Here is everything I know about France: Madeline and Amélie and Moulin Rouge. The Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe, although I have no idea what the function of either actual y is. Napoleon, Marie Antoinette, and a lot of kings named Louis. I’m not sure what they did either, but I think it has something to do with the French Revolution, which has something to do with Bastil e Day. The art museum is cal ed the Louvre and it’s shaped like a pyramid and the Mona Lisa lives there along with that statue of the woman missing her arms. And there are cafés or bistros or whatever they cal them on every street corner. And mimes. The food is supposed to be good, and the people drink a lot of wine and smoke a lot of cigarettes.

I’ve heard they don’t like Americans, and they don’t like white sneakers.

A few months ago, my father enrol ed me in boarding school. His air quotes practical y crackled over the phone line as he declared living abroad to be a “good learning experience” and a “keepsake I’d treasure forever.” Yeah. Keepsake. And I would’ve pointed out his misuse of the word had I not already been freaking out.

Since his announcement, I’ve tried yel ing, begging, pleading, and crying, but nothing has convinced him otherwise. And now I have a new student visa and a passport, each declaring me: Anna Oliphant, citizen of the United States of America. And now I’m here with my parents—unpacking my belongings in a room smal er than my suitcase—the newest senior at the School of America in Paris.

It’s not that I’m ungrateful. I mean, it’s Paris. The City of Light! The most romantic city in the world! I’m not immune to that. It’s just this whole international boarding school thing is a lot more about my father than it is about me. Ever since he sold out and started writing lame books that were turned into even lamer movies, he’s been trying to impress his big-shot New York friends with how cultured and rich he is.

My father isn’t cultured. But he is rich.

It wasn’t always like this.When my parents were stil married, we were strictly lower middle class. It was around the time of the divorce that all traces of decency vanished, and his dream of being the next great Southern writer was replaced by his desire to be the next published writer. So he started writing these novels set in Smal Town Georgia about folks with Good American Values who Fal in Love and then contract Life-Threatening Diseases and Die.

I’m serious.

And it total y depresses me, but the ladies eat it up.They love my father’s books and they love his cable-knit sweaters and they love his bleachy smile and orangey tan. And they have turned him into a bestsel er and a total ****.

Two of his books have been made into movies and three more are in production, which is where his real money comes from. Hol ywood. And, somehow, this extra cash and pseudo-prestige have warped his brain into thinking that I should live in France. For a year. Alone. I don’t understand why he couldn’t send me to Australia or Ireland or anywhere else where English is the native language. The only French word I know is oui, which means “yes,” and only recently did I learn it’s spel ed o-u-i and not w-e-e.

At least the people in my new school speak English. It was founded for pretentious Americans who don’t like the company of their own children. I mean, real y. Who sends their kid to boarding school? It’s so Hogwarts. Only mine doesn’t have cute boy wizards or magic candy or flying lessons.

Instead, I’m stuck with ninety-nine other students. There are twenty-five people in my entire senior class, as opposed to the six hundred I had back in Atlanta. And I’m studying the same things I studied at Clairemont High except now I’m registered in beginning French.

Oh, yeah. Beginning French. No doubt with the freshmen. I total y rock.

Mom says I need to lose the bitter factor, pronto, but she’s not the one leaving behind her fabulous best friend, Bridgette. Or her fabulous job at the Royal Midtown 14 multiplex. Or Toph, the fabulous boy at the Royal Midtown 14 multiplex.

And I stil can’t believe she’s separating me from my brother, Sean, who is only seven and way too young to be left home alone after school. Without me, he’l probably be kidnapped by that creepy guy down the road who has dirty Coca-Cola towels hanging in his windows. Or Seany will accidental y eat something containing Red Dye #40 and his throat will swel up and no one will be there to drive him to the hospital. He might even die. And I bet they wouldn’t let me fly home for his funeral and I’d have to visit the cemetery alone next year and Dad will have picked out some god-awful granite cherub to go over his grave.

