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—