Chapter 5

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.”