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desk, but only one live-in Résidence Director. His name
is Nate, and his apartment is on the first floor. He’s in
graduate school at some university around here. SOAP
must pay him a lot to live with us.
Nate is in his twenties, and he’s short and pale
and has a shaved head. Which sounds strange but is
actually attractive. He’s soft-spoken and seems like the
kind of guy who’d be a good listener, but his tone
exudes responsibility and a don’t-mess-with-me
attitude. My parents loved him. He also has a bowl of
condoms next to his door.
I wonder if my parents saw that.
The freshmen and sophomores are in another
dormitory. They have to share rooms, and their floors
are divided by sex, and they have tons of supervision.
They also have enforced curfews. We don’t. We just
have to sign a log whenever we come and go at night so
Nate knows we’re still alive. Yeah. I’m sure no one ever
takes advantage of this high security.
I drag myself down the hall to use the bathroom.
I take my place in line—there’s always a line, even at
midnight—behind Amanda, the girl who attacked St.
Clair at breakfast. She smirks at my faded jeans and
my vintage Orange Crush T-shirt.
I didn’t know she lived on my floor. Super.
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
Anna and the French Kiss | 48