Here is everything I know about France: Madeline
and Amélie and Moulin Rouge. The Eiffel Tower and the
Arc de Triomphe, although I have no idea what the
function of either actually is. Napoleon, Marie
Antoinette, and a lot of kings named Louis. I’m not
sure what they did either, but I think it has something
to do with the French Revolution, which has something
to do with Bastille Day. The art museum is called the
Louvre and it’s shaped like a pyramid and the Mona
Lisa lives there along with that statue of the woman
missing her arms. And there are cafés or bistros or
whatever they call them on every street corner. And
mimes. The food is supposed to be good, and the
people drink a lot of wine and smoke a lot of
cigarettes.
I’ve heard they don’t like Americans, and they
don’t like white sneakers.
A few months ago, my father enrolled me in
boarding school. His air quotes practically crackled
over the phone line as he declared living abroad to be a
“good learning experience” and a “keepsake I’d
treasure forever.” Yeah. Keepsake. And I would’ve
pointed out his misuse of the word had I not already
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been freaking out.
Since his announcement, I’ve tried yelling,
begging, pleading, and crying, but nothing has
convinced him otherwise. And now I have a new
student visa and a passport, each declaring me: Anna
Oliphant, citizen of the United States of America. And
now I’m here with my parents—unpacking my
belongings in a room smaller than my suitcase—the
newest senior at the School of America in Paris.
It’s not that I’m ungrateful. I mean, it’s Paris. The
City of Light! The most romantic city in the world! I’m
not immune to that. It’s just this whole international
boarding school thing is a lot more about my father
than it is about me. Ever since he sold out and started
writing lame books that were turned into even lamer
movies, he’s been trying to impress his big-shot New
York friends with how cultured and rich he is.
My father isn’t cultured. But he is rich.
It wasn’t always like this. When my parents were
still married, we were strictly lower middle class. It was
around the time of the divorce that all traces of
decency vanished, and his dream of being the next
great Southern writer was replaced by his desire to be
the next published writer. So he started writing these
novels set in Small Town Georgia about folks with
Good American Values who Fall in Love and then
contract Life-Threatening Diseases and Die.
I’m serious.
And it totally depresses me, but the ladies eat it
up. They love my father’s books and they love his
cable-knit sweaters and they love his bleachy smile and
orangey tan. And they have turned him into a
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bestseller and a total dick.
Two of his books have been made into movies
and three more are in production, which is where his
real money comes from. Hollywood. And, somehow,
this extra cash and pseudo-prestige have warped his
brain into thinking that I should live in France. For a
year. Alone. I don’t understand why he couldn’t send
me to Australia or Ireland or anywhere else where
English is the native language. The only French word I
know is oui, which means “yes,” and only recently did I
learn it’s spelled o-u-i and not w-e-e.
At least the people in my new school speak
English. It was founded for pretentious Americans who
don’t like the company of their own children. I mean,
really. Who sends their kid to boarding school? It’s so
Hogwarts. Only mine doesn’t have cute boy wizards or
magic candy or flying lessons.
Instead, I’m stuck with ninety-nine other
students. There are twenty-five people in my entire
senior class, as opposed to the six hundred I had back
in Atlanta. And I’m studying the same things I studied
at Clairemont High except now I’m registered in
beginning French.
Oh, yeah. Beginning French. No doubt with the
freshmen. I totally rock.
Mom says I need to lose the bitter factor, pronto,
but she’s not the one leaving behind her fabulous best
friend, Bridgette. Or her fabulous job at the Royal
Midtown 14 multiplex. Or Toph, the fabulous boy at
the Royal Midtown 14 multiplex.
And I still can’t believe she’s separating me from
my brother, Sean, who is only seven and way too young
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to be left home alone after school. Without me, he’ll
probably be kidnapped by that creepy guy down the
road who has dirty Coca-Cola towels hanging in his
windows. Or Seany will accidentally eat something
containing Red Dye #40 and his throat will swell up and
no one will be there to drive him to the hospital. He
might even die. And I bet they wouldn’t let me fly
home for his funeral and I’d have to visit the cemetery
alone next year and Dad will have picked out some
god-awful granite cherub to go over his grave.
And I hope Dad doesn’t expect me to fill out
college applications to Russia or Romania now. My
dream is to study film theory in California. I want to be
our nation’s greatest female film critic. Someday I’ll be
invited to every festival, and I’ll have a major
newspaper column and a cool television show and a
ridiculously popular website. So far I only have the
website, and it’s not so popular. Yet.
I just need a little more time to work on it, that’s
all.
“Anna, it’s time.”
“What?” I glance up from folding my shirts into
perfect squares.
Mom stares at me and twiddles the turtle charm
on her necklace. My father, bedecked in a peach polo
shirt and white boating shoes, is gazing out my
dormitory window. It’s late, but across the street a
woman belts out something operatic.
My parents need to return to their hotel rooms.
They both have early morning flights.
“Oh.” I grip the shirt in my hands a little tighter.
Dad steps away from the window, and I’m
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Falling in love with Lara
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