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.”