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Prologue
MICHEL
Sophomore year of high school
Stepping inside Neubrook High School fills me with the kind of dread that could drown a person. I turn to glance back at my parents, wishing they would whisk me away from here, but they simply wave happily, leaving me to navigate the shark tank alone.
My school in the small French province we left behind was perfect. My friends have known me since we began school and accepted me as I am. I have no idea what to expect from American teenagers, but based on what I saw while shopping at the mall this weekend, it isn’t good.
The teens are rich, stylish, and don’t seem very nice. They gawked at me as I passed them with my mother, sizing me up with their critical gazes. I could feel myself shrink inside. Now I’m in their environment, desperately searching for my first class.
Just as the bell rings, I locate the classroom and slip inside, only to find nearly every seat full except for two up front. I slink to the one closest to the window and do my best to avoid notice amongst the kids who all know each other.
There’s another kid a few seats down, dressed in a black hoodie and looking as miserable as I do, but he doesn’t even glance up, just scribbles in his notebook. The teacher turns from the chalkboard to face us. He looks bored, which doesn’t do much to give me confidence.
He lifts a clipboard from his desk, glancing at the room and it, before pausing on me. “Ah. You’re the new student?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Davis is fine. Your name is Michael?”
“No. It’s Michel.”
A few kids snicker, and I hear someone say, “He has a girl name.”
“Oh,” Mr. Davis says, writing something on his clipboard paper. “Michel Toussaint.”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell us a little about yourself?”
I’d really rather die, but I don’t plan to make the teacher an early enemy, so I stand and turn to face the class. Immediately, I feel the disdain wafting off them. Amongst their designer clothes, and social-media-ready appearances, I stick out terribly in my simple sweater and jeans.
“I just moved from France,” I begin, my shaking voice revealing my nerves. “My father’s job moved him here.”
“Wonderful,” Mr. Davis says. “Welcome to Neubrook High.”
“Thanks.”
I sit and slouch in my seat again, shoving my slipping glasses back up my nose.
I hear several kids behind me mocking my accent, and if I could disappear into thin air, I would definitely do it.
By the time lunch rolls around, I’m drained from repeated introductions, butchering of my name, and hostile students. I want to go home like I did in France, and eat in the sanctity of my home, but I guess that’s not something American kids do, so I creep to the back of the lunchroom to find a quiet spot to eat my meal.
I unwrap what my mother prepared: a chicken cutlet, roasted cauliflower, a few slices of a baguette, and a slice of a fruit tart she made. At least my meal feels like home. As I tuck in, pulling a book out of my rucksack, I do my best to drown out the unfamiliar sounds all around me.
That is, until my quiet moment is interrupted by the large shadow cast over me. I look up to see three huge guys wearing football jerseys with snarls on their faces.
“You the guy with the girl name?” the tall blond one demands. He looks like every movie jock slash villain, right down to his perfectly styled hair.
“It is not a girl name,” I reply, hoping my tone belies my terror. “It is a common male name in France.”
“What did you say, Frenchie?” another boy growls. This one has thick dark hair and model good looks. “Can’t understand you with that accent at all.”
It’s not long before other students start to pay attention. The conversations quiet, and all eyes are on this interaction.
I have no idea what to say other than to repeat myself, but this time, my voice cracks, and the three boys laugh.
