“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.”
So she doesn’t dislike me! Or maybe she just hates Amanda more. Either way, I’m thankful, and I cal goodbye to her retreating figure. She waves a
hand and moves into the stairwel as Nate comes out of it. He approaches us in his quiet, friendly manner.
“Going to bed soon, ladies?”
Amanda smiles sweetly. “Of course.”
“Great. Did you have a nice first day, Anna?”
It’s so peculiar how everyone here already knows my name. “Yeah. Thanks, Nate.”
He nods as if I’ve said something worth thinking about, and then says good night and moves on to the guys hanging out at the other end of the hal way.
“I hate it when he does that,” Amanda says.
“Does what?”
“Check up on us. What an ass**le.” The bathroom door opens, and a tiny redhead maneuvers around Amanda, who just stands there like she’s Queen
of the Threshold. The girl must be a junior. I don’t recognize her from the circle of desks in senior English. “God, did you fal in?” Amanda asks. The girl’s pale skin turns pink.
“She was just using the restroom,” I say.
Amanda sashays onto the tile, her fuzzy purple slippers slapping against her heels. She yanks the door shut. “Does it look like I care? Skunk Girl? ”
Chapter six
One week into school, and I’m knee-deep in Fancy International Education.
Professeur Cole’s syl abus is free of the usual Shakespeare and Steinbeck, and instead, we’re focusing on translated works. Every morning she hosts
the discussion of Like Water for Chocolate as if we were a book club and not some boring, required class.
So English is excel ent.
On the other hand, my French teacher is clearly il iterate. How else to explain the fact that despite the name of our textbook— Level One French—
Professeur Gil et insists on speaking in French only? She also cal s on me a dozen times a day. I never know the answer.
Dave cal s her Madame Guil otine. This is also excel ent.
He’s taken the class before, which is helpful but obviously not really helpful, as he failed it the first go-round. Dave has shaggy hair and pouty lips, and the peculiar combination of tan skin and freckles. Several girls have a crush on him. He’s also in my history class. I’m with the juniors, because the seniors take government, and I’ve already studied it. So I sit between Dave and Josh.
Josh is quiet and reserved in class, but outside of it, his sense of humor is similar to St. Clair’s. It’s easy to understand why they’re such good friends.
Meredith says they idolize each other, Josh because of St. Clair’s innate charisma, and St. Clair because Josh is an astounding artist. I rarely see Josh without his brush pen or sketchbook. His work is incredible—thick bold strokes and teeny exquisite details—and his fingers are always stained with ink.
But the most notable aspect of my new education is the one that takes place outside of class.The one never mentioned in the glossy brochures. And
that is this: attending boarding school is like living inside a high school. I can’t get away. Even when I’m in my bedroom, my ears are blasted by pop music, fistfights over washing machines, and drunk dancing in the stairwel . Meredith claims it’l settle down once the novelty wears off for the juniors, but I’m not holding my breath.
However.
It’s Friday night, and Résidence Lambert has cleared out. My classmates are hitting the bars, and I have peace for the first time. If I close my eyes, I can almost believe I’m back home. Except for the opera. The Opera Diva sings most evenings at the restaurant across the street. For someone with such a
huge voice, she’s surprisingly smal . She’s also one of those people who shaves her eyebrows and draws them back on with a pencil. She looks like an
extra from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
Bridge cal s as I’m watching Rushmore from the comfort of my mini-bed. It’s the film that launched Wes Anderson. Wes is amazing, a true auteur