“Yeah.”
“Please tell me you live in Brooklyn.”
This question usually annoys me, but somehow it’s different with Zoe; she looks like she’d be genuinely, unironically delighted if I were Brooklyn from Brooklyn. “My parents used to live there, but we live in Manhattan now,” I say. “I think they named me that because they felt bad about abandoning their bohemian roots or whatever.”
“Man, I wish I’d grown up there. I’m from Colorado, and I feel like a total hick. I’ve only seen, like, four shows on Broadway. But I’m moving to the city in the fall, so I’ll make up for it then. You have to tell me all the good places to eat and stuff on the Upper West Side, okay?”
“Totally. I actually live up there, too. Are you going to Columbia?”
“Juilliard,” she says. I’ve heard a lot of people say that word, and it usually comes out sounding stuck-up, but Zoe manages to strike exactly the right balance of excitement and matter-of-factness. She’s not bragging about her talent, but she’s not apologizing for it, either. My heart sinks; she seems really nice, but I doubt she’ll stick around and be my friend once she realizes how vastly different our talent levels are.
“Wow,” I say, trying not to let my disappointment show. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Zoe twists her hair up into a complicated knot, and when she turns around to search her dresser for a ponytail holder, I notice that the entire top of her back is inked with delicate twisting branches and tiny pink blossoms.
“I love your tattoo,” I say. “What kind of flowers are those?”
“Thanks! They’re cherry blossoms. In Japan, they symbolize that life is beautiful but short, so you should take advantage of every day.” She gives me a sheepish smile. “I know it’s kind of cheesy. Mostly I just like how they look.”
“No, that’s cool. Did it hurt?”
“Yeah, it totally sucked—it felt like being stung by a million bees. And I had to go back three different times so they could do the shading.”
“Wow,” I say. She must be pretty badass to withstand that much pain for something beautiful. It makes total sense that she’d be a good actor.
“So, you go to Columbia?” Zoe asks.
“Oh, no. I’ve actually got one more year of high school. I’ll probably apply there and to Juilliard, but they’re both long shots.” Just thinking about spending four years under that kind of pressure makes my stomach turn over, but I push the thought away. By the time I’m done with Allerdale, I’ll be able to handle it.
Zoe shrugs. “You never know. That’s what I thought, too. Hey, are you hungry? I think the dining hall opened a couple of minutes ago. If we want to grab something before the company meeting, we should go soon.” I love the way she says “we,” like she automatically wants to eat dinner with me. Maybe it’ll be easier to connect with people here than I thought.
The dining hall is packed when we arrive. Half the people seem to be sitting on each other’s laps, touching each other’s hair, and kissing each other’s cheeks, and it kind of reminds me of the way my family acts. As I pass a table full of girls, one of them squeals, “OH EM GEE, we have the same shoes!” and the other replies, “OH EM GEE, besties!”
Zoe and I get in line for food behind a tall black girl with a poofy cloud of a ponytail and a tiny girl with a blond pixie cut. When we hear them mention Ramsey, we introduce ourselves, and it turns out their room is two doors down from ours. The blonde introduces herself as Livvy, and the other girl says her name is Jessa. When she shakes my hand, she squeezes so hard, it hurts.
Zoe and I each grab two slices of pizza and a side salad. I was kind of afraid nobody here would eat, but it seems like she’s as hungry as I am. When we head into the fray to find an empty table, Livvy and Jessa trail along behind us, and I realize Zoe’s the alpha dog here. I stay close to her, hoping some of her coolness will rub off.
The second we sit down, Zoe crams an enormous bite of pizza crust into her mouth, and I almost laugh—she seems like the kind of person who would eat in small, ladylike bites. “I’m so hungry,” she mumbles around the food. “Denver to New York is four hours, and I got to the airport too late to grab a sandwich.”
Jessa stares at her. “Girl, didn’t anyone ever show you how to eat pizza? You’re supposed to start with the end.”
“But that’s the best part. I like to save it for last.” Zoe shrugs. “My boyfriend always makes fun of me for it, too.”
“Do you eat pie that way?” I ask at the same time that Livvy says, “What’s your boyfriend’s name?”
“His name’s Carlos. And of course I eat pie like this. Who wants to eat pie crust last?”
“That is messed up,” Jessa says, but she’s smiling.