The Night Has Teeth (2 page)

Truth is, I was a little anxious about the whole
home-stay arrangement. Having spent the better part of my existence
on my own, let’s just say I’m used to having personal space. Making
idle small talk with a host family was the least appealing part of
my decision to study abroad. Here’s another area where I’ve been
surprised, though. My host keeps odd hours, sometimes getting in
after midnight and sleeping in late. Other times she’s gone before
I even wake up. I never know when to expect her around the
apartment, and we’ve barely exchanged more than a dozen words since
my arrival.

Hopeful for breakfast, I nearly rip the door from
the tiny fridge. I’ve spent the last week hanging out at cafés and
sightseeing rather than buying groceries and unpacking. Clearly.
The contents of the fridge ― or really the lack of them ― are a
quarter-bottle of milk and a jar of jam. Only one of these will
stand on its own for breakfast, so I down what’s left of the milk
and manage to spill most of it down my chin and onto my shirt.
Perfect. No time to change.

I’m still doing up the fly of my jeans as I run past
the mirror. The hair on top of my head sticks up at all
gravity-defying angles, like a twiggy brown nest constructed by a
bird on crack, so I run my fingers through it to work with what
I’ve got, until I’m sporting what I hope comes off as a
purposefully bed-headed style. After locking up, I turn to grab my
bicycle, which is propped against the far wall of the small
landing. This apartment is the only one above a butcher shop on the
ground level. As I make my way down the narrow staircase, a pocket
of light floods in below from the door being opened. That’s when a
dog comes charging up the steps. Only it doesn’t look like a dog.
The space is too cramped for me to really go anywhere but up.
Before I can step back, it pounces. I collapse under its force,
taking the full brunt of a 150-pound canine.

The back of my head hits the tread of a hardwood
step. Angry amber eyes are on me as the beast bares its teeth. A
hand pulls on the thick gold chain around its neck, holding the
animal at bay. Looking past the dog I’m met by the sloe-eyed gaze
of a girl whose black hair flows down around her shoulders as a
stark contrast to her pale face. She’s pretty in a way that isn’t
what you’d call Hollywood actress hot ― all impossibly thin and
surgically-altered. She’s more exotic, with unusual features.
There’s something raw and wild about her looks. Like a panther.

Like I said, my host family is nothing close to what
I expected. What I imagined was a middle-aged couple suffering from
empty nest syndrome after the departure of their grown kids.
Instead I got Amara Liang and her dog. Although I haven’t asked,
she looks to be in her early twenties. Not old enough to be my mom,
even my host mom. Maybe she just has great genes. In any case, what
do I know? The school obviously thought she was together enough
that I wouldn’t die in her care. Besides, I figure with someone her
age, the rules around the household will be slack. No curfews and
lectures.

All the same, I can’t shake her. Whenever I’m in the
apartment, I wish she were around just to get the opportunity to
talk to her, which is the opposite of what I expected. Yes, I know
I’m being a creep for practically stalking her in my mind, but I
just hope that she’ll somehow find me interesting.

Hot breath in my face snaps me back to my current
predicament as her dog lets out a low howl. There’s something feral
and wolf-like about the animal, even though it’s got a lush brown
coat and is obviously well-cared-for.

“Are you alright?” Amara asks as she effortlessly
pulls the beast off me.

“Yeah,” I say, getting up to my feet, feeling
woozy.

“You are late, are you not?”

“Uh-huh.”

My hand goes to the back of my head, where a lump is
forming. She examines me for a long, uncomfortable moment until I
regret the panther analogy, because I start to feel like a piece of
meat. With a Gallic shrug, she simply straightens out her messenger
bag, yanks on the gold chain to send her dog up onto the landing
above us, and squeezes by me herself. Her keys jingle as she works
the lock. Taking a few steps down, I pick up my bicycle by the
bottom of the stairs, where it fell after I did. When I glance back
to say goodbye, she’s already in the apartment. Just like that. I’m
about to look away when the dog’s amber eyes bore into me with a
heat that’s nothing short of menace. Great. Not a single friend in
this city, but I might have a four-legged enemy. And he doesn’t
even have a proper name for a nemesis. When I asked Amara, instead
of coming back with the French equivalent for Killer or Jaws, she
told me to call him Lou. Who gives their dog a human name, anyway?
What a perfect end to my day. And it crushes me to remember that
the day hasn’t even really begun.

