College of World Affairs: Flawless - New Adult Novel

1. Fresh starts and old baggage

The leather straps of my tote dig into my collarbone, two iced Americanos press against my bladder, and the evaporating YSL Libre on my neck and chest almost suffocates me in the scorching summer heat. And if that wasn't enough, my slim cat-eye sunglasses let in way too much sunlight, forcing me to navigate the high-season tourist crowds half-blinded.

Despite all that, I already love my fresh start.

The first days in a new country are always unique, especially when this new place is set to become home. From the moment I first crossed the Italian border with my parents, the scent of espresso and olive oil, the sugary bite of tiramisu on my tongue, and the sight of fiery pizza ovens burned themselves into my memory. Stepping through the airport body scanner, getting lost in clouds of perfume in Duty-Free, watching planes roll up to the gate, and then slipping into a new culture and language above the clouds—there's nothing I crave more.

Just two weeks ago, I celebrated this next chapter on my parents' balcony, overlooking the Mediterranean and the rustic buildings in southern Nice. And now, here I am on my way to my apartment in Copenhagen, armed with an iced coffee, squinting at a course description on my phone. I nearly step into the bike lane, only stopping just in time. The words are hard to absorb: one of my courses includes a field trip to Columbia University in New York. First Copenhagen, then New York, and someday, hopefully, the rest of the world, once I become an ambassador.

Even though Copenhagen's summer temperatures are lower than those back home on the Côte d'Azur, the narrow, winding streets lack shade, and air conditioning is rare. Every few blocks, I pass huge green park spaces, but the pedestrian zone is like a stone-paved desert. The asphalt practically steams with heat. It's only when I board the crowded metro for a few stops that a refreshing breeze saves my foundation from melting. If I hurry, I can still make it to my shift at the café on time. I leave the glass-and-steel office complexes behind, crossing a bridge that overlooks a canal with small yachts and boats. 

From a distance, I can see that Celeste's café is bustling—every one of the four tables outside in the courtyard, with a view of the narrow waterway and bridge, is taken. I pass by two German tourists, a Danish family with three children, and a woman in a blue dress, absorbed in a Word document on her laptop. On my first shift, I quickly realized how hectic the summer would be, and Celeste tells me outdoor dining will stay busy, heaters blazing, until November. Landing this job was a stroke of luck—my landlady and roommate hired me right into her café.

As I enter the plant-filled courtyard, a girl my age in a cream-colored maxi dress strides toward me.

"Adrianna."

Someone must be right behind me because she's staring straight at my face. I move forward so she and whoever Adrianna is can have their conversation without shouting directly in my ear. I sidestep to search the green metal chairs and floral cushions for Celeste when someone steps right into my path. Harsh sunlight still washes over my vision in a white glare, and I squint as she blocks my way, a hand on her hip, eyes on me. I tilt my head, shading my eyes, and finally see her face.

"Sorry?" It's all I manage, knowing I need to dash upstairs, change, and be back down here in half an hour for my shift.

"What's going on with you?" 

Her gaze on me is unmistakably intense, even through my shaded lenses. She's stepped in sync with me, her irritated expression like my old Italian teacher's when I'd accidentally mix French with Italian. She'd give me that same frown and cross her arms.

I shift to the right, but she blocks me again. Confused, I glance back at her, a few dark strands from my tote caught painfully in my hair. As I free the strands from the leather straps, I try to interpret her look. Do I know her? Is she also at Camden College of World Affairs? As a first-year, I barely know anyone and have spent so little time at Student Union events because of work that I can't place her with any of the student reps. The official orientation doesn't even start until tomorrow.

In the corner of my eye I see no one behind me or near the courtyard entrance. "Are you talking to me?"

"Obviously," she snaps, sweeping a few platinum-blonde strands behind her ear, which is adorned with gold ear cuffs and hoops.

What could she possibly want from me? There's nothing familiar about her—not her radiant cheekbones, ash-blonde hair, or the golden necklace with a whale-tail charm. Her furious stare daunts me into silence.

As I struggle to think of what to say, she continues. "You didn't even tell anyone you were back. After what you did, the least you could've done was text me."

I remain silent.

Could this be one of those bizarre tourist scams? Pretending to know you? Copenhagen isn't exactly famous for scams, beggars, or pickpockets, unlike Paris, London, or Milan. Here, I don't worry about a passing moped snatching my iPhone. Lost scarves and sunglasses are carefully placed on windowsills to help their owners find them again. You never see men spreading fake designer bags on blankets here, and *attenzione pickpocket* is an Italian meme for a reason, not a Danish one.

Still, I hug my shoulder bag closer to my body, an old habit from the south of France. I press it tightly, feeling my iPad against my ribs. If this is some sort of scam, she's not getting anything from me. Though, in her blue-and-white striped Ralph Lauren blouse over a champagne-colored maxi dress and golden Birkenstocks, she hardly fits the profile of a pickpocket. I'm probably being paranoid, but this all feels off.

"Why did you even come back?" she asks accusingly, her gaze sweeping down my figure. Come back? I've never been to Copenhagen before. But she doesn't give me a chance to object."Anyway, brave of you to show up here. Do you have anything to say to me, or did you lose your voice while you were abroad?"

"Well, I—" I start but hesitate to tell that girl I live and work here. That's none of her business. It's strange enough she's speaking English instead of Danish, but her words still make no sense, even in a language I understand. I have no clue what she's talking about. "I really have no idea what you mean. I'm just—"

"You should've thought of something smarter than pretending nothing happened. Can't believe you had the nerve to come back after what you did."

"Okay," I mutter, stepping forward. "I really think you have the wrong person."Apparently, even people in Ralph Lauren can lose their minds now and then.

With a sudden movement, I manage to slip past her, though she grazes my arm, and her diamond bracelet digs a scratch into my forearm. Without glancing back, I stride across the courtyard toward the entrance to my apartment building.

"We're not going to forget what you did," her voice echoes across the courtyard, reaching me even as I close the stairwell door and exhale.

This is definitely not how I pictured my fresh start. But anything's better than being recognized. I'd rather be mistaken for someone else than be known as the person I've worked so hard to leave behind.