And I hope Dad doesn’t expect me to fil out col ege applications to Russia or Romania now. My dream is to study film theory in California. I want to be our nation’s greatest female film critic. Someday I’l be invited to every festival, and I’l have a major newspaper column and a cool television show and a ridiculously popular website. So far I only have the website, and it’s not so popular.Yet.

I just need a little more time to work on it, that’s all. “Anna, it’s time.”

“What?” I glance up from folding my shirts into perfect squares.

Mom stares at me and twiddles the turtle charm on her necklace. My father, bedecked in a peach polo shirt and white boating shoes, is gazing out my dormitory window. It’s late, but across the street a woman belts out something operatic.

My parents need to return to their hotel rooms. They both have early morning flights.

“Oh.” I grip the shirt in my hands a little tighter.

Dad steps away from the window, and I’m alarmed to discover his eyes are wet. Something about the idea of my father—even if it is my father—on the brink of tears raises a lump in my throat.

“Wel , kiddo. Guess you’re all grown up now.”

My body is frozen. He pul s my stiff limbs into a bear hug. His grip is frightening. “Take care of yourself. Study hard and make some friends. And watch out for pickpockets,” he adds. “Sometimes they work in pairs.”

I nod into his shoulder, and he releases me. And then he’s gone.

My mother lingers behind. “You’l have a wonderful year here,” she says. “I just know it.” I bite my lip to keep it from quivering, and she sweeps me into her arms. I try to breathe. Inhale. Count to three. Exhale. Her skin smel s like grapefruit body lotion. “I’l cal you the moment I get home,” she says.

Home. Atlanta isn’t my home anymore.

“I love you, Anna.”

I’m crying now. “I love you, too. Take care of Seany for me.”

“Of course.”

“And Captain Jack,” I say. “Make sure Sean feeds him and changes his bedding and fil s his water bottle. And make sure he doesn’t give him too many treats because they make him fat and then he can’t get out of his igloo. But make sure he gives him at least a few every day, because he stil needs the vitamin C and he won’t drink the water when I use those vitamin drops—”

She pul s back and tucks my bleached stripe behind my ear. “I love you,” she says again.

And then my mother does something that, even after all of the paperwork and plane tickets and presentations, I don’t see coming. Something that would’ve happened in a year anyway, once I left for col ege, but that no matter how many days or months or years I’ve yearned for it, I am stil not prepared for when it actual y happens.

My mother leaves. I am alone.

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.

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.

“I’m not.” Rashmi looks at me for the first time, calculating whether or not I might fal in love with her own boyfriend.

He lets go of her hand and gives an exaggerated sigh. “Wel , I am. I’m asking him to prom. This is our year, I just know it.”

“This school has a prom?” I ask.

“God no,” Rashmi says. “Yeah, Josh.You and St. Clair would look real y cute in matching tuxes.”

“Tails.” The English accent makes Meredith and me jump in our seats. Hal way boy. Beautiful boy. His hair is damp from the rain. “I insist the tuxes have tails, or I’m giving your corsage to Steve Carver instead.”

“St. Clair!” Josh springs from his seat, and they give each other the classic two-thumps-on-the-back guy hug.

“No kiss? I’m crushed, mate.”

“Thought it might miff the ol’ bal and chain. She doesn’t know about us yet.”

“Whatever,” Rashmi says, but she’s smiling now. It’s a good look for her. She should utilize the corners of her mouth more often.

Beautiful Hal way Boy (Am I supposed to cal him Étienne or St. Clair?) drops his bag and slides into the remaining seat between Rashmi and me.

“Anna.” He’s surprised to see me, and I’m startled, too. He remembers me.

“Nice umbrel a. Could’ve used that this morning.” He shakes a hand through his hair, and a drop lands on my bare arm. Words fail me. Unfortunately, my stomach speaks for itself. His eyes pop at the rumble, and I’m alarmed by how big and brown they are. As if he needed any further weapons against the female race.

