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face, isn’t it?”
    â€œIsn’t that the point?” I replied, also whispering. “You know, to make people think twice about eating meat?”
    â€œWell, if that’s your point . . . ,” Jacob said. Now he was directing his fishy look at me .
    â€œNo!” I blurted. “Not even close. I’m not even veg—”
    I clamped my mouth shut just in time. I glanced over Jacob’s shoulder at the kitchen.
    â€œThere’s more food up there, I hope?”
    â€œYup,” Jacob said, putting his casserole onto the table with a thunk. “I’ll help you.”
    As we walked toward the window, he added, “I’m glad it’s not just, like, salad, aren’t you?”
    â€œI’m going to reserve my answer until after I’ve tasted the casserole,” I said. We reached the kitchen. The vegetarian food was placed on the left edge of the window’s counter, far from theplatters of crispy chicken parts. I gave the fried meat a longing stare before grabbing some coleslaw and a basket of rolls. Jacob got a bowl of pickled beets and some deviled eggs.
    â€œSo, Annabelle’s your roommate, right?” Jacob asked as we began wending our way back through the crowded dining hall. At this point, the torturous smell of the chicken was practically tangible. I found myself dodging plumes of the aroma, the way you sidestep travelers in a busy airport.
    â€œYeah,” I answered. “She seems cool. Very . . . informative.”
    â€œShe kind of reminds me of my older sister,” Jacob said. “Last summer, before she started her freshman year at Cornell, she acted like she had a PhD in life. It was like she knew everything about everything. One month in, she started calling my parents and crying about how dumb she felt.”
    I snorted. “Well, that story’s encouraging-slash-discouraging,” I said.
    â€œI was going for funny-hyphen-sympathetic,” Jacob said, “but I’ll take encouraging-slash-discouraging.”
    Then he smiled at me.
    It was such a bright smile, it made me wonder if he’d stopped thinking of me as my grandmother’s handbag.
    Just before we reached our table, I glanced at the basket of fluffy Parker House rolls in my hand.
    â€œWhite bread,” I reported to Jacob. “I have a feeling Annabelle’s not going to like this. She seems like a sprouted wheat kind of girl.”
    â€œMaybe it would help if she made a sandwich out of these,” Jacob said, holding up his tray of deviled eggs. “If you ask me, mayonnaise makes everything taste better.”
    â€œThen you’ll feel right at home here,” I said. “We definitely have a bit of a mayo fixation in the South.”
    â€œI guess it goes with the twang?” Jacob said.
    â€œWell, that I wouldn’t know,” I said. “Since I don’t have a twang.”
    We’d arrived at our table. As he put down his serving dishes and took a seat, Jacob raised one eyebrow at me.
    â€œWhat?” I demanded, sitting down myself. Only after I scooched my chair in and grabbed my napkin did I realize that I’d plunked myself into the chair next to Jacob’s, even though there were three other open seats at the table, including one next to Annabelle. It had felt so natural, I hadn’t even thought about it.
    Meanwhile, Jacob was still doing that skeptical eyebrow thing.
    â€œEx cuse me, I do not have a twang,” I said. “Twangs are country, and I’ve lived in a big city my whole life. Now Nanny— she’s got the twang.”
    â€œListen, I love Southern accents,” Jacob said, unfolding his napkin. “They’re kind of musical, aren’t they? There’s a rhythm to all those extra syllables. And ‘y’all.’ How awesome is ‘y’all’?”
    I grinned and rolled my eyes.
    â€œOh, you Northerners,” I teased. “You think