Chapter Text
She sat in the front row of the auditorium. She didn’t know why but her hands were shaking. When she had received the letter in the mail last year telling her she was chosen to attend the newly founded W Academy, flourishing with creativity and culturally diverse, she was all for it, without a second thought. She was (Race/Ethnicity), which added to the schools goal of intercultural competence.She re-read the letter over three hundred times, she remembers what it said by heart,“You have been meticulously selected to attend our school for your junior and senior year of high school for your exceling intellect, standout creativity, and cultural individuality.” W Academy seemed like such a good idea until she was finally seated in the school on orientation day.
The boy sitting to her right didn’t seem to let the nerves get to him as much, despite having to walk up on stage and say something about himself before everyone else. Her last name was B____ so she figured everyone was in alphabetical order, so his last name had to start with an A or B. He intimidated her, he had sharp, blue eyes and blonde, slicked back hair like he was going to war. He was the type of guy you’d find leading a sports team to victory, or perhaps even a debate team. She could tell he was intelligent without even talking to him. She wondered what his nationality was, he was so fair. She guessed Germany, or perhaps Denmark, but she had remembered meeting a boy on her way in who had been from the latter. She kept shooting looks up at him though. The more she stared, the more she realized his composure was falsified. She could see his jaw clench and unclench, strong, eroded hands clutching onto the arm rests. Not even the strongest could outrun anxiety, so it seemed. Maybe he was going to war with himself. After several more minutes of sitting in silence, _____ wondered perhaps the reason she kept staring up at him was coming from a more romantic pursuit. She had to admit, the boy next to her was rather handsome, she heard a voice of one of her friends in the back of her mind screaming, “that jawline could cut my chicken in half!” Perhaps, she wondered, she could start a conversation with him, though he didn't look like the conversing type. That, and she had let her own nerves get to her too much, grotesquely stretching her arms behind her head every so often in attempts to pacify the roiling of stomach. After the fifteenth time of doing this, she had started to count, the person to her left tapped her on her shoulder.
“You’re a freak of nature.” The voice came out slow and sultry, although it seemed as if it wasn’t intended. The boy talking was a mature one, long blonde hair complimenting a stubbled jawline, blue eyes, not sharp like the other boys, but cool, comforting, the sky after a summer storm, spring vacation to Miami. His accent was thick, yet smooth, French, she could tell by the way he hardened his r’s. She studied him for a moment, then laughed.
“Yeah, I get that a lot. I can go all the way around, if you want to see that.” The boy with the spring vacation eyes blinked, then nodded, almost disgusted, almost intrigued. She proceeded to hook her hands together behind her back, then pull them all the way over her head, shoulder popping, so they came all the way to the front, hands never breaking apart. She heard him gasp, dramatically at that, and mutter a quick, “mon dieu!”
“Oui, je suis dégoûtant, je connais.” she laughed.
Spring Vacation Eyes laughed along. “Est-ce que tu parles francais, mon cher? J’ai pensé que j’ai été le seul!”
“Yeah.” ____ said switching back to English. “It’s not a preference, though. My accent isn’t that spectacular. I’m (ethnicity), by the way.”
“(ethnicity)? I’m French! So that means at one point in history, I owned you, right?” He hummed.
“You didn't own me, your government was imperialist trash.” She hummed back, leaning towards him as he did to her. “And if asking me if you owned me at one point is your way of flirting, buddy, I think you need a (ethnicity) to own you.” ____ just smirked at him, expecting him to roll his eyes and turn away, most boys did when they learned she had a sharp tongue. Spring Vacation Eyes just smiled.
“Ah, that’s what I like to hear, now.” He looked at her with the kind of smile you can't control. “My names Francis Bonnefoy, I’m glad we could meet.”
“_______ ________, likewise, my guy.”
“So, where’d you come from? You don’t have much of an accent at all.” He asked, turning toward her so that one of his legs was propped atop the other.
“Eh, I live like thirty minutes away from here, (neighborhood) area. I’m not fresh off the boat like most of the rest of you are, I’m first generation, though.”
