Nov. 1st, 2007
Grégoire Jourdain was faced with something of a quandary.
He'd hated Scotland when his parents moved there. That was not in question, at least. Now, as he waited at the corner of Palmer and Rockland, illicit cigarette hidden in a cupped left hand, he was left to wonder just when it had started to seem like a good idea to come to America, of all places. Going back home to France would have made sense – he had family there, he knew the language and had since birth, he knew the Metro like the back of his hand, he had friends there already. And his parents had decided that they were all going to relocate to Edinburgh instead, dragging him along without asking him his opinion – but they didn't think to forbid him to apply to schools in other places, and that had been the loophole he'd found.
And then, instead of going back to Paris, some whim or another had caught his fancy, and now he was stuck in some strange suburb of New York City for the next ten months, give or take. He wasn't entirely certain when his classes were supposed to start, although he was fairly sure it was the right day, at least – the fourth of September, 1964, entirely too beautiful a day to be stuck going into a new school. He thought about skipping, and then thought about the face of his host father, and wasn't afraid of the mental image of that man being angry, ( but he wasn't exactly thrilled, either. )
He'd hated Scotland when his parents moved there. That was not in question, at least. Now, as he waited at the corner of Palmer and Rockland, illicit cigarette hidden in a cupped left hand, he was left to wonder just when it had started to seem like a good idea to come to America, of all places. Going back home to France would have made sense – he had family there, he knew the language and had since birth, he knew the Metro like the back of his hand, he had friends there already. And his parents had decided that they were all going to relocate to Edinburgh instead, dragging him along without asking him his opinion – but they didn't think to forbid him to apply to schools in other places, and that had been the loophole he'd found.
And then, instead of going back to Paris, some whim or another had caught his fancy, and now he was stuck in some strange suburb of New York City for the next ten months, give or take. He wasn't entirely certain when his classes were supposed to start, although he was fairly sure it was the right day, at least – the fourth of September, 1964, entirely too beautiful a day to be stuck going into a new school. He thought about skipping, and then thought about the face of his host father, and wasn't afraid of the mental image of that man being angry, ( but he wasn't exactly thrilled, either. )