2. Ready To
Start

W
e live in the 11th arrondissement, which is the most
densely populated urban neighborhood not just in Paris but in all
of Europe. I know because I looked it up. Grabbing the handlebars
of my bike, I push open the wooden door that leads out onto the
bustling street. The barrage of sound that hits my ears is akin to
waking up one morning and finding that someone has set up a
carnival outside your bedroom door. On the street I pedal full tilt
toward the high school. Behind me, the whole building complex feels
as though it was built in far earlier times, like when Napoleon
Bonaparte was out conquering foreign lands and dealing with his own
complex.

So far, Paris has been like every other big city
in the world: a place full of anonymity. I’m an ant and the city is
someone else’s picnic. It’s not exactly what I was hoping for when
I left New York. I’m not sure what I was expecting beyond making
some real friends for once in my life, but I was hoping to stand
out more. Even though the tourist season is winding down, the
student population is big enough that I still blend in. You know,
when I’m not wearing a milk-stained T-shirt with the words
American
Idiot
plastered in the
middle of it. The reason I packed this shirt was out of a sense of
ironic rebellion. Now it just seems cliché.

In any case, the city itself is one big history
lesson in architecture and urban planning. There’s no such thing as
a run-down building, at least not that I’ve seen, and it seems like
there’s an immaculately manicured park around every corner. The
best, and sometimes the worst, part of the city are its smells. Any
number of mouth-watering aromas from the local bakeries, pastry
shops and delis contrast with the occasional open sewer grate or
smell of cigarettes. Open-air market stalls crowd the sides of the
already busy streets. They pop up this time every morning, but
today ― even though it’s a beautiful late summer morning and the
crisp air is brisk against my face ― I have to ignore them. The
tree-lined streets and market stalls are nothing more than
obstacles in my path, and the smells of baked goods and coffee only
make me think of my empty fridge and my hunger. There’s just
something about a wrong-footed start to a day that has a way of
ruining my outlook. It casts a shadow of negativity on the rest of
the day. Part of it is self-fulfilling prophecy, no doubt. I let
the negative thoughts eat away at me. But most days I’m pretty sure
it’s just fate out to ruin me.

The high school is a thirty-minute bike ride away.
It’s a historic building attached to and surrounded by modern
retail outlets. The contrast of the school’s elaborate ironwork and
dressed masonry with the glossy glass and simple sandstone of its
neighbors makes the building stand out. Like somehow, despite being
there for hundreds of years, it doesn’t belong here. Cornices and
consoles are adorned with wrought stone reliefs. Period cast-iron
railings frame the lower portions of the windows. It seems fit more
for nobility than for the sneaker-clad students who now sit in its
classrooms and gather outside on the wide sidewalk.

When I arrive, I more or less throw my bike
against a short metal barrier, lock it up, and race inside to my
first class. I’m so late. By the time I navigate my way through the
corridors and find the right room, the class is already well under
way and the room is crowded with senior students. In France, they
call this year
terminale
. Like
it’s the end of the road. I try my best to sneak in quietly, but
the ancient wooden door betrays me, slowly creaking at first but
then slamming shut with a thudding crash. The only thing I can do
is meekly give the teacher a glance and an apologetic half-smile.
He nods toward the classroom without breaking his stride, signaling
for me to enter, and I move to one of the few available seats at
the back of the room.

