aren’t experiencing any meltdowns. No crying coming from behind their bedroom walls. I grab a shirt off the bed to blot myself dry, when the solution strikes. My pillow. I collapse face-first into the sound barrier and sob and sob and sob.
Someone is knocking on my door.
No. Surely that’s not my door.
There it is again!
“Hello?” a girl calls from the hallway. “Hello? Are you okay?”
No, I’m not okay. GO AWAY. But she calls again, and I’m obligated to crawl off my bed and answer the door. A blonde with long, tight curls waits on the other side. She’s tall and big, but not overweight-big.Volleyball player big. A diamondlike nose ring sparkles in the hall light. “Are you all right?” Her voice is gentle. “I’m Meredith; I live next door. Were those your parents who just left?”
My puffy eyes signal the affirmative.
“I cried the first night, too.” She tilts her head, thinks for a moment, and then nods. “Come on. Chocolat chaud.”
“A chocolate show?” Why would I want to see a chocolate show? My mother has abandoned me and I’m terrified to leave my room and—
“No.” She smiles. “Chaud. Hot. Hot chocolate, I can make some in my room.”
Despite myself, I follow. Meredith stops me with her hand like a crossing guard. She’s wearing rings on all five fingers. “Don’t forget your key. The doors automatically lock behind you.”
“I know.” And I tug the necklace out from underneath my shirt to prove it. I slipped my key onto it during this weekend’s required Life Skills Seminars for new students, when they told us how easy it is to get locked out.
We enter her room. I gasp. It’s the same impossible size as mine, seven by ten feet, with the same mini-desk, mini-dresser, mini-bed, mini-fridge, mini-sink, and mini-shower. (No mini-toilet, those are shared down the hall.) But . . . unlike my own sterile cage, every inch of wall and ceiling is covered with posters and pictures and shiny wrapping paper and brightly colored flyers written in French.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
Meredith hands me a tissue and I blow my nose, a terrible honk like an angry goose, but she doesn’t flinch or make a face. “I arrived yesterday. This is my fourth year here, so I didn’t have to go to the seminars. I flew in alone, so I’ve just been hanging out, waiting for my friends to show up.” She looks around with her hands on her hips, admiring her handiwork. I spot a pile of magazines, scissors, and tape on her floor and realize it’s a work in progress. “Not bad, eh? White walls don’t do it for me.”
I circle her room, examining everything. I quickly discover that most of the faces are the same five people: John, Paul, George, Ringo, and some soccer guy I don’t recognize.
“The Beatles are all I listen to. My friends tease me, but—”
“Who’s this?” I point to Soccer Guy. He’s wearing red and white, and he’s all dark eyebrows and dark hair. Quite good-looking, actually.
“Cesc Fàbregas. God, he’s the most incredible passer. Plays for Arsenal. The English football club? No?”
I shake my head. I don’t keep up with sports, but maybe I should. “Nice legs, though.”
“I know, right? You could hammer nails with those thighs.”
While Meredith brews chocolat chaud on her hot plate, I learn she’s also a senior, and that she only plays soccer during the summer because our school doesn’t have a program, but that she used to rank All-State in Massachusetts. That’s where she’s from, Boston. And she reminds me I should call it “football” here, which—when I think about it—really does make more sense. And she doesn’t seem to mind when I badger her with questions or paw through her things.
Her room is amazing. In addition to the paraphernalia taped to her walls, she has a dozen china teacups filled with plastic glitter rings, and silver rings with amber stones, and glass rings with pressed flowers. It already looks as if she’s lived here for years.
I try on a ring with a rubber dinosaur attached. The T-rex flashes red and yellow and blue lights when I squeeze him. “I wish I could have a room like this.” I love it, but I’m too much of a neat freak to have something like it for myself. I need clean walls and a clean desktop and everything put away in its right place at all times.
Meredith looks pleased with the compliment.
“Are these your friends?” I place the dinosaur back into its teacup and point to a picture tucked in her mirror. It’s gray and shadowy and printed on thick, glossy paper. Clearly the product of a school photography class. Four people stand before a giant hollow cube, and the abundance of stylish black clothing and deliberately mussed hair reveals Meredith belongs to the resident art clique. For some reason, I’m surprised. I know her room is artsy, and she has all of those rings on her fingers and in her nose, but the rest is clean-cut—lilac sweater, pressed jeans, soft voice. Then there’s the soccer thing, but she’s not a tomboy either.
