This part doesn’t count. This isn’t my dorm, this isn’t my dorm head, these aren’t my dormmates, and this isn’t my new beginning. Whatever happens in the next hour before they figure out where I’ll be staying … it simply doesn’t count. It’s part of the crappy phase one of my high school life, and phase two begins when my rightful housing does, and not a moment sooner.

The thought is … liberating.

“You make friends fast,” Nirvana Boy says, doing some annoying flicking thing with his nails.

“I’ll teach you my secrets if you ask really nicely.”

He emits a choked snort, as if he did not expect me to amuse him. Not on purpose, anyway. Still, of all the guys I’ve spoken to so far today, I guess he qualifies as the nicest. “I’m Evie.”

I’m spared the barest of glances through the longest set of eyelashes I have ever seen. “Salem.”

“Like the Witch Trials?”

“Exactly like the Witch Trials.” He stretches mile-long legs out in front of him, crossing one scribbled-on Van over the other. “The witch being my twin sister, Sabrina, who spent most of our childhood using me as a test project.”

“I take it you’ve been the subject of more than one of her dabbles in the craft.”

“My sister’s never met a ‘shut my brother up’ spell she didn’t like.”

“And I assume your real name is a CIA-level secret.”

“Nah, just an expensive one.” He rubs his fingertips together, and despite myself, I feel a smile ghost over my lips.

“If it helps, my name’s really Everett, which probably answers your next question.”

He raises an eyebrow, and I watch with fascination as it disappears beneath his dark, shaggy bangs. “I didn’t ask you a first question.”

“Well, there are about sixty people in this room and I’m guessing I’m the only one who shaves with a Venus Embrace. Were you really not wondering what I’m doing in an all-boys dorm?”

“I try to mind my own business.”

“Well, you’re the only one. Anyway, my roommate wasn’t terribly happy about my placement.” I nod subtly toward Archie, who’s glaring daggers at me from across the room, clearly having figured out that I’m not keeping our little secret. “Who’s yours?”

No subtlety for Salem; he just waves a hand in the direction of a cute blond guy with biceps to spare peeking out of the sleeves of his Yankees T-shirt. “They put me with Matt fuckin’ Haley, of all people.”

The name means absolutely nothing to me. “What’s the matter with Matt Haley? Are you a Red Sox fan?”