Speaking of, Toph hasn’t emailed me in two days. It’s not like I expected him to write every day‚ or even every week, but . . . there was an undeniable
something between us. I mean, we kissed. will this thing—whatever it is—end now that I’m here?
His real name is Christopher, but he hates being cal ed Chris, so he goes by Toph instead. He has shocking green eyes and wicked sideburns.We’re
both left-handed, we both love the fake nacho cheese at the concession stand, and we both hate Cuba Gooding Jr. I’ve crushed on Toph since my first
day on the job, when he stuck his head under the ICEE machine and guzzled it straight from the tap to make me laugh. He had Blue Raspberry Mouth for
the rest of his shift.
Not many people can pul off blue teeth. But believe me, Toph can.
I refresh my inbox—just in case—but nothing new appears. I’ve been planted in front of my computer for several hours, waiting for Bridge to get out of
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.