Abstract

Chapter 1

(Short first chapter! Sorry!)

The door to my apartment complex is a deep jade, worn down, and laced with gold. I find my new key, opening the door. 

The stairs up to apartment number seven are old, to say the least. They are smelly, laced slightly with mold, and uneven, causing me to slip and drop my purse, scattering my belongings onto the stairs. 

"Crap," I mutter, gathering my things. 

If these stairs are any indication of my apartment, I should be wary. 

I finally find my flat, setting down my lugagge and grabbing my keys from my pocket again. The door looks exactly the same as the one outside. 

When I open the door, I find myself looking at my new living room. It's decorated in pink and white, with candles sitting on the coffee table. The living room is bland, leaving me a lot of area to decorate. The floors are a deep wood, contrasting against the light funiture. 

The kitchen is small, for the French never eat in. They constantly go out, smoking, partying, eating, drinking. Unlike in America, they party on the weekdays, even though most have work the very next day. French culture is odd, compared to my small town life-style. 

I go to check the bedroom, finding it just as pretty as the living room. They colors are the same, and I even have my own windows with little flower boxes, just like the movies. The bedspread on the queen-sized bed is beautiful, along with the frame. 

The bathroom, though, is a light blue color. There is a shower, a small sink, and one toilet. Like the bedroom, there is a small flowerbox on the windowsill.

My view consits of a view of a dark alleyway, but I don't mind. 

I open a few other doors, finding a washing-machine, but no dryer. After looking around, I find a clothes-line outside of my window. It's not ideal, but I don't mind.

A knock sounds on my door, suprising me. I go to open it, finding a woman standing in front of me.

"Bonjour! Welcome to the neighborhood!" She says. Her English is good, but her accent is strong.  She looks around ten years older than me. 

"Thank you," I say. 

"I'm Aimeé, your downstairs neighbour. I also run the wineshop on the bottom floor," Even though her smile is kind, her eyes are tired. 

"It's nice too meet you, I'm Adella." I go to shake her hand, but quickly remember that they don't do that here. 

"Beautiful name, beautiful girl. Oh, before I forget, this is for you." She hands me a bottle of wine, wrapped in a fancy holder that desplays a drawing of the Eiffle Tower. 

I go to take it, and she reluctantly hands it to me. "You're over 18 I presume?"

"Yes," I smile, holding the wine with both hands. 

Aimeé returns my grin. "Well, if you have any questions about the apartment, the neighbours, or the city, feel free to ask me. I can even give you a tour once you're settled in." 

"Thank you, for the wine and for the greeting." 

"Absolutely no problem. And if you are ever in a shortage of wine, come on by. I can give you a discount." She winks, and I bid her farewell as she walks downstairs. 

The French tend to not like Americans. They find it irritating how they are always touring the city, asking questions about the language, and taking up space in general. Americans who know French aren't as annoying to them, but Aimeé seems nice. 

When I went to Paris with my family at the age of 13, I dreampt of one day being able to spend my life there. That drove me to become fluent in the language. 

I unpack my things, leaving them in my small closet. The size of my apartment doesn't matter much to me, I'm just happy that I found a place to stay so close to the start of school.

My mother told me that I would not be able to bring everything I own, so I picked my favorite items of clothing. She told me that I could replace everything else, for Paris is the capitol of fashion. 

I know my mom doesn't want me to become an author. She and my father would both rather have me become a doctor or a lawyer, like them. A writer to them is just a silly idea, but it's what I love to do. They want me to eventually have as much money as they both do, but money doesn't mean much to me. Sure, it's nice to shop and get nice things, but it's not essential to me like it is to them. School starts in a month, leaving me time to get settled in. 

I get most of my unpacking done, leaving a little bit for the morning. 

Before I go to bed, I write down items on my to-do list. 

• Go shopping. Buy clothes, water, snacks, and phone chargers. 

• Finish unpacking.

• Introduce myself to other neighbours. 

• Get a car. 

My mom gave me a budget to buy a car with, but I don't need an actual car. I'll probably end up with a scooter. There's no room for big cars. Most people don't even have garages. 

I change into my pajamas, scrolling through the chanels on the televison. My plane ride was nearly nine hours, and I had to sit in the middle seat the whole time. Most of the televison shows are in French, but I find some black and white cartoons to drift off to sleep to. 

•.•.•.•.•

I sit up, gasping to myself. For a quick moment I forget where I am, before realizing on laying on my own couch. 

A loud bang had sounded from upstairs, followed with a male voice cursing in English. It was too loud to just be a lamp falling off of a table. 

"The hell?" I ask myself, standing up. 

I open the door quietly, tip-toeing up the stairs. Since they're so uneven, I trip, scraping my knee. 

Eventually I reach the apartment, knocking on the door to the penthouse. 

I ask through the door, "Bonjour, est ce que ça va?" Hello, is everything okay? 

Another crash, followed by the phrase, "Va te faire foutre! Laissez-moi tranquille!" Fuck off! Leave me alone!

I back away slowly from the door, running down the stairs. I trip again, falling onto my knees, before locking myself in my apartment. 

I'm unsure what caused me to rush to the strangers aid. I've never met him, and Aimeé didn't mention him when she introduced herself. 

It's suddenly cold in my tiny new apartment, and I shut the windows quickly.