Amandine Read Free

exactly like the den back in Connecticut. The glass-topped table was centered on the woven rug. The pillows were tipped just so in the window seat. The carved wooden ducks stared from the same height on the bookshelf. My parents were banked in the same positions on the couch, their legs crossed toward each other. And, as always, there were a few cookies left on the plate.
    “Original use of space,” I commented. It was sort of a family joke, since this was one of Mom’s architect-y phrases she used when there was nothing else to say.
    My father laughed. “Ah, but zee proof is in zee details, Inspector.” He spoke in some kind of accent—it was probably a line from a movie; and I laughed along as if I knew which one.
    Lexi Neumann, my best friend back in Connecticut, used to say that if my dad was our age, he’d never want to hang out with us. “Face it,” she told me. “He’s Prince Charming, and we’re more like court jesters.” She was right, it was true. Is true. My father’s charm is powerful. Turned on, the spotlight of his attention warms you from head to feet. Switched off, he can make you feel about as appealing as a pair of old sneakers, as if the only reason you’re around was because there was no place else to toss you. Last week, when I got my physical and my mother reported that Dr. Hurtebeise had suggested I trim down a little, Dad had folded his arms and regarded me with the old-sneakers face.
    “How hard could it be?” he’d asked. “You have to learn to live with a little hunger. How hard could it be, Delia?”
    I didn’t know the answer.
    Tonight, having made the right joke and laughed at his accent, I stood in the full wattage of his spotlight. His smile made me glow, made me warm, and I knew that to take a cookie off the plate was to risk the lights-out, a return of the old-sneakers stare.
    I could live with a little hunger. Of course I could.
    Tuesday, Amandine had saved a place for me in the cafeteria.
    “Delia!” she called, waving me over.
    I felt purposeful and happy as I pushed through the crowd to sit with her. All the previous week, I had been eating lunches with Samantha Blitz, who had been assigned to show me around, and whose patience I was testing. Samantha was the starting center on the freshman girls’ soccer team, and at lunch she always sat with her teammates, who had been perfectly nice and had become perfectly indifferent.
    “Hi.” I slid my tray opposite hers and sat.
    “Do you smell anything?” She leaned forward.
    I sniffed. The air was fruity, spiced with bread and bananas and tacos, the hot lunch special of the day.
    “What should I smell?”
    “I forgot to put on deodorant this morning. I can’t believe I would ever forget a thing like that, I’ve been doing it for so long. I have to shave practically twice a day, too. I’m very developed, that way.”
    I didn’t say anything, though what she had said was tough to believe. Amandine was small and pale and boyish, and she looked younger than fourteen. As if she knew what I was thinking, she reached behind into her backpack and pulled out a black glasses case, snapped it open, then slipped on a pair of hexagonal wire-rimmed glasses.
    “Nonprescription,” she informed me. “Don’t they make me look older?” She tilted her head from one side to another, modeling.
    It seemed important for her that I answer yes, so I did.
    “You watch,” she said, running a speculative finger over the frame. “This shape’ll be, like, a total trend by next week. Kids always copy me, I don’t know why. DeWolf’s got a lot of followers. Were kids here the same as in your old school? A sheep herd?”
    “Maybe. But kids here seem nicer.” I shrugged. “Alford has a softer aesthetic.” I didn’t know what aesthetic meant, exactly, but I’d heard my mother say that to someone on the phone. “That’s why we moved. It’s a good place for my dad to start his own business and be his own boss, blah blah blah.” I