You'd moved into your apartment two weeks prior to the end of the summer holidays. Second year was approaching, and you would be joining a new school, which went by the name of Collége Françoise Dupont—you weren't thrilled.
Your French was still very rusty, and the most phrases you were in confident consisted of cusses. How the hell were you supposed to make friends when the only thing you could offer them was a blunt, "Tu ressembles à une merde"?
You should've taken Spanish instead.
Still with lots to unpack, on the first Monday morning back, your mother dragged you out of bed by your ankles. You ate breakfast sullenly, in your small kitchen, that barely had enough room for two people, that was also stacked with boxes.
"Quit making that face," your mum scolded, when she saw you glaring intensely at your food. "You look constipated. Get yourself together, you need to make a good impression on those dumb rich kids."
"You mean... I need to flatten them with my grand lack of money?" you asked dryly.
"Precisely," your mother answered, "show off your hardworking persona!"
You didn't respond, cringing, since procrastination was arguably your most prevalent trait. Instead, you stared down at the cereal in your bowl, and let out a defeated sigh, not ready to go back to an education.
Once you'd got dressed, and packed your things, you bid your parents goodbye, before taking the train to the centre of Paris-or to be more precise, where the more notable features of the city were.
Looking outside of the window, the buildings became noticeably nicer, and more well constructed, than in the rundown area you resided in. The infamous boulangeries of France popped into view, showcasing delicious treats that made you unbelievably hungry, despite having had breakfast a mere fifteen minutes ago.
So, here was the Paris that was presented in the media, rather than the despicably underdeveloped, underfunded part you lived in.
How disgusting.
Hating yourself for finding all of the posh stuff so wondrous, you grumbled to yourself, and slid out of your seat, preparing to leave the train. When you arrived at your stop, you were quick to disembark, and made your way swiftly to the school, following instructions from Google Maps.
It was a tall, very university-like structure, with tall pillars, and a proudly placed plaque on the top displaying its name. The colour scheme was lazy, however, and it seemed to be a little much too like an old Greek building.
A 4/10, you'd say. Perhaps you might've elevated the rankings if you had been in a better mood.
You sighed, trudging up the steps, readying yourself for the inevitable slowing of time that would occur once you entered the school. That was, till something crashed into you, and you fell flat on your face, with someone landing beside you with a thud.
"What in the name of-?" you started to complain, sitting up, and rubbing the back of your head; but then you shut up.
It wasn't the fact that the boy you'd just bumped into was incredibly attractive (with a fine face, impeccably styled blond hair, and wide shoulders), but what concerned you more was the intense look of panic and worry in his green eyes.
"Je suis vraiment désolé!" he exclaimed, and it took you a second to translate what he'd said in your head.
"It's ok," you stuttered in French, the unfamiliar language struggling to roll off your tongue.
"Adrien please reconsider, this isn't what your father wants!" a voice rang out, catching your attention. You glanced up, to find a woman, approaching, with a burly bodyguard.
You assumed the worst, and scrambled to your feet, and pointed with a shaking finger at both of them, and spluttered anxiously, "If you even try to kidnap him, I'll call the police! B-Back off!"
The lady was clearly surprised at your adamant defense of a boy you didn't know; however, the young man also stood up, and placed a hand on your shoulder apologetically. "I'm sorry... they're my bodyguards. They don't mean any harm."
"Oh," you muttered, feeling very, very stupid.
Without warning, the boy suddenly ran off again, going to help an elderly man who'd dropped his walking stick. You could only watch in confusion, as after he returned, he was walked back to an expensive looking car by the two supposed bodyguards.
(You noticed him mentioning something about just wanting to go school like a normal kid.)
(You did not notice the glance of half gratefulness, half curiosity he gave you before he left.)
You felt undeniably sorry for him, and even a little frustrated that you couldn't do anything to help him, as he disappeared into the vehicle. An annoying sensation of guilt invaded you, and you scowled, now in a worse mood than before.
You stormed up the steps, and through the building, till you found the class you were meant to be in. "Ah, you must be the British student (Y/n)!" the teacher at the front of the class spoke, seemingly relieved at your arrival.
"O-Oui," you responded shakily, butchering the poor language. "Sorry I'm late."
"I'm afraid the only seat left is the one at the back. Are you alright with that?" she questioned.
"Oh no! It's perfectly fine," you replied, actually incredibly thankful that you were nowhere near the front. Without sparing any of your new classmates a second glance, you hastily stumbled up to your seat, and sat down, closing in on yourself.
At last, some peace and quiet. Way too much had happened today already.
"Hey, you!"
Ah shit, here we go again.
You looked up in an exhausted fashion, and met eyes with a very obviously spoiled, rich girl, with an eye burningly bright yellow sweater and blonde hair. "Can I help you?" you asked tiredly.
"Why do you speak like that? Weird," the girl scoffed, before flipping her hair dramatically. "Anyway, I am Chloé, and since you're new, you should know." She slammed her hands down on your desk, causing you to jump skittishly. "I rule the school. Got it?"
You wondered if your father would lecture you if you jumped out of the window on your first day.
"Yeah, yeah, I got it," you sighed, waving a hand dismissively, and resting your head on your free arm.
Chloé huffed, not satisfied with your response, "Treat me with some respect, you loser!"
"Oh wow, what an intimidating insult," you drawled. "Listen, I'm really not in the mood for conversation, so please leave me alone."
"Excuse you?!" Chloé raged, looking like she was about to pop an artery.
You coughed, before resorting to your native dialect, and told her blatantly, "Bugger off."
She let out a sound of immense anger, that you could only describe as a noise that a bull might make if it saw its farmer binning its food, then stalked back to her desk.
You groaned, already so, so fatigued by today, and it was barely nine in the morning.
Pity that there was more to come.