“Obviously not.” And it’s true, I didn’t, because I barely glanced at my assignment before now; I didn’t even know it listed a roommate. Given I didn’t know anyone here, I didn’t really care where I ended up. I’d picked Lockwood over Ewing with a rousing game of eenie meeny miney mo, not because it mattered where I slept, or whether my roommate’s name was Chloe or Padma or Talia.

Even Camden Academy itself was a relatively meaningless choice within all the in-state options. I mean, yes, I researched to make sure it had decent academics and extracurriculars, but there was only one criterion I really cared about: it wasn’t Greentree High, which meant I was nowhere near any of the people who’d broken my heart and sent me running for a fresh start where no one knew me and vice versa.

My parents also cared about exactly one criterion—financial aid, which the school kindly provided me—and so Camden it was.

“You’re in the wrong place,” Ginger repeats unhelpfully.

“Yes, we have established that. I was assigned to this room by someone who clearly thought from my name that I was a boy, and they were wrong, and now I need a new room in a girls’ dorm. Are we all caught up?”

Ginger eyes me like I’ve said something extremely shady, but he does it while picking up his super cool walkie-talkie and repeating the scenario to whatever unlucky bastard is on the other side, having to deal with logistical screwups like this in the middle of an already hectic orientation day. Ten minutes of silent standoff later, during which Ginger has to keep darting out to shake parents’ hands and help kids find where they’re going, someone with an even bigger beard—and so I assume more authority—shows up.

“This is a problem,” says Beardy. “Your name is Everett?”

“Evie.”

“What?”

“Evie. I know, the long E isn’t intuitive with Everett’s short E, but it’s what I prefer to be called. Possibly because Everett has a way of landing me in situations like this.”

There’s a gruff acknowledgment, a squint like maybe all the blond from my frizzy cloud of hair has seeped into my brain, and then, “Okay, Evie. Are your parents at the breakfast?”

“They couldn’t make it today. It’s just me.”

He frowns. “And you’re a sophomore transfer?”

“Yes, sir.” I have no idea where the “sir” comes from. It feels like something Archie would say. It might be because in contrast to Ginger’s Bostonian accent, Beardy’s is crisp and bordering on posh, and it demands some propriety. Which is not my strong suit.

It also occurs to me that no one wears name tags in this place. They should really wear name tags at orientation.