New Girl

The First Day

 My mother had hung up the uniform on my door. We hadn't installed any furniture yet although my mother had begged my father to do so as he was always going back and forth from home to London. It was a typical fancy school uniform: plaid red skirt, white shirt with a black jumper and a red tie. I slipped on the outfit with the same unenthusiastic mindset. I couldn't help but swear at every article of clothing. The shoes were the most terrible part. Yes, we had to wear special black polished leather shoes. The same my father wears to work. They were horrendous. I felt like a clown as they could only find a single size bigger than my size. Yes a 39 for 38 shoe size. It made a difference, I could feel my feet float. 

 I sighed at the bags under my eyes. Despite my most stern restrictions, I had managed to let myself feel anxious. Why? I had always been able to control my emotions. Now, all of a sudden, it was like I was losing this power of control. It was terrifying. I had not gotten a minute of sleep. My parents had sent us off to bed the moment we had arrived. The house seemed haunted. It was so wide and empty. Smelling of dried wood and smoke. Someone had burnt a fire recently. Probably my father to heat up the house two days prior to our arrival, before he picked us up from Paris. I missed the smell of my old house. The gentle smell of fresh linen, the familiar Martin family smell. And now, they expected me to sleep in a stranger house. The one that did not have my yearly measurements on the wall, my concealed drawings under my desk, my little reading spots behind the cupboard. But on the glass mirror, there I was. The same pale complexion and green eyes. It was me, and I would never change.

My chest hurt. My neck hurt. My toes were cold. London was so dreary. I had not opened the blinds for I knew the light would blind me. I had washed my face and brushed my teeth in complete darkness. The power wasn't even working. I had lit the fireplace in my bedroom at night, but the fire was only a dying flame. I smelled bad. I could not shower in freezing cold water. I had to wipe my body with baby wipes and I smelled like a baby's bottom that's just gone into security check. As for my hair, I couldn't even straighten it. It was a simple mess of curls and waves. I brushed it out of my face and pulled it into two side braids. My usual makeup, chapstick and Chanel. My mother's old perfume, of course. I could never afford one with my on pocket money. Then I left my bedroom, still shaking.

 I knew I probably had frostbite. Downstairs, the fireplace crackled and my mother had heated breakfast on the mechanic oven. 

"Salut, ma chérie."

I mumbled a hello and sat down beside my father who was reading The Express. I imagined it was the rightwing media of England. 

"You want the book review section?"

"Yes, please!" 

I longed for the book review sections. I could devour books for ages, on the condition that they were the right books. I didn't know how far The Express' reviews suited my literary tastes, but as soon as they rated Zoella's new fiction as low as it should have been, I decided I could trust it. Sylvia Plath as author of the month. Newcomers on the field, mostly boring mystery novels. Some Robert Galbraith had been reviewed mediocre. All the Light We Cannot See, highly recommended. Rupi Kaur for poetry. I cringed. Perhaps, I couldn't wholeheartedly trust it. I shut the section and opened Le Monde on my cell phone. News from France would help ease the tension in my chest, I thought.

"Do you want butter with the jam?" asked my mother, placing two toasted breads on my plate. She had switched to multigrain organic brown bread now, twelve percent fat butter and low-cal strawberry jam.

"I'll have eggs, thanks." I answered plainly, scrolling through political cases.

"We don't have eggs, chérie." she replied. "We've only got jam, bread and butter."