my moon, my sun

1

I watched from the platform, the train comes too a stop in front of my face. My hair blows in the wind, the sky above is grey and the people around look exhausted. I smile to myself, wanting to get some this dumb summer over with.

I stood here just days earlier, the excitement of the school coming to an end burning  in everyone's veins.

Not knowing whether they want the school year to be over. Senior year starting especially after the break.

The spoken words in France being ones of which the rest of the world believe are beautiful when in reality it's just another language.

"Are you Jeans daughter?" A tap on my shoulder makes my attention turn to behind me.

"Perfect."

"Je suis Laurie." Her French pronunciation, extremely humorous.

"Your be accent is more prominent then anticipated, you Américano." A streak of unfriendliness seems to come out of nowhere. Am I under pressure?

"Uh, yes I would be surprised if it wasn't very strong. Since I was born and bred America." She jokes. I laugh.

"Well this way, my mothers waiting for our arrival. We live quite a way from this station."

"Wonderful." She responds, grabbing her luggage in one hand, unlike everyone else our age, she has a suitcase, everyone else has backpacks.

I let her lead the way out of the station, her sandy blonde hair at its peak, I assume, as it's summer. The contrast

~~
We drove with the windows open and no seatbelts. Well I would never wear one, people shouldn't feel a need to wear seatbelts. i fear nothing, but even death itself.

We listened to the music of new age pop on the radio, none of my liking but none I detested. My bare feet on the dash board.

"Excited, Laurie?" My mother asks turning to the back seat, looking at the American with friendly eyes, friendlier then the eyes I receive.

"Well, I've never been outside of the US before so, quite." You could hear the birds chirping the sweetest tune through the windshield.

"It's no different to what the US is, I assume. Never been. The people seem to rude." I pipe up, for the first time this whole car ride. It's been about ten minutes.

The journeys an hour, I don't understand why we had to live so far away from the station, my school is on the other side of town and I have to take that train everyday.

"Well you aren't wrong there, Frenchie."

"Call me by my name or none at all." The words came out harder then I anticipated.

No response. I was too rude. Hitting myself in my brain. I throw my hair behind my back, not wanting to see it for a second longer.

"Why do you always have to go and ruin things! c'est notre neuvième américain à rester avec nous et tu trouves encore un moyen pour qu'ils te détestent! this is our ninth American to stay with us and you still find a way for them to hate you!"

My mother starts quietly, but as she changes languages grows louder.

To that I want to say,

I don't want her to hate me, but I am still young. I'm a child, I get annoying to old American white women who stay. I get obsessed. Attached.

But instead I shouted,

"N'est-il pas clair que je ne veux pas que des Américains stupides restent avec nous ! Je veux passer mon été comme tous les autres adolescents de mon âge, ne pas avoir à m'asseoir sur des Américains stupides! Isn't it clear that I don't want stupid Americans to stay with us! I wanna spend my summer like every other teen my age, not having to sit on stupid Americans!"

I didn't mean a word I spoke, but it's better for my mother to never know the truth about my taste in women.

"That is too much!"

"So now you want the American to hear what we say!?"

"Her name is Laurie! Show our guest some respect!"

I turn around, missing her green eyes. But, am greeted to her lying down, on the leather seats. Not even awake to hear our extremely loud conversation about hating her.

"She's not even awake. For gods sake."

We spent the rest of the journey listening to the pop on the radio, not having to change the station once.

I couldn't help myself from turning to check on her, wanting to reach out and took a loose hair behind her ear.

~~
When we step foot into the house, I'm holding her luggage.

My father waits cautiously by the front door, leaning on the oak finish.

"Laurie! I've been rapidly waiting for your arrival!" My father is known for his over using of English words when he speaks the language, even though he has been speaking it 'since he was a boy' he would always say.

My father was always so different from my mother, unlike her, I could tell him a lo of things that my mother would be very disapproving of. This came with pros, and flaws. But mostly pros.

"Jean! I've been so excited to meet you." She runs up to my father, shaking his rough hand vigorously. She smile back at her.

He puts an arm round her shoulder, "My favourite American! Édithe! My favourite American!" He calls my mothers name.

She doesn't even turn around to respond.

"Very nice Jean." She kissed his cheek before walking into the house.

"How much French do you know Laurie?" He asks.

"Father, you should be asking who her tutor is because, disons simplement que ce ñ'est pas le meilleur. Let's just say it's not the best."

I pat his back, before carrying her heavy suitcase up the stairs.

"Wait up!" She calls.

"What does that even mean?"

"It means wait? I guess?"

"What do you want."

"You're dad told me I'm staying in your room so you have to show me the way." She acts like she is so much older than me.

When in reality, we look the same age.

I point to the room across from mine, "I will be staying in there. If you need me I am in there about 98% of the time. The other 1% is I am with friends. Those friends are mine. If you want to meet a certain friend. Ask me first, yes?"

I start to turn away when she calls my name.

"Yes?" I want to stay with her for longer, but that doesn't make my case easier. I really think this women is attractive.

"What about the other 1%?" She asks.

Truthfully, that one percent is in the bathroom masturbating.

"You'll probably find out if you get to know me." I laugh, before I walk away.

i try to leave her on edge. I try to leave her with a sense of mystery and questioning. I want her to continue thinking of me after we stop speaking. After every small conversation. I want her to think of me after I leave.