I remember the day I first saw Kayla. She was sitting miserably in the back of her fathers Range Rover. Her face leaning against the window, her earbuds in blasting music, as they made their way to their new home in the suburbs of Los Angeles.
Here she'd have a fresh start, not that she'd needed one in the first place. She'd much rather still be back in Paris with her mates smoking cigarettes and drinking alcohol as they roamed the Parisian streets aimlessly.
She'd attended some fancy art school, her parents wanting her to become a painter, just like her mother. She'd paint, and paint for hours on end. But she'd always felt as if her work was never good enough. Eventually she turned to drugs for inspiration, a close friend of hers introducing her to the idea. She'd thought there was no harm in what she was doing, it was purely for the sake of the arts.
The next year she'd been kicked out of her school, and sent back home to her parents. Their dreams of her becoming an artist soon flying straight out of the window.
I watched as she made her way through the halls of our school. Her head was held high, as her newly straightened hair flowed with each step she took. Her attire consisted of a pair of baggy jeans, an oversized black t-shirt, and a pair of designer sneakers adorning her feet. We made quick eye contact, as I offered her a small smile, in turn she returned the favor.
We'd eventually become friends, or 'close mates' as Kayla would refer. She was new and different, much like a breathe of fresh air. She was foreign to us. Her thick Parisian accent would draw you in like a thousand sirens, as she captivated you with her chocolate brown eyes and skin.
Boys and men would fall to her feet, just at a few words or a simple glance. They were captivated by her voice and looks. Her heavy French accent seemingly always working in her favor, either bad or good. 'Les hommes sont inférieurs' she'd say, a mischievous smirk adorning her beautiful face.
She'd tell Jules and I these insane stories about the parties she'd attend back in Paris. Those parties seemingly, always involving drugs, and large amounts of money.
Kayla was no stranger to drugs, and maybe that's why we clicked so well. We'd spend hours on end high together, trying on the many clothes that'd she owned, playing 'dress up' in her walk-in closet.
Her parents had sent her to rehab twice. They thought sending her to some fancy rehabilitation center in Spain, would cure her of her addiction. But each time it seemingly made it worse. She'd come back, her itch and urge to get high even stronger, and her urge to stay clean even lower.
'Cette ville craint' she'd say daily, her heart and body longing to be back in Paris, but instead were stuck in the suburbs of Southern California. Her longing for her Parisian friends and culture increasing each and everyday.
But there was much more to Kayla than the eye meets. She was a book with many complex chapters, some long, some short. She was different, she was un chef d'oeuvre beau et complexe.
She has secrets and lots of them. But one thing about secrets are, they always surface eventually.Vous ne pouvez pas courir pour toujours.
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