“Merci, Monsieur Boutin.”

I grab our tray. “No Pop-Tarts No Cocoa Puffs I’m, like, total y offended.”

“Pop-Tarts are Tuesdays, Eggo waffles are Wednesdays, but they never, ever serve Cocoa Puffs. You shal have to settle for Froot Loops Fridays instead.”

“You know a lot about American junk food for a British dude.”

“Orange juice Grapefruit Cranberry” I point to the orange, and he pul s two out of the case. “I’m not British. I’m American.”

I smile. “Sure you are.”

“I am.You have to be an American to attend SOAP, remember”

“Soap”

“School of America in Paris,” he explains. “SOAP.”

Nice. My father sent me here to be cleansed.

We get in line to pay, and I’m surprised by how efficiently it runs. My old school was all about cutting ahead and incensing the lunch ladies, but here everyone waits patiently. I turn back just in time to catch his eyes flicker up and down my body. My breath catches. The beautiful boy is checking me out.

He doesn’t realize I’ve caught him. “My mum is American,” he continues smoothly. “My father is French. I was born