In my feeble attempt to plunk down without calling
further attention to myself, the chair scrapes noisily against the
floor, making me drop my backpack. While fumbling to catch it, the
chair topples to the floor, me with it. Crash! The eyes of everyone
in the room turn toward me. Embarrassed? You bet. Even the teacher
halts in mid-sentence to stare at me as girls stifle giggles. I can
almost hear the sound of eyeballs rolling as I right my chair, pull
down my cap, and try to become invisible by shrinking as deep as
possible into the hard wooden seat. Could this day get any worse?
As the attention returns to the front of the class, I glare at my
traitor backpack and try to decide if I should focus all my quiet
energy on taking out my laptop. I’m far too fazed for notes right
now, so I take a deep breath and try to listen to the professor’s
intro to psychology.

On the whiteboard are multiple textbook
definitions. One in particular catches my attention:
“
Social
Psychology: The branch of human psychology that deals with the
behavior of groups and their influence on the
individual.
” This class
would have been helpful much earlier in my life. If only there were
a handbook to deal with the elaborate and confounding social rules
around cliques. I could have even made do with the SparkNotes
version. IRL social situations have never really been my strong
suit. There’s something about the safety of a computer screen
that’s been a comfort to me in my interpersonal dealings with,
well, anyone. In any case, first impressions are hard to shake, so
I kind of write off this class as a means of meeting any new
friends. Thankfully, the rest of the morning passes without any
more embarrassing moments.

By lunch hour I’m starving, so I duck into the
Starbucks across the street for a sandwich and a frap before
heading to the courtyard at the back of the school. On the
manicured grass other students hang out, make out and fake out
(soccer is the predominant sport on any given field in this city).
I spread myself out under the warmth of the late summer sun, and
while I’m reaching into my backpack a soccer ball knocks it out of
my hands and spills my sandwich onto the ground. As I sit up,
trying to salvage my food from the wreckage, a shadow falls over
me. I raise a hand to shield my eyes from the sun while looking up
at the backlit figure.

“Desolé
,” a guy’s voice says in heavily accented French
while I glance down at my mangled lunch.

“De rien
. It’s nothing.”

When I pick up the ball, there’s a moment of
hesitation. Tossing it over would only flaunt my lack of
athleticism, so I stand up and pass it to the shadow in as manly a
way as I can: firmly and surely.

“Thanks,” he says, switching to English. “Hey,
aren’t you in Berger’s psych class?”

“Yeah,” I respond, surprised at being recognized.
I’ve always considered myself a blend-into-the-woodwork kind of
guy. Then I remember my epically embarrassing appearance in that
class earlier today. Who
wouldn’t
have noticed me?

“I’m Josh.”

I nod. “Connor.”

He’s got that clean-cut look that you see in school
brochures. Everything about him screams all-star athlete, including
the blond-as-wheat hair and sky-blue eyes. He’s wearing a faded
blue T-shirt with what looks like a Canadian maple leaf in the
middle of a bull’s-eye. One of the guys in the group calls after
him. Something about a throw-in.

“You play?” Josh asks, indicating the ball before
he tosses it expertly to his friend.

“Uhh, not so much,” I stammer.

“Not your game, hey?” he says casually.

“Yeah, my games usually involve some sort of
controller.”

He laughs and gestures over his shoulder at a group
lounging in the shade of a tree. “Why don’t you come hang with us?
I’ll introduce you to everyone — well, at least I’ll try. First
days, eh? Hard to keep track of all the new names.”

I grunt noncommittally and, after gathering up my
things, I follow him across the lawn. As we approach, I get my
first glimpse of what looks to be a group of perfectly average
American teenagers, with one exception: a girl whose natural hair
color is obliterated by a blazing cherry red. When Josh rattles off
names, hers is the one I remember: Madison. I can’t seem to
reconcile it with her appearance. She’s got rebel written all over
her. At least in my books. It’s not just the dye job, but she’s
also got an eyebrow piercing and a general disregard of norms like
wearing matching socks. I can’t pinpoint her looks exactly, but I
know she’s multiracial by the almond shape of her eyes, the high
cheekbones, the sun-kissed skin. It’s as I’m staring that I notice
her hazel eyes are like a hawk’s. When they meet mine, I have to
look away.