Glacia grabs some salad, then pours herself a glass of Armici Tea. It puts off a scent like sour perfume. Wallace Emerson has ice cream of the same flavor at his plaza in Cornell, and that stuff is strong. Glacia dunks her seafood into some marmalade and bites down. Next thing I know, she’s gagging and spluttering all over the place. She squeezes her eyes shut and contorts her face in disgust. Several people at our table stare as she forces herself to swallow.

“Don’t mix those,” she manages to say, waving her finger between the marmalade and shrimp.

I roll my eyes when she turns back to her food. It’s called steak sauce for a reason.

Duh.

Somebody taps my shoulder. I glance sideways: the guy with ginger curls is eyeing up me and Glacia. His hands are balled into fists because his fingers are so greasy.

“Where you from?” he asks.

“Cornell,” I say.

“I’m from Holistead. Name’s Jeremy Pilkins.”

He’s about to say something else, but his gaze snaps across the room. It takes me a second to realize he’s sizing up a brunette girl three tables away who stood up to wave at a friend.

“Oy, over there.”

Jeremy nudges the blond-haired guy he was talking to a minute ago, who blatantly ignores him and keeps talking with the two girls sitting on his other side.

“Why do I even try?” Jeremy says, shooting the blond guy an offended look.

His gaze moves to the crustaceans splayed out on the tray in front of Glacia. He reaches across me and grabs three shrimps, which he immediately stuffs in his mouth and mashes between his teeth.

“What’d shoo guys geh on da Repor?” he says as he chews.

I stare at him. This guy is something else.

“Arman got a perfect score.”

Glacia acts like it’s no big deal that I aced Undil’s notoriously tedious Placement Report. Yes, I got a perfect score, and no, it wasn’t easy. Thanks for eavesdropping on my conversation.

Now go make your own friends.

Jeremy’s jaw drops and some mush falls into his lap. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he struggles to swallow. It looks painful, actually. He must’ve swallowed a shell.

“You’re Arman Lance? I get to sit with you?” He looks around the room. “Where’s, uh…that other guy?”

Glacia points to where Michael is sitting, separated from the others at his table.

“Michael Rafting. He’s a Latecomer.”

“He must know his stuff. The guy’s your only competition.” Jeremy wipes his hands on the napkin, letting the mush fall to the floor. “But you gotta keep the family line going. You’ll be the ambassador, no problem.”

I shrug and tilt my cup forward, trying to decide whether I want more Glowbull.

“What’s that face for?” Jeremy asks, scratching below one of his curls.