She breaks into a wide smile, and her nose ring winks. “Yeah. Ellie took that at La Défense. That’s Josh and St. Clair and me and Rashmi. You’ll meet them tomorrow at breakfast. Well, everyone but Ellie. She graduated last year.”
The pit of my stomach begins to unclench. Was that an invitation to sit with her?
“But I’m sure you’ll meet her soon enough, because she’s dating St. Clair. She’s at Parsons Paris now for photography.”
I’ve never heard of it, but I nod as if I’ve considered going there myself someday.
“She’s really talented.” The edge in her voice suggests otherwise, but I don’t push it. “Josh and Rashmi are dating, too,” she adds.
Ah. Meredith must be single.
Unfortunately, I can relate. Back home I’d dated my friend Matt for five months. He was tall-ish and funny-ish and had decent-ish hair. It was one of those “since no one better is around, do you wanna make out?” situations. All we’d ever done was kiss, and it wasn’t even that great.Too much spit. I always had to wipe off my chin.
We broke up when I learned about France, but it wasn’t a big deal. I didn’t cry or send him weepy emails or key his mom’s station wagon. Now he’s going out with Cherrie Milliken, who is in chorus and has shiny shampoo-commercial hair. It doesn’t even bother me.
Besides, the breakup freed me to lust after Toph, multiplex coworker babe extraordinaire. Not that I didn’t lust after him when I was with Matt, but still. It did make me feel guilty. And things were starting to happen with Toph—they really were—when summer ended. But Matt’s the only guy I’ve ever gone out with, and he barely counts. I once told him I’d dated this guy named Stuart Thistleback at summer camp. Stuart Thistleback had auburn hair and played the stand-up bass, and we were totally in love, but he lived in Chattanooga and we didn’t have our driver’s licenses yet.
Matt knew I made it up, but he was too nice to say so.
I’m about to ask Meredith what classes she’s taking, when her phone chirps the first few bars of “Strawberry Fields Forever.” She rolls her eyes and answers. “Mom, it’s midnight here. Six-hour time difference, remember?”
I glance at her alarm clock, shaped like a yellow submarine, and I’m surprised to find she’s right. I set my long-empty mug of chocolat chaud on her dresser. “I should get going,” I whisper. “Sorry I stayed so long.”
“Hold on a sec.” Meredith covers the mouthpiece. “It was nice meeting you. See you at breakfast?”
“Yeah. See ya.” I try to say this casually, but I’m so thrilled that I skip from her room and promptly slam into a wall.
Whoops. Not a wall. A boy.
“Oof.” He staggers backward.
“Sorry! I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were there.”
He shakes his head, a little dazed.The first thing I notice is his hair—it’s the first thing I notice about everyone. It’s dark brown and messy and somehow both long and short at the same time. I think of the Beatles, since I’ve just seen them in Meredith’s room. It’s artist hair. Musician hair. I-pretend-I-don’t-care-but-I-really-do hair.
“It’s okay, I didn’t see you either. Are you all right, then?”
Oh my. He’s English.
“Er. Does Mer live here?”
Seriously, I don’t know any American girl who can resist an English accent.
The boy clears his throat. “Meredith Chevalier? Tall girl? Big, curly hair?” Then he looks at me like I’m crazy or half deaf, like my Nanna Oliphant. Nanna just smiles and shakes her head whenever I ask, “What kind of salad dressing would you like?” or “Where did you put Granddad’s false teeth?”
“I’m sorry.” He takes the smallest step away from me. “You were going to bed.”
“Yes! Meredith lives there. I’ve just spent two hours with her.” I announce this proudly like my brother, Seany, whenever he finds something disgusting in the yard. “I’m Anna! I’m new here!” Oh God. What. Is with.The scary enthusiasm? My cheeks catch fire, and it’s all so humiliating.
The beautiful boy gives an amused grin. His teeth are lovely—straight on top and crooked on the bottom, with a touch of overbite. I’m a sucker for smiles like this, due to my own lack of orthodontia. I have a gap between my front teeth the size of a raisin.
