I feel it coming, but I can't stop it.
PANIC.
They left me. My parents actual y left me! IN FRANCE!
Meanwhile, Paris is oddly silent. Even the opera singer has packed it in for the night. I cannot lose it. The wal s here are thinner than Band-Aids, so if I break down, my neighbors—my new classmates—wil hear everything. I'm going to be sick. I'm going to vomit that weird eggplant tapenade I had for dinner, and everyone will hear, and no one will invite me to watch the mimes escape from their invisible boxes, or whatever it is people do here in their spare time.
I race to my pedestal sink to splash water on my face, but it explodes out and sprays my shirt instead. And now I'm crying harder, because I haven't unpacked my towels, and wet clothing reminds me of those stupid water rides Bridgette and Matt used to drag me on at Six Flags where the water is the wrong color and it smel s like paint and it has a bil ion tril ion bacterial microbes in it. Oh God.What if there are bacterial microbes in the water? Is French water even safe to drink?
Pathetic. I'm pathetic.
How many seventeen-year-olds would kil to leave home? My neighbors aren't experiencing any meltdowns. No crying coming from behind their bedroom wal s. I grab a shirt off the bed to blot myself dry, when the solution strikes. My pillow. I col apse face-first into the sound barrier and sob and sob and sob.
Someone is knocking on my door.
No. Surely that's not my door.
There it is again!
"Hel o?" a girl cal s from the hal way. "Hel o? Are you okay?"
No, I'm not okay. GO AWAY. But she cal s again, and I'm obligated to crawl off my bed and answer the door. A blonde with long, tight curls waits on the other side. She's tal and big, but not overweight-big.Vol eybal player big. A diamondlike nose ring sparkles in the hal light. "Are you all right?" Her voice is gentle. "I'm Meredith; I live next door. Were those your parents who just left?"
My puffy eyes signal the affirmative.
"I cried the first night, too." She tilts her head, thinks for a moment, and then nods. "Come on. Chocolat chaud. "
"A chocolate show?" Why would I want to see a chocolate show? My mother has abandoned me and I'm terrified to leave my room and—
"No." She smiles. "Chaud. Hot. Hot chocolate, I can make some in my room."
Oh.
Despite myself, I fol ow. Meredith stops me with her hand like a crossing guard. She's wearing rings on all five fingers. "Don't forget your key. The doors automatical y lock behind you."
"I know." And I tug the necklace out from underneath my shirt to prove it. I slipped my key onto it during this weekend's required Life Skil s Seminars for new students, when they told us how easy it is to get locked out.
We enter her room. I gasp. It's the same impossible size as mine, seven by ten feet, with the same mini-desk, mini-dresser, mini-bed, mini-fridge, mini-sink, and mini-shower. (No mini-toilet, those are shared down the hal .) But . . . unlike my own sterile cage, every inch of wal and ceiling is covered with posters and pictures and shiny wrapping paper and brightly colored flyers written in French.
"How long have you been here?" I ask.
Meredith hands me a tissue and I blow my nose, a terrible honk like an angry goose, but she doesn't flinch or make a face. "I arrived yesterday. This is my fourth year here, so I didn't have to go to the seminars. I flew in alone, so I've just been hanging out, waiting for my friends to show up." She looks around with her hands on her hips, admiring her handiwork. I spot a pile of magazines, scissors, and tape on her floor and realize it's a work in progress.
"Not bad, eh? White wal s don't do it for me."
I circle her room, examining everything. I quickly discover that most of the faces are the same five people: John, Paul, George, Ringo, and some soccer guy I don't recognize.
"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?"
Oh my. He's English.
"Er. Does Mer live here?"
Seriously, I don't know any American girl who can resist an English accent.
The boy clears his throat. "Meredith Chevalier? Tal girl? Big, curly hair?" Then he looks at me like I'm crazy or half deaf, like my Nanna Oliphant. Nanna just smiles and shakes her head whenever I ask, "What kind of salad dressing would you like?" or "Where did you put Granddad's false teeth?"
"I'm sorry." He takes the smal est step away from me. "You were going to bed."
"Yes! Meredith lives there. I've just spent two hours with her." I announce this proudly like my brother, Seany, whenever he finds something disgusting in the yard. "I'm Anna! I'm new here!" Oh God. What. Is with.The scary enthusiasm? My cheeks catch fire, and it's all so humiliating.
The beautiful boy gives an amused grin. His teeth are lovely—straight on top and crooked on the bottom, with a touch of overbite. I'm a sucker for smiles like this, due to my own lack of orthodontia. I have a gap between my front teeth the size of a raisin.
"Étienne," he says. "I live one floor up."
"I live here." I point dumbly at my room while my mind whirs: French name, English accent, American school. Anna confused.
He raps twice on Meredith's door. "Wel . I'l see you around then, Anna."
Eh-t-yen says my name like this: Ah-na.
My heart thump thump thumps in my chest.
Meredith opens her door. "St. Clair!" she shrieks. She's stil on the phone. They laugh and hug and talk over each other. "Come in! How was your flight?
When'd you get here? Have you seen Josh? Mom, I've gotta go."
Meredith's phone and door snap shut simultaneously.
I fumble with the key on my necklace. Two girls in matching pink bathrobes strut behind me, giggling and gossiping. A crowd of guys across the hall snicker and catcal . Meredith and her friend laugh through the thin wal s. My heart sinks, and my stomach tightens back up.
I'm stil the new girl. I'm stil alone.