“Oui, I see, I see. I moved to the east side when I was eight, so I’m still aggressively French, if you ask me.” He shrugged. ____ found herself being very attracted towards his eyes. She deduced that he must’ve been some sort of casanova playboy at his old school, intending to flirt with her and make his move to regain his name at this new school. She had to admit, he was attractive, but she knew there was something else hiding behind those eyes.
“I would say, all you’re missing is the pungent body odor through, yikes.”
Francis laughed at this. “So you’ve been to France?”
“Yup. When I was five I was stuck on a tram with a bunch of sweaty people, and I got stuck right behind man wearing a heavy fur coat in the summer, I can still smell it.” She grimaced at the thought, and Francis grimaced with her. He knew that smell all too well.
“You poor thing.”
“I know.” She laughed. “I love France, though. There's just something about it that makes you feel-”
“Like time doesn’t exist.” Francis interrupted, but ___ only nodded.
“Yeah, you’re right.”
The two hit it off, then, ___ didn't even know how. He was able to pick up on her cynical sense of humor and add to it and by the time the house lights dimmed, they had been talking as if they had known each other for years.
“I ‘ave to introduce you to my friends after. Gilbert, ah, do you see the smaller guy sitting behind Luddy next to you?” Francis added at one point. Ah, so the anxious guy was German, Ludwig, she assumed. She leaned a bit to find an albino boy sitting next to him, white hair like a sick man, red eyes like a devil. His veins were visible through the softness of his neck and the black clothing he wore brought it out even more. To one, he would look terrifying, but to ___, in that moment, thought he was something spectacular.
“Yeah, I see him.”
“Creepy ass guy, we love ‘im. I’m sure you will too. ‘im and Ludwig are brothers, despite looking so different.”
“Really?”
“I know, right? They’re really different personality wise too, you’ll find out eventually. Then there’s Antonio, ‘e’s further down that way.” Francis said, jerking his thumb to his left. She leaned forward to see who he had been referring to, and instantly, he looked up and made eye contact with her. His honey eyes widened and he smiled, shooting a pang through her chest. “He radiates sunlight off of ‘im, it won’t be ‘ard to point ‘im out. Such a joy, but a bit of an airhead, if you ask me.” Francis laughed into his fist. She was half listening to Francis as she smiled back.
“Aren’t you friends with him, though?”
“You don’t talk shit about your friends?”
“Ye-eah, good point.”
As if on a miraculous queue, the dean of the school took to the stage, starting his ramble about the students in front of him were the city's “brightest and best juniors.” ____ noticed that Francis shot looks at her every so often. It worried her. Then, sooner or later, one by one each student filed up on stage, said their name, nationality, major (for the school was arts based and made you choose an elective to base that around) and an interesting fact about yourself. The first to go up was Gilbert, or at least she thought that’s what his name was.
She watched him clear his throat into the mic, then start his speech with a facade of unwavering confidence, but she caught how his eyebrow twitched.
“Hello, my name is Gilbert Beilschmidt, if you couldn't tell by the thick accent, I’m German.” At this, he made eye contact with her, then winked. She had to stifle the urge to laugh. A character, he was. “Uhm, I’m majoring in modern music, and one cool fact? Gott, there's just too many.” With this he winked at the dean and walked offstage. Francis next to her applauded loudly, shouting out an, “I love you Gibert!” in a feminine voice. Further down, Antonio howled. She couldn't help but smile at the slightest.
Next up was Ludwig. ____ noticed he dressed a lot nicer than Gilbert did. Gilbert wore something close to her style, ripped black skinny jeans and a faded “The Clash” tee-shirt. Ludwig, however, dressed in what looked to be a uniform, a forest green polo sweater atop of khaki pants and oxfords. She found their differences amusing. He got up to the mic and pulled it up to match his height. Despite being the same age as his brother, Ludwig was a tower, six feet at the least.
“Hello, my name is Ludwig Beilschmidt. Likewise to my brother, I am German. I’m majoring in writing, and in 2017 I won an award from Harvard University for my essay on the politics behind World War Two.” His words and accent were thick, and despite it being such nonchalant words he was speaking, they cut straight through ___. She could see Ludwigs face was the slightest bit red, yet his voice had never faltered, never skewed, he stood there and said what he needed to say, then left. A natural born leader type.
