“Hey, Nikhil. Did you have a nice holiday?” It’s the same question he asked Amanda, but this time his tone is sincere.

That’s all it takes for the boy to launch into a story about his trip to Delhi, about the markets and temples and monsoons. (He went on a day trip to the Taj Mahal. I went to Panama City Beach with the rest of Georgia.) Another boy runs up, this one skinny and pale with sticky-uppy hair. Nikhil forgets us and greets his friend with the same enthusiastic babble.

St. Clair—I’m determined to cal him this before I embarrass myself—turns back to me. “Nikhil is Rashmi’s brother. He’s a freshman this year. She also has a younger sister, Sanjita, who’s a junior, and an older sister, Leela, who graduated two years ago.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“No.You?”

“One brother, but he’s back home. In Atlanta. That’s in Georgia. In the South?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I know where Atlanta is.”

“Oh. Right.” I hand my meal card to the man behind the register. Like Monsieur Boutin, he wears a pressed white uniform and starched hat. He also has a handlebar mustache. Huh. Didn’t know they had those over here. Chef Handlebar swipes my card and zips it back to me with a quick merci.

Thank you. Another word I already knew. Excel ent.

On the way back to our table, Amanda watches St. Clair from inside her posse of Pretty Preppy People. I’m not surprised to see the faux-surfer hair stink-eye guy sitting with her. St. Clair is talking about classes—what to expect my first day, who my teachers are—but I’ve stopped listening. all I know is his crooked-tooth smile and his confident swaggery walk.

I’m just as big a fool as the rest of them.

Chapter four

The H-through-P line moves slowly. The guy ahead of me is arguing with the guidance counselor. I glance at A-through-G, and see Meredith (Chevalier) and Rashmi (Devi) have already received their class schedules and exchanged them for comparison.

“But I didn’t ask for theater, I asked for computer science.”

The squat counselor is patient. “I know, but computer science didn’t fit with your schedule, and your alternate did. Maybe you can take computer science next—”

“My alternate was computer programming.”

Hold it. My attention snaps back. Can they do that? Put us in a class we didn’t ask for? I will die—DIE—if I have to take gym again.

“Actual y, David.” The counselor sifts through her papers. “You neglected to fil out your alternate form, so we had to select the class for you. But I think you’l find—”

The angry boy snatches his schedule from her hands and stalks off. Yikes. It’s not like it’s her fault. I step forward and say my name as kindly as possible, to make up for the jerk who just left. She gives a dimpled smile back. “I remember you, sweetie. Have a nice first day.” And she hands me a half sheet of yel ow paper.

I hold my breath while I scan it. Phew. No surprises. Senior English, calculus, beginning French, physics, European history, and something dubiously cal ed “La Vie.”

When I registered, the counselor described “Life” as a senior-only class, similar to a study hal but with occasional guest speakers who will lecture us about balancing checkbooks and renting apartments and baking quiches. Or whatever. I’m just relieved Mom let me take it. One of the decent things about this school is that math, science, and history aren’t required for seniors. Unfortunately, Mom is a purist and refused to let me graduate without another year of all three. “You’l never get into the right col ege if you take ceramics,” she warned, frowning over my orientation packet.

Thanks, Mom. Send me away for some culture in a city known for its art and make me suffer through another math class. I shuffle toward Meredith and Rashmi, feeling like the third wheel but praying for some shared classes. I’m in luck. “Three with me and four with Rash!” Meredith beams and hands back my schedule. Her rainbow-colored plastic rings click against each other.

Rash. What an unfortunate nickname. They gossip about people I don’t know, and my mind wanders to the other side of the courtyard, where St. Clair waits with Josh in Q-through-Z. I wonder if I have any classes with him.

I mean, them. Classes with them.

The rain has stopped, and Josh kicks a puddle in St. Clair’s direction. St. Clair laughs and says something that makes them both laugh even harder.

Suddenly I register that St. Clair is shorter than Josh. Much shorter. It’s odd I didn’t notice earlier, but he doesn’t carry himself like a short guy. Most are shy or defensive, or some messed-up combination of the two, but St. Clair is confident and friendly and—

“Jeez, stare much?”

“What?” I jerk my head back, but Rashmi’s not talking to me. She’s shaking her head at Meredith, who looks as sheepish as I feel.

“You’re burning holes into St. Clair’s head. It’s not attractive.”

“Shut up.” But Meredith smiles at me and shrugs.

Well. That settles that. As if I needed another reason not to lust. Boy Wonder is official y off-limits. “Don’t say anything to him,” she says. “Please.”

“Of course,” I say.

“Because we’re obviously just friends.”

“Obviously.”

We mil around until the head of school arrives for her welcome speech. The head is graceful and carries herself like a bal erina. She has a long neck, and her snow-white hair is pul ed into a tidy knot that makes her look distinguished rather than elderly. The overal effect is Parisian, although I know from my acceptance letter she’s from Chicago. Her gaze glides across us, her one hundred handpicked pupils. “Welcome to another exciting year at the