“Étienne,” he says. “I live one floor up.”
“I live here.” I point dumbly at my room while my mind whirs: French name, English accent, American school. Anna confused.
He raps twice on Meredith’s door. “Well. I’ll see you around then, Anna.”
Eh-t-yen says my name like this: Ah-na.
My heart thump thump thumps in my chest.
Meredith opens her door. “St. Clair!” she shrieks. She’s still on the phone. They laugh and hug and talk over each other. “Come in! How was your flight? When’d you get here? Have you seen Josh? Mom, I’ve gotta go.”
Meredith’s phone and door snap shut simultaneously.
I fumble with the key on my necklace. Two girls in matching pink bathrobes strut behind me, giggling and gossiping. A crowd of guys across the hall snicker and catcall. Meredith and her friend laugh through the thin walls. My heart sinks, and my stomach tightens back up.
I’m still the new girl. I’m still alone.
The next morning, I consider stopping by Meredith’s, but I chicken out and walk to breakfast by myself. At least I know where the cafeteria is (Day Two: Life Skills Seminars). I double-check for my meal card and pop open my Hello Kitty umbrella. It’s drizzling. The weather doesn’t give a crap that it’s my first day of school.
Revue de presse
This book is filled with sarcasm, razor-sharp humour, drama, and much more. -- Buzzfeed
Edgy, fast-paced and sweet. -- I Heart Chick Lit
Set in Paris and includes a hottie French guy: what's not to love?! -- Seventeen
Anna and the French Kiss made me cry, it tugged at my heart (and wrenched it out!), laugh and want to visit Paris. --Nicola Golding, Waterstones Children's Bookseller
Magical...really captures the feeling of being in love. -- Cassandra Clare, author of The Mortal Instruments series
A delightful love story with real friendships, and the writing is great. - Rainbow Rowell, author of Elearnor & Park and Fangirl
I fell in love with it from the very first chapter. -- Growing Wings
Anna and the French Kiss is all those things that girls long for... a fun, refreshing and life-affirming story which convinces us that love really does make the world go round. --Lancashire Evening Post
Very sly. Very funny. Very romantic. You should date this book. -- Maureen Johnson
When Anna And The French Kiss ended, I didn't know what to do. I certainly can't wait to read more of Stephanie s books. -- Emma Louise
Anna and the French Kiss was one of the best YA books that I have read ever. I absolutely bloody loved it. -- Lisa Talks About...
It's the perfect Young Adult book in my eyes. It s highly addictive, with unbelievably good characters, a beautiful setting and a story which I could happily read over and over again. --Emma Lou Book Blog --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Broché .
Aucun appareil Kindle n'est requis. Téléchargez l'une des applis Kindle gratuites et commencez à lire les livres Kindle sur votre smartphone, tablette ou ordinateur.
Pour obtenir l'appli gratuite, saisissez votre numéro de téléphone mobile.
Détails sur le produit
Si vous vendez ce produit, souhaitez-vous suggérer des mises à jour par l'intermédiaire du support vendeur ?
Quels sont les autres articles que les clients achètent après avoir regardé cet article?
Commentaires en ligne
Meilleurs commentaires des clients
Anna and the French kiss, c'est le genre de romance, qu'on apprécie tout simplement. L'histoire est légère, pétillante, bref, une lecture sans prise de tête qu'on lit avec plaisir.
Bien sur, ce n'est pas une histoire hyper originale. La jeune américaine qui débarque dans une école en France et rencontre le garçon qui fait craquer toutes les filles. Mais malgré tout, cette belle petite histoire ne m'a pas paru tro commune. Au contraire. J'ai trouvé qu'elle arrivait à se démarquer des autres.
On s'attache assez facilement à Anna et Etienne (St. Clair, en fonction de leur relation) et on leur relation évoluer au fil des pages. Doucement mais surement. Et puis il faut dire que notre personnage principal, Etienne n'est pas un coeur à prendre ce qui va considérablement compliquer les choses.
Je me suis donc laissée porter par leur histoire, toute mignonne et je suis curieuse de découvrir les autres tomes, surtout celui d'Isla qui m'a vraiment interpellé. Je m'attendais à une histoire un peu plus... profonde, vu tous les coups de coeur, mais je ne suis pas déçue de ma lecture & je la conseille bien évidement.