Just as Ludwig was leaving the stage, his eyes met hers for a moment It wasn;t until then that ____ notices that she was gawking at him. She was prone to flushing and, in this moment she did, her gaze lingering for another split second before she shook her head away. His eyes were taunting, the sharp blueness cutting more holes inside her. She got mad at herself, she told herself she would shake her vice when she arrived.
Before Ludwig could sit down, she had bolted out of her seat to save her from any mre embarrassment, though she could feel him staring. As she walked up the steps of the stage, she looked herself over. God, she thought, she must’ve looked so stupid in her yellow sundress and patched jean jacket, especially after Ludwig looked like such a professional. Even her hippie punk boots she loved so much looked a bit stupid under the light of the ornate stage. She took to the microphone, tilting it downward for Ludwig before her was much, much taller than she.
“Hi! My name is _____ _______.” She said, her voice trying to remain as smooth as possible. She figured she probably sounded pretentious, but she didn’t quite mind. “I’m (ethnicity). I’m majoring in writing, and I’m actually an indie author! Uhm, though I do have a novel out out, ah, Flower Through Disarray, I also wrote that one poetry book that everybody of tumblr seems to love, not Milk and Honey, the other one."
This made people start muttering. Well, what did they expect? A quirky girl like her to get into this academy based on nationality alone? She was vindictive, witty, she was that _____ ______, the coffeeshop poet writer that made other indie authors shake. She made eye contact with Francis this time who gaped, mouthing, “You’re the same _____ ______?” At her, only for her to smile, nod and wink.
When she returned to her seat, Francis was next to go up, not without gaping at her again, though.
“Bonjour! My name is Francis Bonnefoy, I’m French and I’m majoring in art, ah, painting specifically. Perhaps I get my talent from my great-great uncle, Claude Monet.” With this he smiled rather flirtatiously. Then walked off stage to sit dramatically back down.
“I ugly cried reading your book.” He hissed into her ear. “You’re a powerful, dangerous ‘uman being and you broke my spirit.” She laughed at this.
“Why, thank you?”
“No, seriously, I ‘ate you. ‘Ow did you even come up with such a story?”
“Anger towards society and general love for culture.” She shrugged.
A few more people went, one being a spunky girl from Seychelles, her dreadlocks so big they seemed almost surreal. She wore bangles and skipped when she walked. Then came Antonio, who really did seem to radiate sunlight off of his body, to her. She watched him with tentative eyes, noticed how he continued to stay absolutely calm. Who was this man, she wondered?
“Hola, I mean, hi, I am Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. I just moved here from Spain a few months ago, so I am sorry for my bad English.” At this, ___ felt her heart pang a little bit. Francis huffed. “And oh, I am here for music. Thank you!”
She watched him walk off the stage with curious eyes and proceed to get a friendly slap on the back by the next guy to go up. ___ then leaned back in her seat to watch two hundred more students walk up, shout out a fact, then walk off. The process took an hour and a half, but she enjoyed watching people. Afterward, the students were handed their schedules, and told to go to their third period classes. Francis snuck up behind ___ and snatched her schedule away, holding it up to his and comparing them with a frown.
“The ‘ell are you taking all AP classes for?” He muttered, handing it back to her. “I see you’re taking AP French, though, smart choice.”
“Do we have any classes together? Not to be annoying or anything, its just that you’re like, the only person I know and the only reason I’m not having a panic attack right now.”
Francis nodded in agreement, then pointed toward three blocks.
“We ‘ave Ap French together, obviously, the same lunch period, AP Psychology and…” Francis trailed off, his finger tracing over the schedule. “AP ‘istory. Fun, fun.” He smiled.
____ smiled back at him, then looked back at her schedule. Something inside her felt like it was middle school all over again, the feeling of youth and happiness blooming in her chest, her arteries on fire, giggles in her throat. She felt the relative lightheadedness and the smell of fresh laundry and profiteroles. There was a simplicity of floating to it all, and for the first time in a long, long time, ___ couldn’t wait to get out there and explore the minds of her new classmates.