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 Skil s Seminars). I double-check for my meal card and pop open my Hel o Kitty umbrel a. It’s drizzling. The weather doesn’t give a crap that it’s my first day of school.

I cross the road with a group of chattering students.They don’t notice me, but together we dodge the puddles. An automobile, smal enough to be one of my brother’s toys, whizzes past and sprays a girl in glasses. She swears, and her friends tease her.

I drop behind.

The city is pearl gray.The overcast sky and the stone buildings emit the same cold elegance, but ahead of me, the Panthéon shimmers. Its massive dome and impressive columns rise up to crown the top of the neighborhood. Every time I see it, it’s difficult to pul away. It’s as if it were stolen from ancient Rome or, at the very least, Capitol Hil . Nothing I should be able to view from a classroom window.

I don’t know its purpose, but I assume someone will tell me soon.

My new neighborhood is the Latin Quarter, or the fifth arrondissement. According to my pocket dictionary, that means district, and the buildings in my arrondissement blend one into another, curving around corners with the sumptuousness of wedding cakes.The sidewalks are crowded with students and tourists, and they’re lined with identical benches and ornate lampposts, bushy trees ringed in metal grates, Gothic cathedrals and tiny crêperies, postcard racks, and curlicue wrought iron balconies.

If this were a vacation, I’m sure I’d be charmed. I’d buy an Eiffel Tower key chain, take pictures of the cobblestones, and order a platter of escargot. But I’m not on vacation. I am here to live, and I feel small.

The School of America’s main building is only a two-minute walk from Résidence Lambert, the junior and senior dormitory. The entrance is through a grand archway, set back in a courtyard with manicured trees. Geraniums and ivy trail down from window boxes on each floor, and majestic lion’s heads are carved into the center of the dark green doors, which are three times my height. On either side of the doors hangs a red, white, and blue flag—one American, the other French.

It looks like a film set. A Little Princess, if it took place in Paris. How can such a school real y exist? And how is it possible that I’m enrol ed? My father is insane to believe I belong here. I’m struggling to close my umbrel a and nudge open one of the heavy wooden doors with my butt, when a preppy guy with faux-surfer hair barges past. He smacks into my umbrel a and then shoots me the stink-eye as if: (1) it’s my fault he has the patience of a toddler and (2) he wasn’t already soaked from the rain.

Two-point deduction for Paris. Suck on that, Preppy Guy.

The ceiling on the first floor is impossibly high, dripping with chandeliers and frescoed with flirting nymphs and lusting satyrs. It smel s faintly of orange cleaning products and dry-erase markers. I fol ow the squeak of rubber soles toward the cafeteria. Beneath our feet is a marbled mosaic of interlocking sparrows. Mounted on the wal , at the far end of the hal , is a gilded clock that’s chiming the hour.

The whole school is as intimidating as it is impressive. It should be reserved for students with personal bodyguards and Shetland ponies, not someone who buys the majority of her wardrobe at Target.

Even though I saw it on the school tour, the cafeteria stops me dead. I used to eat lunch in a converted gymnasium that reeked of bleach and jockstraps. It had long tables with preattached benches, and paper cups and plastic straws.The hairnetted ladies who ran the cash registers served frozen pizza and frozen fries and frozen nuggets, and the soda fountains and vending machines provided the rest of my so-cal ed nourishment.

But this. This could be a restaurant.

Unlike the historic opulence of the hal , the cafeteria is sleek and modern. It’s packed with round birch tables and plants in hanging baskets. The wal s are tangerine and lime, and there’s a dapper Frenchman in a white chef’s hat serving a variety of food that looks suspiciously fresh. There are several cases of bottled drinks, but instead of high-sugar, high-caf colas, they’re fil ed with juice and a dozen types of mineral water. There’s even a table set up for coffee. Coffee. I know some Starbucks-starved students at Clairemont who’d kil for in-school coffee.

The chairs are already fil ed with people gossiping with their friends over the shouting of the chefs and the clattering of the dishes (real china, not plastic). I stal in the doorway. Students brush past me, spiraling out in all directions. My chest squeezes. Should I find a table or should I find breakfast first? And how am I even supposed to order when the menu is in freaking French?

I’m startled when a voice cal s out my name. Oh please oh please oh please . . .

A scan through the crowd reveals a five-ringed hand waving from across the room. Meredith points to an empty chair beside her, and I weave my way there, grateful and almost painful y relieved.

“I thought about knocking on your door so we could walk together, but I didn’t know if you were a late sleeper.” Meredith’s eyebrows pinch together with worry. “I’m sorry, I should have knocked.You look so lost.”

“Thanks for saving me a spot.” I set down my stuff and take a seat.There are two others at the table and, as promised the night before, they’re from the photograph on her mirror. I’m nervous again and readjust my backpack at my feet.

“This is Anna, the girl I was tell ing you about,” Meredith says.

A lanky guy with short hair and a long nose salutes me with his coffee cup. “Josh,” he says. “And Rashmi.” He nods to the girl next to him, who holds his other hand inside the front pocket of his hoodie. Rashmi has blue-framed glasses and thick black hair that hangs all the way down her back. She gives me only the barest of acknowledgments.

That’s okay. No big deal.

“Everyone’s here except for St. Clair.” Meredith cranes her neck around the cafeteria. “He’s usual y running late.”

“Always,” Josh corrects. “Always running late.”

I clear my throat. “I think I met him last night. In the hal way.”

“Good hair and an English accent?” Meredith asks.

“Um.Yeah. I guess.” I try to keep my voice casual.

Josh smirks. “Everyone’s in luuurve with St. Clair.”

“Oh, shut up,” Meredith says.