school. I’m glad she emailed me. For some reason, I wanted her to write first. Maybe because I wanted her to think I was so happy and busy that I didn’t

have time to talk. When, in reality, I’m sad and alone.

And hungry. My mini-fridge is empty.

I had dinner in the cafeteria but avoided the main food line again, stuffing myself with more bread, which only lasts so long. Maybe St. Clair will order breakfast for me again in the morning. Or Meredith; I bet she’d do it.

I reply to Bridge, tell ing her about my new sort-of-friends, the crazy cafeteria with restaurant-quality food, and the giant Panthéon down the road. Despite myself, 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’l debate the Big Bang

and the Meaning of Life.” Bridge: “Dude, they’l 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 literal y lights a building on fire, and then a soldier throws her na**d body onto a horse, and they total y do it while gal oping 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 hal way is stil 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 hal already has a pyramid of beer bottles stacked outside his door because, in Paris, sixteen-year-olds are all owed 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 Skil s 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 smel s 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 actual y 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 stil

alive.Yeah. I’m sure no one ever takes advantage of this high security.

I drag myself down the hal 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 wal paper with my fingers. Résidence Lambert is a peculiar mix of Parisian refinement and teenage

practicality. Crystal light fixtures give the dormitory hal s 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 expel ed from school last year; one of the teachers found coke in his backpack.” She looks me over again and frowns. “Where are you from, anyway?” But I know what she’s real y asking. She wants to know why they picked someone like me to take his place.

“Atlanta.”

“Oh,” she says. As if that explains my complete and utter hick-ness. Screw her. It’s one of the largest cities in America.

“So you and St. Clair seemed pretty friendly at breakfast.”

“Um.” Is she threatened by me?

“I wouldn’t get any ideas if I were you,” she continues. “Not even you’re pretty enough to steal him from his girlfriend.They’ve been together forever.”

Was that a compliment? Or not? Her emphasizing thing is real y getting on my nerves. (My nerves.)

Amanda gives a fake, bored yawn. “Interesting hair.”

I touch it self-consciously. “Thanks. My friend bleached it.” Bridge added the thick band to my dark brown hair just last week. Normal y, I keep the stripe tucked behind my right ear, but tonight it’s back in a ponytail.

“Do you like it?” she asks. Universal bitch-speak for I think it’s hideous.

I drop my hand. “Yeah. That’s why I did it.”

“You know, I wouldn’t pul it back like that.You kinda look like a skunk.”

“At least she doesn’t reek like one.” Rashmi appears behind me. She’d been visiting Meredith; I’d heard their muffled voices through my wal s.

“Delightful perfume, Amanda. Use a little more next time. I don’t know if they can smel you in London.”

Amanda snarls. “Nice glasses.”

“Good one,” Rashmi deadpans, but I notice she adjusts them anyway. Her nails are electric blue, the same shade as her frames. She turns to me. “I live

two floors up, room six-o-one, if you need anything. See you at breakfast.”