Josh must be right. Every girl in school must be in love with him.

“Sounds terrible. You ought to feed that thing. Unless ...” He pretends to examine me, then comes in close with a whisper. “Unless you’re one of those girls who never eats. Can’t tolerate that, I’m afraid. Have to give you a lifetime table ban.”

I’m determined to speak rational y in his presence. “I’m not sure how to order.”

“Easy,” Josh says. “Stand in line. tell them what you want. Accept delicious goodies. And then give them your meal card and two pints of blood.”

“I heard they raised it to three pints this year,” Rashmi says.

“Bone marrow,” Beautiful Hal way Boy says. “Or your left earlobe.”

“I meant the menu, thank you very much.” I gesture to the chalkboard above one of the chefs. An exquisite, cursive hand has written out the morning’s menu in pink and yel ow and white. In French. “Not exactly my first language.”

“You don’t speak French?” Meredith asks.

“I’ve taken Spanish for three years. It’s not like I ever thought I’d be moving to Paris.”

“It’s okay,” Meredith says quickly. “A lot of people here don’t speak French.”

“But most of them do,” Josh adds.

“But most of them not very well .” Rashmi looks pointedly at him.

“You’l learn the language of food first. The language of love.” Josh rubs his bel y like a skinny Buddha. “Oeuf. Egg. Pomme. Apple. Lapin. Rabbit.”

“Not funny.” Rashmi punches him in the arm. “No wonder Isis bites you. Jerk.”

I glance at the chalkboard again. It’s stil in French. “And, um, until then?”

“Right.” Beautiful Hal way Boy pushes back his chair. “Come along, then. I haven’t eaten either.” I can’t help but notice several girls gaping at him as we wind our way through the crowd. A blonde with a beaky nose and a teeny tank top coos as soon as we get in line. “Hey, St. Clair. How was your summer?”

“Hal o, Amanda. Fine.”

“Did you stay here, or did you go back to London?” She leans over her friend, a short girl with a severe ponytail, and positions herself for maximum cle**age exposure.

“I stayed with me mum in San Francisco. Did you have a good holiday?” He asks this politely, but I’m pleased to hear the indifference in his voice.

Amanda flips her hair, and suddenly she’s Cherrie Mil iken. Cherrie loves to swish her hair and shake it out and twirl it around her fingers. Bridgette is convinced she spends her weekends standing before oscil ating fans, pretending to be a supermodel, but I think she’s too busy soaking her locks in seaweed papaya mud wraps in that never-ending quest for perfect sheen.

“It was fabulous.” Flip, goes her hair. “I went to Greece for a month, then spent the rest of my summer in Manhattan. My father has an amazing penthouse that overlooks Central Park.”

Every sentence she says has a word that’s emphasized. I snort to keep from laughing, and Beautiful Hal way Boy gets a strange coughing fit.

“But I missed you. Didn’t you get my emails?”

“Er, no. Must have the wrong address. Hey.” He nudges me. “It’s almost our turn.”He turns his back onAmanda,and she and her friend exchange frowns.

“Time for your first French lesson. Breakfast here is simple and consists primarily of breads—croissants being the most famous, of course.This means no sausage, no scrambled eggs.”

“Bacon?” I ask hopefully.

“Definitely not.” He laughs. “Second lesson, the words on the chalkboard. Listen careful y and repeat after me. Granola. ” I narrow my eyes as he widens his in mock innocence. “Means ‘granola,’ you see. And this one? Yaourt? ”

“Gee, I dunno.Yogurt?”

“A natural!You say you’ve never lived in France before?”

“Har. Bloody. Har.”

He smiles. “Oh, I see. Known me less than a day and teasing me about my accent.What’s next? Care to discuss the state of my hair? My height? My trousers?”

Trousers. Honestly.

