“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 footbal 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 cal it “footbal ” here, which—when I think about it—real y 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 wal s, she has a dozen china teacups fil ed 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 yel ow 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 wal s 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 hol ow 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. El ie took that at La Défense. That’s Josh and St. Clair and me and Rashmi. You’l meet them tomorrow at breakfast. well , everyone but El ie. 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’l 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 tal -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 Mil iken, who is in chorus and has shiny shampoo-commercial hair. It doesn’t even bother me.
Not really.
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 stil . It did make me feel guilty. And things were starting to happen with Toph—they real y 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 total y 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 rol s her eyes and answers. “Mom, it’s midnight here. Six-hour time difference, remember?”
I glance at her alarm clock, shaped like a yel ow 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 casual y, but I’m so thril ed that I skip from her room and promptly slam into a wal .
Whoops. Not a wal . 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-real y-do hair.
Beautiful hair.
“It’s okay, I didn’t see you either. Are you all right, then?”