Chapter 4

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.