Chapter 8 - Sam

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Sam's POV

"Oui, I've just arrived. Non, the plane didn't crash. Oui, I'm calling for taxi right now," I say into the receiver, rolling my eyes at Aunt Zoë's ridiculous questions about plane crashing.

I am outside of the airport, desperately calling for every taxi passing by. I have the violin case sling over my shoulder and my luggage beside me. My right hand is holding my smart phone whereas my left is waving frantically to gain attention from the taxi drivers, which none of them does.

I'm starting to get impatient and dislike London.

"You school is not so far from your apartment. It will take about ten minutes human walk to reach the school from your apartment. You should see the school when you are on the way to the apartment later," Aunt Zoë says.

"Okay," I reply absentmindedly, my thoughts more focused on getting a taxi.

"Your school supplies are already in the apartment, I've already asked someone to do so. You'll start school tomorrow at 8 a.m."

"Okay," I say again. A taxi passes by without glancing at me. I feel like chopping off every taxi drivers' head off.

"Still looking for a taxi?" Aunt Zoë asks, sounding amused.

"Oui, oui. Laugh all you want. Au revoir!" I hang up instantly. Putting the phone into my pocket, this time I use both hands to wave for a taxi. No taxi comes to a stop, including those without passengers.

"Ce que l'enfer?!" I yell out in frustration and impatience. It means 'What the hell'. If only I know the way to my apartment, I would have shift into a bat and fly there instead.

"You won't get a cab if you keep screaming and waving like a mental patient," a velvet voice comments.

I jump at his sudden voice and turn to see a boy as old as me who is the one who spoke. He has cropped blond hair that sticks out everywhere and striking green eyes. He looks boyishly cute especially with his nerdy looking glasses. He wears a Tottenham Hotspur football jersey with grey three-quarter pants. He also wears a Nike shoes and Adidas watch. He must be a sporty person. He is almost as tall as Jacques. The boy is also human since his blood is sweet.

A small part of me is asking me to take a sip from him. I shove that thought to the back of my head, silenced by other heavy thoughts.

He is grinning at me, standing not far away from me.

I glower at him for a second before ignoring him and continue calling for taxi.

I hear him walks towards me, his scent getting stronger.

"Don't you have something else better to do?" I ask him in annoyance.

"Nope!" he answers animatedly. "My whole family is inside, waiting for my older brother to return from South Africa. They keep gushing about how good-looking, how smart, how kind he is. 'Henry  volunteers to help the children in Africa, how kind he is!' 'Henry gets all A's and is accepted by the University of Oxford!' 'Henry is handsome and kind-hearted!' They even compare him to me which I hate the most. I need some fresh air and space without anyone talking about him."

I feel bad for the human boy. I've always wanted siblings but I'm the only child.

"That's awful," I comment.

He shrugs. "I'm used to it. I'm not handsome. I'm not smart. I'm not like my brother. I'm planning to go to the farthest college one day so for now, I just have to survive."

I keep quiet, no idea what to say.

"Anyway, what is a pretty French mady-mo-zelle doing here in London?" he asks. The way he said 'mademoiselle' is funny that made me laugh. Mademoiselle means miss, usually used for young ladies who is not married yet.

"I'm here for my senior year and then I'll go back to Paris. Wait, how do you know I'm French?" My head tilt at one side in wonder. I thought that Jacques' accent is thicker than mine and his French is better than mine.

The boy shrugs. "The way you pronounce taxi is 'tak-si'. We Brits call it cab or even pronounce it 'tek-si'."

I'm amazed by his observation. I myself didn't even know that I have an accent. I now notice his British accent.

"You're very observant," I praise.

"And you're very impatient."

I scowl at him. The way he acts is just like Jacques. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought they're long lost twins of different species.

The human boy takes out his phone and read something on the screen. He quickly puts the phone back into his pocket.

"Well, Miss Taxi, I have to go," he says. The way he pronounced 'taxi' is just like the French. The boy takes a few steps forward, next to me and whistles loudly.

Almost immediately, a taxi comes to a stop in front of us.

My mouth is wide open in amazement. How did he manage to do that in ten seconds?

He grins at me before walking away into the airport.

I shake my head. I have got to learn how to whistle loudly. I have forgotten to ask for his name so I decide to call him 'Monsieur Taxi' with the 'taxi' pronounced like the British. I can't help but compare Jacques to Moniseur Taxi. Both of them are closely alike besides the appearance, accent and species. 

I put my luggage and violin case into the boot and enter the cab. I give the address of my apartment to the driver. London is beautiful even if it's congested. I can see the Big Ben, London Eye, Buckingham Palace, Tower Bridge and many of the famous red double-decker buses.

That's when I remember of papa's letter, still in my right pocket. Since I'm already in London, I can read it.

I take out the crumpled letter and tear it open without a second thought. Papa's scent hit me hard. I gasp at how strong the smell is though the cab driver can't even smell it.

I turn the letter open to read:

Ma chere,

By the time you're reading this, you must already be in London and I must be dead. I'm sure you're wondering why I sent you here. First of all, I've written this letter when you were ten years old, just in case if something happens to me. Your mother is a British, more importantly, she's living in London. No, she didn't leave us. We are forced to separate. I can't tell you more about your mother because I can't risk anyone to read this letter. The bracelet that I gave you was your mother's. You must have noticed that it has no scent because anyone can hunt your mother down with her scent on it.

I'm asking you to look for your mother. Please hear her out and don't freak out. Give her a chance. Show her the bracelet and ask her to have it. Tell her that I love her so much.

Don't cry, ma chere. I'm in a better place now. Make an effort to find your mother.

Je t'aime, ma chere.

Papa.

I start to cry again before anger replaces the sadness. He made me fly all the way to London just to look for my mother?! The one who abandoned us and made papa cry to sleep every night for his beloved for years. The one who papa loves her so much that it devastated him when she left.

I fold the letter and put it back into my pocket.

I hope one year in London will pass by fast before I can even realize it.

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