TWO

The following day at school, Monsieur DuBois, my French teacher, pairs us all up to do a role- playing exercise. I've dubbed myself Isabelle, while Raina, my partner, is Marie-Claire. We begin by chat- ting about our hobbies and school schedules and then, when Monsieur seems far too preoccupied as he hangs pictures on the wall of various types of French cheese— and Raina and I have reached the limits of our French vocabulary—she tells me (in English) that last year, mid-December, right before the sophomore semifor-mal, she was the new kid, too.

"It seriously sucks having to leave your whole life

behind," she says, weaving her espresso-dark hair into a long, thick braid at the side of her head. I nod, thinking about my friends back home, wondering what they're doing right now.

And if they're missing me, too.

"So, I notice you haven't really been hanging with

anyone," Raina continues. "I saw you sitting by yourself in the cafeteria the other day. That's social suicide, you know. If left untreated, it can lead to social roadkill."

"Roadkill?"

She nods, still braiding her hair, trying to get all the layers woven in, despite the plethora of barrettes she's got adorning the top of her head. "It's a killer for the social life—sets you up for the rest of your high school career, especially being midyear, you know. Everybody's already cliqued-off."

"Cliqued-off?"

"Yeah," she says, her brown eyes bulging slightly like it comes as a big, fat shock that I don't quite get her lingo—especially since we're both supposedly speaking in our native tongue now. "Everybody's already settled into their cliques," she explains. "People will see you as a loner. I mean, unless you want to be alone. . . ."

"I hadn't exactly given it much thought."

"Well, you should," she says. "Because there isn't much time."

I feel my face scrunch, as clueless to her philosophy as I am to her vocabulary.

"Want my opinion?" she asks.

I open my mouth to switch the subject, to ask about the next homework assignment, but then Raina gives me her opinion anyway: "Why sulk about a bad move to East Bum Suck, Massachusetts, a whole hour and twelve minutes' drive from Boston . . . ? On a good day, that is. Bottom line: You should totally hang out with Craig and me."

At the same moment, a boy with brown spiky hair and a freckly face, who I presume to be Craig, swivels around in his seat. "Did somebody call?"

"Craig, Brenda; Brenda, Craig," she says to intro- duce us.

"Enchanté," Craig says, faking a French accent. "But the name's Jean-Claude until the bell rings."

Raina rolls her eyes and then gives Craig the low- down on my "situation," turning my new-kid status into a sociological diagnosis. According to her, I've only got another week, tops, to bounce back from my loner status before I'm permanently branded a dweeb.

"Don't mind Raina," Craig says, clearly sensing my discomfort. "She tends to get a little carried away by social politics."

"Whatever . . ." Raina says, wrapping a rubber band around the end of her braid, having finally gotten it just so. "You know I'm totally right."

Craig shrugs and focuses back on me. "So, what do you say? Table for trois, starting tomorrow?" "You're such a cheese-ass," Raina says, undoubtedly referring to his French.

"Sounds good." I smile, confident that this is the first time I've felt somewhat normal since I moved here.