0758269498 by Eve Marie Mont Page B

that scholarship, aren’t you?”
    “Definitely,” I said. “Aren’t you?”
    She shook her head. “I have no desire to rub shoulders with a bunch of snotty Gallic prep school kids. Everyone chain-smoking and quoting Baudelaire all the time? No, thank you.”
    I laughed. “Well, I’m in love with the idea. I’m going to type up my letter of interest and get it to Favier this afternoon. I’m not taking any chances on this one.”
    “You shouldn’t,” she said. “Elise will be gunning for it.”
    “Don’t remind me. I feel like no matter where I turn, she’s always there.”
    Jess was nodding; she knew exactly what I was talking about. “Hey, what are you doing this weekend?” she said.
    “I’ll have to check my calendar,” I said. “My social life is a whirlwind of activity.” Jess grinned. “Why? Did you have something in mind?”
    “Want to get out of this place? Like, go into Waverly or something? I’ve been meaning to get my roots touched up.”
    I studied the crown of her head and saw that her natural brown hair was indeed growing in. “I would love that,” I said.
    She glanced over at my hair, her brows knitting together. “You know, I think you ought to do something with your hair, too.”
    “What’s wrong with my hair?”
    “Nothing. You just need a change. A symbolic break.”
    “A break from what?”
    “More like who?” she said, wagging her eyebrows knowingly. “This weekend, I’m taking you to Salon Axis. And we’re going thrift shopping for some new clothes.” I looked at her skeptically. “You’re going to forget about Gray, and we’re going to set you up with someone new. Now that Owen and Michelle have broken up, maybe you could—”
    “Don’t even say it,” I said. “Way too complicated. Even if I thought of Owen as more than a friend—which I don’t—it would never work. There’s too much history there. And of course, there’s Michelle.”
    “Why are you going out of your way to protect Michelle’s feelings when she won’t even talk to you?” she said.
    I shrugged and shook my head, but she had a point. “How about you and Flynn?” I said. “You two have that love-hate thing going.”
    She laughed a little too loudly. “Flynn? Are you serious?”
    “What? You guys seem to flirt a lot.”
    “It’s not flirting,” she said. “I assure you.”
    “Okay, okay.”
    She laughed again like the idea was absurd. As much as I disliked Flynn, he was easy on the eyes, and he had that whole rebel-without-a-cause vibe that was pretty much catnip to girls my age. If he wasn’t such an asshat, I might have had a thing for him myself.
    That Saturday, as planned, Jess and I stood waiting in front of Easty Hall for the highly unreliable shuttle. With any luck, by this time next year I’d be driving my dad’s Volvo, which I’d have to wash and scrub within an inch of its life to get out the fish smell. The car was a boat—long, bulky, and pumpkin orange. But I didn’t care. As a senior with wheels, I would no longer be a prisoner at Lockwood. I could take off every weekend, drive anywhere in the country. Briefly, I allowed myself to entertain the fantasy of visiting Gray in North Carolina before my stupid subconscious realized the error.
    “Terre à Emma,” Jess said.
    “Huh?”
    “You were off in the clouds again. Please tell me you weren’t thinking of a certain muscular Coast Guardian.”
    “No,” I said. “But it would help if you wouldn’t remind me how muscular he is.”
    “Fair enough,” she said.
    “I was just thinking what it would be like to have a car next year. All the cool stuff we’d be able to do.”
    “Hello,” she said. “You’re not going to be here, remember? You’re going to be in Paris, eating chocolate croissants and drinking too much wine and maybe developing a fashion sense.”
    I scoffed and rolled my eyes, conjuring up the image of Elise in pinstripes again, Parisian Barbie.
    The shuttle finally arrived and took us