The Night Has Teeth (Book One) EXCERPTS ONLY

2. Ready To Start

We live in the 11th arrondissement, which is the most densely populated urban neighborhood not just in Paris but in all of Europe. I know because I looked it up. Grabbing the handlebars of my bike, I push open the wooden door that leads out onto the bustling street. The barrage of sound that hits my ears is akin to waking up one morning and finding that someone has set up a carnival outside your bedroom door. On the street I pedal full tilt toward the high school. Behind me, the whole building complex feels as though it was built in far earlier times, like when Napoleon Bonaparte was out conquering foreign lands and dealing with his own complex.

So far, Paris has been like every other big city in the world: a place full of anonymity. I’m an ant and the city is someone else’s picnic. It’s not exactly what I was hoping for when I left New York. I’m not sure what I was expecting beyond making some real friends for once in my life, but I was hoping to stand out more. Even though the tourist season is winding down, the student population is big enough that I still blend in. You know, when I’m not wearing a milk-stained T-shirt with the words American Idiot plastered in the middle of it. The reason I packed this shirt was out of a sense of ironic rebellion. Now it just seems cliché.

In any case, the city itself is one big history lesson in architecture and urban planning. There’s no such thing as a run-down building, at least not that I’ve seen, and it seems like there’s an immaculately manicured park around every corner. The best, and sometimes the worst, part of the city are its smells. Any number of mouth-watering aromas from the local bakeries, pastry shops and delis contrast with the occasional open sewer grate or smell of cigarettes. Open-air market stalls crowd the sides of the already busy streets. They pop up this time every morning, but today ― even though it’s a beautiful late summer morning and the crisp air is brisk against my face ― I have to ignore them. The tree-lined streets and market stalls are nothing more than obstacles in my path, and the smells of baked goods and coffee only make me think of my empty fridge and my hunger. There’s just something about a wrong-footed start to a day that has a way of ruining my outlook. It casts a shadow of negativity on the rest of the day. Part of it is self-fulfilling prophecy, no doubt. I let the negative thoughts eat away at me. But most days I’m pretty sure it’s just fate out to ruin me.

The high school is a thirty-minute bike ride away. It’s a historic building attached to and surrounded by modern retail outlets. The contrast of the school’s elaborate ironwork and dressed masonry with the glossy glass and simple sandstone of its neighbors makes the building stand out. Like somehow, despite being there for hundreds of years, it doesn’t belong here. Cornices and consoles are adorned with wrought stone reliefs. Period cast-iron railings frame the lower portions of the windows. It seems fit more for nobility than for the sneaker-clad students who now sit in its classrooms and gather outside on the wide sidewalk.

When I arrive, I more or less throw my bike against a short metal barrier, lock it up, and race inside to my first class. I’m so late. By the time I navigate my way through the corridors and find the right room, the class is already well under way and the room is crowded with senior students. In France, they call this year terminale. Like it’s the end of the road. I try my best to sneak in quietly, but the ancient wooden door betrays me, slowly creaking at first but then slamming shut with a thudding crash. The only thing I can do is meekly give the teacher a glance and an apologetic half-smile. He nods toward the classroom without breaking his stride, signaling for me to enter, and I move to one of the few available seats at the back of the room.

In my feeble attempt to plunk down without calling further attention to myself, the chair scrapes noisily against the floor, making me drop my backpack. While fumbling to catch it, the chair topples to the floor, me with it. Crash! The eyes of everyone in the room turn toward me. Embarrassed? You bet. Even the teacher halts in mid-sentence to stare at me as girls stifle giggles. I can almost hear the sound of eyeballs rolling as I right my chair, pull down my cap, and try to become invisible by shrinking as deep as possible into the hard wooden seat. Could this day get any worse? As the attention returns to the front of the class, I glare at my traitor backpack and try to decide if I should focus all my quiet energy on taking out my laptop. I’m far too fazed for notes right now, so I take a deep breath and try to listen to the professor’s intro to psychology.