Chapter Text
Mornings in the Smith household were never quiet. They were loud in the way of overlapping arguments, clattering dishes, and people yelling from different rooms instead of walking five feet to speak face-to-face like normal human beings.
Stan was already in his suit, adjusting his tie in the hallway mirror with military precision while Klaus shouted something unintelligible from the fishbowl about the water temperature being “disrespectful.” Hayley sat slouched at the kitchen table, scrolling on her phone with the practiced apathy of someone who had already lived too much life for a Tuesday morning. Steve hovered nearby, hunched over his cereal, nervously picking out the marshmallows and lining them up by size.
Francine stood at the counter in a robe, sorting through the mail with a mug of coffee in one hand.
“Bills, bills, coupon for hair removal—” she paused, squinting at an envelope with an official-looking letterhead. “Huh.”
Stan glanced over immediately. “What is it.”
Francine turned the envelope over. “It’s from Pearl Bailey High.”
Steve froze mid-marshmallow alignment.
“Oh my God,” Francine said suddenly, eyes widening as she ripped the envelope open. “Oh my God. Oh my God, oh my God.”
Stan’s shoulders tensed. “What. Francine. What.”
Francine skimmed the letter, then let out a delighted little gasp that did not reassure anyone.
“I knew it,” she said. “I knew something exciting was supposed to happen this year.”
Stan stepped closer. “Francine.”
She looked up, beaming. “Our exchange student arrives today!”
The kitchen went quiet for exactly half a second.
Then—
“What?” Steve and Hayley said at the same time.
Stan blinked. “Our what.”
Francine held the letter to her chest, smiling dreamily. “The foreign exchange student! I signed us up months ago at the PTA meeting. Remember? They were short on host families and I just thought, why not? Cultural enrichment, new perspectives, a young person in need of guidance—”
“You invited a foreign national to live in my house?” Stan snapped.
Francine frowned. “Stan, she’s a student, not a spy.”
Stan was already pulling his phone from his pocket. “That’s what they want you to think.”
Hayley rolled her eyes. “Great. Another person living here. Because this house definitely isn’t crowded with weirdos already.”
Roger popped his head out from behind the fridge door, where he had apparently been hiding. “Did someone say foreign? Is she hot.”
Francine ignored him, rereading the letter. “She’s staying for the full academic year. One-year exchange program.”
Stan’s eye twitched. “One year is how long it takes to dismantle a democracy from the inside.”
Steve had gone completely still, his brain lagging several crucial seconds behind the conversation.
Exchange student.
Student.
Girl?
He cleared his throat. “Uh—mom?”
Francine looked at him. “Yes, sweetie?”
“Did the letter, um. Does it say if the exchange student is a boy or—”
“Oh!” Francine laughed. “She’s a girl.”
Steve’s heart slammed violently against his ribcage.
A girl.
Living in his house.
For a year.
Stan scoffed. “That doesn’t make it better.”
Francine continued, oblivious. “She’s your age too, Steve. Same grade.”
Steve’s spoon clattered into his bowl.
Same age.
Same school.
Same house.
Steve’s mind immediately filled with a slideshow of mental images that escalated far too quickly and were abruptly interrupted by a sharp, cold spike of terror.
A real girl.
A real girl who could see him.
Judge him.
Interact with him.
“Oh,” he said faintly.
Francine glanced back at the letter. “She’s from France.”
Steve inhaled so sharply he nearly choked on a marshmallow.
France.
His brain short-circuited.
France meant accents. Fashion. Sophistication. Mysterious European confidence. Girls who smoked cigarettes in movies and didn’t laugh at the wrong moments. Girls who definitely did not date boys who still had Star Trek bedsheets.
Stan stared at the ceiling. “France. Of course it’s France. Do you know how many historical enemies America has had from France alone?”
“Stan,” Francine said patiently, “she’s fourteen.”
“That’s the perfect age to gather intel,” Stan shot back.
Roger grinned. “I call dibs on teaching her American culture. Starting with mall food courts and casual alcoholism.”
“No,” Francine said firmly.
Steve barely heard any of this.
His mind was racing now—overconfidence slamming into panic like a car crash.
Okay. Okay. This could be good. This could be great. A hot foreign girl in his house? Living down the hall? This was the kind of thing that happened in movies. The kind of thing that changed everything. This could be the moment his life finally turned around.
Unless—
Unless she was cool.
Unless she was popular.
Unless she was everything he wasn’t.
Unless she took one look at him and mentally filed him under American child and never thought about him again.
Steve swallowed.
He sat up straighter. Maybe this was his chance to reinvent himself. He could be mysterious. Confident. European-adjacent by proximity. He could casually mention he listened to foreign music. He could stop talking so much. He could start talking less. Cool people talked less.
He immediately started sweating.
“What if she hates me,” he muttered.
Snot’s voice suddenly echoed in his head, imaginary but cruel: Why would a girl like that ever like you?
Steve shook his head. No. No negativity. This was destiny. This was the universe throwing him a bone. He just had to not screw it up.
Which meant he was definitely going to screw it up.
Francine clapped her hands together. “Oh! It says here her cab arrives this afternoon.”
Steve’s stomach dropped.
This afternoon.
Today.
Not someday. Not weeks from now. Today.
He had hours. Hours to prepare. Hours to become someone else. Someone worthy of a French exchange student.
Stan was pacing now. “I want a full background check. Medical records. Academic records. Dental records. I want to know her blood type.”
Francine waved him off. “Stan, stop it. This is exciting! I always wanted to host an exchange student. Remember that French girl in my high school? She wore scarves indoors.”
Hayley snorted. “I already hate her.”
Steve stared at the wall, unseeing, his mind fully gone.
A girl.
His age.
French.
Living here.
He swallowed hard and whispered to himself, barely audible over the chaos of the kitchen.
“I have to be cool.”