The first thing I learned about France was that people really don't slow down for pedestrians.
One minute I was crossing the street with my phone in hand, trying to type "how to ask for directions in French" into Google Translate, and the next, a silver Peugeot nearly turned me into an international headline: "British-Italian girl flattened on her first day in Nice."
"Pardon!" I yelled, even though it was probably my fault. The driver just honked and kept going, mouthing something that definitely wasn't friendly. Welcome to France, Amara.
By the time I made it to Montclair International High, I was already sweaty, late, and mildly traumatized. The school looked like something out of a Netflix teen show — tall cream walls, stone archways, a courtyard full of students who somehow managed to look effortlessly cool in wrinkled uniforms.
My blazer was too big, my tie was crooked, and my backpack was hanging open. I looked like a lost tourist who wandered into a Vogue photoshoot.
"New girl alert," someone whispered as I passed.
Great. My favorite phrase.
The hallway smelled like coffee and cheap perfume. I clutched my schedule — printed in both French and English — like a survival guide. My first class: Histoire Contemporaine with Monsieur Durand. Room 2B.
"Excusez-moi," I tried asking a group of students by the lockers, "where's Room deux–uh—B?"
They blinked at me. One of them — a girl with pink hair and an eyebrow piercing — smirked. "Room deux B?" she repeated with a heavy accent. "Oh là là. You mean salle deux B."
Then they all laughed.
I forced a smile, muttered a "merci," and hurried off, pretending I totally wasn't dying inside.
The classroom was already full when I walked in. Heads turned. Conversations quieted. That awkward silence where everyone judges you before you even sit down.
"Ah, mademoiselle Bennett!" boomed Monsieur Durand. He was tall, with slicked-back gray hair and glasses that made him look like he'd been born to grade essays. "You are the new student from… London, yes?"
I nodded, smiling nervously. "Uh, yes. From London. But my mom's Italian, so—"
"Très bien! Bienvenue à Nice." He gestured to the back of the room. "Please, take a seat next to Lucien."
I followed his hand and froze.
Lucien Moreau looked like he'd stepped right out of a French perfume ad. Tousled dark hair, sharp jawline, navy eyes that could make anyone forget their Wi-Fi password. He was half-sitting, half-slouching, spinning a pen in his fingers with practiced boredom.
When our eyes met, he raised one eyebrow, smirked slightly, and went back to doodling in his notebook.
I sat down next to him, trying to act casual. I took out my notebook — which promptly slipped from my hands and fell open on the floor. Pages fluttered everywhere.
Lucien's pen stopped mid-spin.
He sighed — actually sighed — then bent down to help me. "Tu fais toujours des entrées comme ça?" he muttered.
I blinked. "Sorry?"
He gave a lazy grin. "I said — do you always make entrances like this?"
I wanted to evaporate. "Only on days that end in disaster," I mumbled.
He laughed quietly. "Then you will fit right in."
For the first ten minutes, Monsieur Durand went on about les conséquences de la Révolution industrielle, and I tried to follow along. I caught maybe every tenth word. The rest was a blur of elegant French sounds that made my brain short-circuit.
Lucien noticed. "You don't understand, do you?" he whispered.
"I'm… processing," I lied.
He smirked. "Processing what? His accent?"
"Processing why you're talking to me in the middle of class," I shot back.
That got a grin out of him — the kind that made me understand why half the girls were sneaking glances our way.
Then, just as Monsieur Durand turned to write on the board, I reached for my pen — and accidentally knocked over Lucien's water bottle.
Right. On. His. Notebook.
The entire row gasped.
"Merde!" he hissed, jerking up. Water spread across his notes, dripping onto the floor.
"I'm so sorry!" I panicked, grabbing tissues from my bag and dabbing uselessly. "It was an accident!"
He looked at me, half annoyed, half amused. "You really are chaos, non?"
The teacher turned. "What is happening back there?"
Lucien stood, holding up the soggy notebook. "Just… une catastrophe britannique, monsieur."
Laughter exploded around the room. My face burned hotter than Marseille in July.
By the time class ended, I wanted the earth to swallow me whole. As everyone filed out, I stayed behind to clean the desk.
Lucien stopped at the door. "Hey."
I looked up, bracing for another joke.
But his tone was softer now. "Don't worry. Happens to everyone… eventually."
I raised an eyebrow. "You mean being publicly humiliated?"
He chuckled. "No. Meeting me."
Then he winked and walked out.
I stood there for a second, trying to decide if I wanted to slap him or… maybe smile.
At lunch, I sat alone in the courtyard, nibbling on a baguette sandwich that tasted like regret. That's when a girl with strawberry-blonde hair plopped down next to me.
"You're Amara, right?" she said in English with a light accent. "I'm Camille Durand. My dad's the history teacher. You made him laugh today. That's rare."
I groaned. "Please don't tell me everyone's talking about the Great Water Bottle Incident."
"Oh, tout le monde is," she said cheerfully. "But don't worry, they'll forget soon. Something dumber always happens by Friday."
I laughed despite myself. "Thanks. That's comforting."
She smiled. "So, tell me everything — London? Italy? Why here?"
"My mom's Italian, and after the divorce she wanted to move back to Europe," I said. "Nice seemed… nice."
Camille snorted. "Yeah, that's what they all say before they meet Lucien Moreau."
I blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She gave me a mischievous grin. "Just… be careful. He's charming. He's rich. And he's the reason half the girls in this school cry at least once a semester."
I raised my sandwich. "Duly noted."
Camille grinned. "You're funny. I like you. Come sit with us tomorrow."
And just like that, I wasn't completely alone anymore.
That night, I lay in bed scrolling through the school's Instagram page — pictures of beaches, uniforms, and a lot of Lucien Moreau. I paused on one photo: him smiling at some school event, surrounded by people who seemed like they belonged there.
Then I looked at my reflection in my phone screen — messy curls, tired eyes, the face of a girl who definitely didn't.
"New country, new mess," I muttered.
But somewhere deep down, beneath the embarrassment and homesickness, a strange feeling flickered — like maybe this disaster of a first day was the beginning of something I couldn't name yet.
Something dangerous.
Something exciting.
Something… French.