J'ai adoré l'héroine Lola qui est un peu loufoque, elle a une vraie personnalité et ne se fond pas dans le moule, c'est très rafraichissant! Elle a beau s'interroger sur ses sentiments, sur son identité, elle a un cœur en or et ne m'a pas ennuyée. En ce qui concerne la romance, j'admets qu'elle ne casse pas trois pattes à un canard et comme d'habitude tout se joue à la fin mais j'ai trouvé le personnage de Cricket tellement choupi que j'ai vraiment fait abstraction du schéma classique (j'ai un petit copain que j'aime et je t'aime toi aussi mais comme la polygamie est interdite il faut que je me décide et le monde est trop cruel) d'autant que j'ai bien aimé le fait de tomber amoureux de son voisin de fenêtre, la midinette qui sommeille en moi a trouvé ça hyper romantique.Lire la suite ›
L'histoire est assez banale, je ne savais pas trop à quoi m'attendre du coup dans ce roman qui puisse le faire autant sortir de l'ordinaire. Car je n'avais lu que des avis très enjoués à son propos, alors qu'à première vue il semble des plus ordinaire. Mais je me suis très vite attachée à Anna qui ne comprend pas trop la situation dans laquelle elle se retrouve (et surtout comment elle a pu en arriver là'!), et j'ai développé assez rapidement de l'empathie pour ce personnage.
Anna est assez douce et a un grand cœur, elle pense avant tout à ses amis avant de penser à elle. Très incertaine de la situation dans laquelle elle se retrouve, elle a peur de se retrouver seule et angoisse sur cette probable solitude. On a très vite envie de la rassurer. Et puis petit à petit on la voit prendre son envol, et on se régale de ses explorations parisiennes, des clichés qu'elle nous révèle à propos des habitants de Paris. J'ai trouvé cela plutôt comique de se regarder à travers les yeux d'un étranger, et tout ces a priori m'ont bien faite rire. Anna n'est pas une héroïne comme les autres, elle n'a pas les mêmes attentes que les jeunes filles de son âge. Elle aime le cinéma par dessus tout, et j'ai trouvé cette passion là très belle. J'ai aimé la voir prendre au fur et à mesure de l'assurance tout en gardant cette douceur qui caractérise son personnage. J'ai eu mal au cœur pour elle, elle a su parfaitement me faire partager ses émotions.
Et c'est là que j'ai pu voir le grand travail de l'auteur.Lire la suite ›
Commentaires client les plus récents
Although the title seems cheesy it is a great book. I would definitely recommend to teenagers looking for a love story without vampires and werewolves !Publié il y a 12 mois par Client d'Amazon
Quand Anna arrive a Paris, elle est très loin d'être contente d'y être. Son père, un romancier à la mode dont elle déteste les histoires l'a... Lire la suitePublié il y a 16 mois par Cammy // I Believe in Pixie Dust
La France vu par une jeune fille américaine . Sympathique et drôle . A lire un soir de déprime pour se détendre .Publié il y a 16 mois par oregon
Anna est envoyée par son père en Internat en France, plus précisément à Paris, la ville des lumières et de l’amour, dans une école... Lire la suitePublié il y a 18 mois par Milka
I couldn't comment the inside and the contents of the book because I haven't read it yet, but I would like to say something about the book itself. Lire la suitePublié il y a 19 mois par Someone
J'ai dévoré ce livre, tout simplement (et deux fois). Il se lit très facilement pour ceux qui aimeraient débuter la lecture anglophone.Publié il y a 19 mois par Typhaine Watrin
Cette année j'ai débuté la lecture en VO et je me suis fixée comme objectif de lire au moins trois livres en anglais. Lire la suitePublié il y a 20 mois par Les lectures enchantées d'Elyza
Reçu quasiment neuf, super histoire toute mignone !!!!! Je craque complet !!!!! J'ai déjà passer commande pour le tome 2 et le tome 3Publié il y a 21 mois par Client d'Amazon
Même si je me suis moins identifiée à la protagoniste que dans le livre précédent, la lecture est facile et intrigante. Je recommande grandement !Publié il y a 23 mois par Megan Schwartzmann