The Frenchman behind the counter barks at us. Sorry, Chef Pierre. I’m a little distracted by this English French American Boy Masterpiece. Said boy asks rapidly, “Yogurt with granola and honey, soft-boiled egg, or pears on brioche?”

I have no idea what brioche is. “Yogurt,” I say.

He places our orders in perfect French. At least, it sounds impeccable to my ****** ears, and it relaxes Chef Pierre. He loses the glower and stirs the granola and honey into my yogurt. A sprinkling of blueberries is added to the top before he hands it over.

“Merci, Monsieur Boutin.”

I grab our tray. “No Pop-Tarts? No Cocoa Puffs? I’m, like, total y offended.”

“Pop-Tarts are Tuesdays, Eggo waffles are Wednesdays, but they never, ever serve Cocoa Puffs. You shal have to settle for Froot Loops Fridays instead.”

“You know a lot about American junk food for a British dude.”

“Orange juice? Grapefruit? Cranberry?” I point to the orange, and he pul s two out of the case. “I’m not British. I’m American.”

I smile. “Sure you are.”

“I am.You have to be an American to attend SOAP, remember?”

“Soap?”

“School of America in Paris,” he explains. “SOAP.”

Nice. My father sent me here to be cleansed.

We get in line to pay, and I’m surprised by how efficiently it runs. My old school was all about cutting ahead and incensing the lunch ladies, but here everyone waits patiently. I turn back just in time to catch his eyes flicker up and down my body. My breath catches. The beautiful boy is checking me out.

He doesn’t realize I’ve caught him. “My mum is American,” he continues smoothly. “My father is French. I was born in San Francisco, and I was raised in London.”

Miraculously, I find my voice. “A true international.”

He laughs. “That’s right. I’m not a poseur like the rest of you.”

I’m about to tease him back when I remember: He has a girlfriend. Something evil pokes the pink folds of my brain, forcing me to recal my conversation with Meredith last night. It’s time to change the subject. “What’s your real name? Last night you introduced yourself as—”

“St. Clair is my last name. Étienne is my first.”

“Étienne St. Clair.” I try to pronounce it like him, all foreign and posh.

“Terrible, isn’t it?”

I’m laughing now. “Étienne is nice. Why don’t people cal you that?”

“Oh, ‘Étienne is nice.’ How generous of you.”

Another person gets in line behind us, a tiny boy with brown skin, acne, and a thick mat of black hair. The boy is excited to see him, and he smiles back.

“Hey, Nikhil. Did you have a nice holiday?” It’s the same question he asked Amanda, but this time his tone is sincere.

That’s all it takes for the boy to launch into a story about his trip to Delhi, about the markets and temples and monsoons. (He went on a day trip to the Taj Mahal. I went to Panama City Beach with the rest of Georgia.) Another boy runs up, this one skinny and pale with sticky-uppy hair. Nikhil forgets us and greets his friend with the same enthusiastic babble.

St. Clair—I’m determined to cal him this before I embarrass myself—turns back to me. “Nikhil is Rashmi’s brother. He’s a freshman this year. She also has a younger sister, Sanjita, who’s a junior, and an older sister, Leela, who graduated two years ago.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“No.You?”

“One brother, but he’s back home. In Atlanta. That’s in Georgia. In the South?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I know where Atlanta is.”

“Oh. Right.” I hand my meal card to the man behind the register. Like Monsieur Boutin, he wears a pressed white uniform and starched hat. He also has a handlebar mustache. Huh. Didn’t know they had those over here. Chef Handlebar swipes my card and zips it back to me with a quick merci.

Thank you. Another word I already knew. Excel ent.

On the way back to our table, Amanda watches St. Clair from inside her posse of Pretty Preppy People. I’m not surprised to see the faux-surfer hair stink-eye guy sitting with her. St. Clair is talking about classes—what to expect my first day, who my teachers are—but I’ve stopped listening. all I know is his crooked-tooth smile and his confident swaggery walk.

I’m just as big a fool as the rest of them.