The next morning, I consider stopping by Meredith's, but I chicken out and walk to breakfast alone. At least I know where the cafeteria is (Day Two: Life Skills Seminars). I double-check for my meal card and pop open my Tim Burton's themed umbrella. It's drizzling. The weather doesn't give a crap that it's my first day of school.
I cross the road with a group of chatting students. They don't see me, but together we dodge the puddles. An automobile, small enough to be one of my brother's toys, whizzes past and sprays a girl in glasses. She swears, and her friends tease her.
I drop behind.
The city is pearl gray. The overcast sky and the gray buildings emit the same cold elegance, but ahead of me, the Pantheon shimmers. Its massive dome and impressive columns rise up to crown the top of the neighborhood. Every time I see it, it's difficult to pull away. It's as if it were stolen from ancient Rome or, at the very least, Capitol Hill. Nothing I should be able to view from a classroom window.
I don t know its purpose, but I assume someone will tell me soon.
My new neighborhood is the Latin Quarter, or the fifth arrondissement. According to my pocket dictionary, that means district, and the buildings in my arrondissement blend one into another, curving around corners with the sumptuousness of wedding cakes. The sidewalks are crowded with students and tourists, and they're lined with identical benches and ornate lampposts, bushy trees ringed in metal grates, Gothic cathedrals and tiny creperies, postcard racks, and curlicue wrought iron balconies.
If this were a vacation, I'm sure I'd be charmed. I'd buy an Eiffel Tower key chain, take pictures of the cobblestones, and order a platter of escargot. But I'm not on vacation. I am here to live, and I feel small.
The School of America s main building is only a two-minute walk from Residence Lambert, the junior and senior dormitory. The entrance is through a grand archway, set back in a courtyard with manicured trees. Geraniums and ivy trail down from window boxes on each floor, and majestic lion s heads are carved into the center of the dark green doors, which are three times my height. On either side of the doors hangs a red, white, and blue flag one American, the other French.
It looks like a film set. A Little Princess, if it took place in Paris. How can such a school really exist? And how is it possible that I'm enrolled? My father is insane to a little goth with a huge attitude problem like me belongs here. I'm struggling to close my umbrella and nudge open one of the heavy wooden doors with my butt, when a preppy guy with faux-surfer hair barges past. He smacks into my umbrella and then shoots me the stink-eye as if: (1) it's my fault he has the patience of a toddler and (2) he wasn't t already soaked from the rain.
Two-point deduction for Paris. Suck on that, Preppy Guy. The ceiling on the first floor is impossibly high, dripping with chandeliers and frescoed with flirting nymphs and lusting satyrs. It smells faintly of orange cleaning products and dry-erase markers. I follow the squeak of rubber soles toward the cafeteria. Beneath our feet is a marbled mosaic of interlocking sparrows. Mounted on the wall, at the far end of the hall, 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 and Hot Topic.
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 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-called nourishment.
But this. This could be a restaurant.
Unlike the historic opulence of the hall, the cafeteria is sleek and modern. It s packed with round birch tables and plants in hanging baskets. The walls 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 filled 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 Casper High who'd kill for in-school coffee. The chairs are already filled with people gossiping with their friends over the shouting of the chefs and the clattering of the dishes (real china, not plastic). I stall 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 am startled when a voice calls 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 painfully relieved.
"I thought about knocking on your door so we could walk together, but I didn't t know if you were a late sleeper." Meredith s eyebrows pinch together with worry. "I 'm sorry, I should have knocked. You looked so lost."
"It's alright, thanks for saving me a spot." I set down my stuff and take a seat. There are two other people at the table, from the photograph that was in Meredith's mirror.
"This is Sam, the girl I was telling you about," Meredith says.
A dark skinned boy wearing a red hat and glasses nods a salute to me with his coffee. "Tucker", he says. "And Valerie." He nods to the girl sitting by him, who holds his hand inside the front pocket of his hoodie. Valerie had long brown, curly hair and big brown eyes. She gives me only the barest of acknowledgement.
