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.