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replied, wishing my mother had had an affair with the French language, too. Next to Roux, Maggie sounded like some wide-hipped farmhand who thought the Moulin Rouge was a new type of makeup. “It’s my first day.”
    Roux widened her eyes dramatically. “No!”
    “I’m as thrilled as you are,” I replied.
    The easiest way to talk to someone new is to say what you think they want you to say. It was even easier when that’s what you would have said anyway. Roux was making this a piece of cake.
    “Junior?” she guessed, and I nodded. “Yeah, me too. You know you can go off-campus for lunch, right?”
    I shrugged. “Why? You just told me not to be a follower.”
    She grinned for real this time. “You’re a quick learner.”
    “Roux,” I said, “you have no idea.”
    Within fifteen minutes, I learned that she was left-handed, hated school, and wore her uniform inside out after fighting a three-month battle with the school board. “I’m still wearing it,” she pointed out. “I just like to toy with their heads.” Then she glanced up and down at my plain uniform. “What are you going to do with this unfortunate situation?”
    She didn’t need to know that I had the accessorizingabilities of a paralyzed flea. “Keep it as is.” I shrugged. “I have bigger things to worry about.”
    She narrowed her eyes at me. “Well, at least the boots are good.”
    “The uniform’s scandalous enough,” I pointed out, motioning to the skirt. I would have killed for a pair of tights, especially now that the sun was slipping behind some clouds. “Did they buy these things on Canal Street?”
    She snorted, but I saw her hand go protectively to her Balenciaga motorcycle bag. Knockoff , I thought. “They’ve all got a jones for the Lolita look,” she agreed. “And polyester.”
    I drummed my unpolished fingernails on the table, realizing that a manicure was going to have to happen pretty soon. “So, where do you live?”
    “Upper East Side. Worst side ever. One subway line for two million people. Germ central. You?”
    “Soho,” I said, jerking a thumb over my shoulder like she didn’t know where it was. “It’s right on Prince.”
    “Nice. Loft?”
    I nodded.
    “We’ve got this ridiculous prewar thing. It’s so ugly and old.” She wrinkled her nose. “My dad refuses to move, but he travels all the time, so it’s not like he’s even there to see the ‘classic crown moldings.’” She made finger quotes around the last words, then sighed. “I want a loft on Prince.”
    I just nodded again, but inside I was doing cartwheels. This girl was so easy ! Most people don’t start talking likethis, which told me one thing: she was lonely. The fact that she had been sitting by herself only added to my suspicions.
    I was pretty sure I had just made my first friend.
    “So,” she said brightly, “who do you think is cute here?”
    No time like the present.
    “You know who I really want to meet?” I told her, leaning in like a conspirator and dropping my voice a little. “Jesse Oliver.”
    Roux looked unimpressed. “Are you kidding me? You have a bad-boy thing?”
    Honesty was definitely the best policy here. “I tend to thrive in exciting situations.”
    She rolled her eyes. “Jesse’s the equivalent of beige housepaint that thinks it’s really neon pink.” She paused before adding, “But he is cute.”
    The word “beige” made me sit up a little, but not as much as the word “cute.” “So you like him?” I asked. The last thing I needed was a rivalry with some faux-French, knockoff-bagged high school girl over a guy that I didn’t even want in the first place. That sort of thing was just not in my wheelhouse.
    “Oh, God, no.” Roux waved away the idea with her hand. “I’ve known him since we were, like, four.”
    Phew .
    “So will you introduce me?” I asked. I knew I sounded a little eager, but one morning of high school had taught me the importance of getting this assignment over with