Whatever.
"Everyone's here besides Danny." Meredith looks around the cafeteria. "He's usually running late."
"Always," Tucker corrects. "Always running late."
"Um, I think I met him last night in the hallway." I cut in.
"Good hair and big, blue eyes?" Meredith asks.
"Sure, I guess." I try to keep my voice casual.
Tucker smirks. "Everyone's in luuuurve with Danny Fenton."
"Oh, shut up." Meredith says.
"I'm most certainly not." Valerie looks at me for the first time, calculating whether or not I might fall in love with her own boyfriend.
As if.
He lets go of her hand and gives an exaggerated sigh. "Well, I am. I'm asking him to prom. This is our year, I just know it."
"This school has a prom?" I ask.
"Oh God no," Valerie says. "Yeah, Tucker. You and Danny would look really cute in matching tuxes."
"Tails." The voice coming from behind makes me and Meredith jump in our seats. Hallway boy. Beautiful boy. His hair is damp from the rain "I insist the tuxes have tails, or I'm going to corsage Steve Carver instead."
"Danny, my man!" Tucker springs from his seat, and they give each other the classic two-thumps-on-the-back guy hug.
"No kiss Tuck? I'm hurt, dude."
"Thought it might wake up the beautiful beast. She doesn't know about us yet."
"Shut up," Valerie says, but she's smiling now.
Beautiful Hallway Boy (Am I supposed to call him Danny, not Daniel?) drops his bag and slides into the remaining seat between Valerie and me. "Sam." He's surprised to see me, and I'm surprised he even remembered my name.
"Nice umbrella could've used that this morning." He shakes a hand through his hair, and a drop lands on my bare arm. Words have left me. Unfortunately, my stomach spoke for itself. His eyes pop out at the rumble, and I blush with embarrassment.
"That sounds serious. You should probably feed that thing. Unless…" he pretends to examine me, then comes close and whispers "Unless you're one of those girls who never eat. Can't have that here, especially with a carnivore like Tuck around, have to ban you from the table for life."
I'm hell bent on speaking rationally in his presence. "I'm not sure how to order."
"Simple." Tucker says. "Stand in line. Tell them what you want. Accept delicious goodies. Try the sausages, there delicious."
"I don't eat meat; I'm an ultra- recyclable vegetarian. I meant the menu." I gesture towards the chalkboard above one of the chefs. An exquisite, cursive hand has written out the morning's menu in pink and yellow and white. In French. "Not exactly my first language."
"You don't speak French?" Meredith asks.
"YOU DON'T EAT MEAT!" Tucker jumps out of his chair and starts shaking me. "HOW DO YOU SURVIVE!?"
"Um, easily, actually, you don't need meat, that's fat." I push him away from me.
"B-b-but, you need meat! It's on the food pyramid!"
"There's pills you can take dude." I roll my eyes and address Meredith. "And I've taken Spanish for three years, but that's' not much help. I never really thought I'd ever move to Paris."
"It's ok." Meredith says quickly. "A lot of people here don't know French."
"But most do and most also eat meat!" Tucker adds. I glare at him for the meat comment.
"But most of them don't speak it very well." Valerie looks pointedly at him.
"You'll learn the language of food first. The language of love." Tucker rubs his belly like a skinny Buddha. "Oeuf.,Egg. Pomme, Apple. Viande, MEAT!"
"Dude, let the meat thing go, not everyone can scarf down 50 hot dogs in less than an hour and still have room for ribs." Danny says.
"I hate off my iron stomach." Tucker holds his stomach as if to defend it.
"Well, until I learn?" I say, glancing at the board, which is still in French.
"Right." Danny pushes back his chair. "Come on, I haven't eaten either." I can't help but notice all the girls swooning over Danny as we pass by. A brunette Latino with a teeny tank top coos as soon as we step in line. "Hey, Danny. How was your summer?"
"Hello Paulina. Fine."
