We don’t speak. I trace the floral pattern on the wallpaper with my fingers. Résidence Lambert is a peculiar mix of Parisian refinement and teenage practicality. Crystal light fixtures give the dormitory halls a golden glow, but fluorescent bulbs hum inside our bedrooms. The floors are glossy hardwood but lined with industrial-grade rugs. Fresh flowers and Tiffany lamps grace the lobby, but the chairs are ratty love seats, and the tables are carved with initials and rude words.

“So you’re the new Brandon,” Amanda says.

“Excuse me?”

“Brandon. Number twenty-five. He was expelled from school last year; one of the teachers found coke in his backpack.” She looks me over again and frowns. “Where are you from, anyway?” But I know what she’s really asking. She wants to know why they picked someone like me to take his place.

“Atlanta.”

“Oh,” she says. As if that explains my complete and utter hick-ness. Screw her. It’s one of the largest cities in America.

“So you and St. Clair seemed pretty friendly at breakfast.”

“Um.” Is she threatened by me?

“I wouldn’t get any ideas if I were you,” she continues. “Not even you’re pretty enough to steal him from his girlfriend.They’ve been together forever.”

Was that a compliment? Or not? Her emphasizing thing is really 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. Normally, 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 pull it back like that.You kinda look like a skunk.”