"Did you stay here, or did you go back home?" She leans over her friend, a blond with an orange tank, and positions herself for maximum cleavage exposure. Slut.
"I stayed with my mom in San Francisco. Did you have a good holiday?" He asked politely, but I'm pleased to hear the indifference in his voice.
Paulina flips her hair, but all I can see is Cherrie Milliken, Matt's girlfriend. Cherrie loves to swish her hair and twirl it around her finger. Bridgette thinks she practices standing in front of a fan, pretending to be a supermodel, but I think she's too busy soaking her locks in seaweed papaya mud wraps in that never-ending quest for perfect sheen.
"It was amazing, fabulous, and spontaneous." Flip, goes her hair. "I went to Spain for a month at mi padre summer house for a month, then spent the rest in Manhattan."
Oh gosh. Every sentence she says has a word that's emphasized. I snort to keep from laughing, and Danny gets a strange coughing fit.
"But I missed you. Didn't you get my e-mails?"
Oh I can see them now, to Beautiful Hallway Boy of Perfection, from Slutty Cleavage Home-Wrecker.
"Um, no, you must have the wrong address. Hey." He nudges me. "It's almost our turn." He turns away from Paulina, much to her dismay as she and her friend exchange frowns. "Time for your first French lesson. Breakfast has to be the simplest of the three meals, in my opinion, but what do I know. Breakfast here consists primarily of breads, meaning no scrambled eggs, and no sausages, not that it affects you."
"That it doesn't."
He smiles, "Second lesson, the words on the chalkboard. Listen carefully and repeat after me. Granola." I narrow my eyes as he widens his mock innocence. "Means 'granola' you see, and this one? Yaourt?"
"Oh, I dunno, let me take ten minutes of our lives to think." I put my finger on my chin and tap it, looking as though I'm thinking hard. He starts laughing.
"Ah, is it yogurt!" sarcasm drips from my mouth.
"You are correct, your prize, little lady, is a whole meal!" we both are laughing now.
The Frenchman behind the counter barks at us. Sorry, Chef Pierre, I'm a little distracted by the Blue Eyed Boy Masterpiece. Said boy asks rapidly. "Yogurt with granola and honey, or pear on brioche?"
What the heck is brioche? "Yogurt, I guess."
He places our order in perfect French. Well, that's what it sounds like to my virgin ears anyway. Chef Pierre loses the glower and stirs the granola and honey into my yogurt. A sprinkling of blueberries is added to the top before he hands it over.
"Meric. Monsieur Boutin."
I grab put trays. "No Pop-Tarts? No Cocoa Puffs? Dude, I thought this was a school for Americans. I understand we're in France and we should eat some of their foods, but I'm totally offended right now."
"Well you do have to be American to attend SOAP, but I'm sad to say they just serve us the French food, little American food, and rarely even French fries or French toast."
"Soap?"
"School of America in Paris," he explains. "SOAP"
Great. My father sent me here to be cleaned.
We get in line to pay, and I'm surprised by how organized things are. No cutting or rough-housing like at my old school, everyone here waits their turn. I turn just in time to see Danny's eyes flicker up and down my body. My breath catches. The beautiful boy is checking me out. He doesn't seem to realize I've caught him.
"So, what's your real name? Last night it was Daniel-"I stated.
"Daniel Fenton is my full name, Danny's a nickname."
"Daniel is nice, why don't people call you that?"
"Oh, Daniel is nice. How generous of you,"
I'm about to tease him when I remember something: He has a girlfriend.
I hand the 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 here. He swipes the card and hands it back with a quick merci.
Thanks you. Another word I already new, awesome.
On the way back to the table, Amanda watches Danny from inside her posse of Pretty Preppy People. I'm not surprised when she glares at me either, considering I'm walking with Danny, and she isn't. Danny's talking about classes- what to expect the first day, who teachers are- but I'm not really listening. All I know is his perfect smile and blue eyes.
I'm just as big a fool as the rest of them.
