New-York, Katrine
United States
When we finally dragged our carcasses out of the airport, Arabelle hailed a taxi with the authority of a cavalry general. She immediately launched into an uninterrupted stream of gossip and deep-dives into long-form articles, but my brain was strictly on "standby." My eyes, however, were glued to the skyscrapers.
These steel titans were literally tickling the clouds. For a split second, I thought I was still in Montreal, before remembering that the air here tasted distinctly of burnt coffee and over-the-top ambition. The taxi attempted a desperate maneuver to bypass a gridlock—an attempt that ended in a crushing defeat.
We were officially welded to the asphalt.
Arabelle, whose patience has the lifespan of a dying iPhone battery, paid the driver and leaped out of the vehicle. I followed, obviously, dragging my suitcase like a ball and chain.
—Don't sweat it, we're already in Brooklyn!she chirped with suspicious enthusiasm. I'm gonna be your guide—after all, you haven't set foot here in forever!
I didn't dare protest. She looked so proud of her new "Tour Guide" badge that I decided to just go with the flow. She dragged me through an idyllic park where we ended up taking photos with a pack of dogs and their walker—a moment as charming as it was unexpected.
Then, slowly, the skyscrapers began to fade.
The city's hustle gave way to a hushed silence—the kind you only find in neighborhoods where you can actually hear the sound of money multiplying. Arabelle, in a burst of bohemian freedom, kicked off her heels to keep going barefoot.
— You're going to end up with tetanus, or worse, some uncatalogued bacteria,I warned her.
She just snickered. I kept scanning our surroundings. The houses were becoming indecently luxurious. At this point, I wasn't even dreading the rent anymore; I was considering selling a kidney.
Breathe. Don't panic. Pop culture taught me that the neighborhood doesn't define the inhabitant. In Despicable Me, Gru lives in a sinister house right in the middle of a bubblegum-pink suburb. There was still hope for a dingy studio hidden behind a hedge.
Arabelle stopped in front of a monumental gate. She unlocked it with a simple press of her finger on a biometric scanner. My right eyebrow attempted an ascent toward my hairline. I thought this tech only existed in heist movies or at Elon Musk's place.
She stepped aside to let me through. Seeing what stood before me, only one question hit my brain: Is it legally possible to turn around and run?
This wasn't a house. It was a villa. An estate. An insult to the middle class. Arabelle, whom I'd already suspected of being "comfortably off," had just been promoted to the rank of Brooklyn Chatelaine. She punched a code into the front door.
—Come on, get in here! she called out, disappearing inside.
I hesitated for a good ten seconds—an eternity for my self-esteem—before crossing the threshold. The foyer greeted me with a crystal chandelier so dazzling it could have guided lost ships at sea.
The walls featured delicate gold leaf. Facing me, a monumental staircase seemed to dare me to climb it. Arabelle was already at the top, waving me up.
If the price isn't right, I'm bolting. I'll sleep in the park with the dogs.
The upstairs hallway was a silent art gallery. Black-and-white portraits stared me down, displaying dates like "1934–2007." It felt like every ancestor was judging the quality of my sneakers.
If the price isn't right, I'm bolting.
— Hum, remind me... what did your parents do again? I asked, wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead, even though it was the middle of autumn.
—My mom was a museum director and my dad was in the Air Force, she replied with an almost annoying simplicity.
—I see. Very... atypical.
If the price isn't right, I'm bolting. If the price isn't right, I'm bolting.
She opened a door. I stepped into the room with the caution of a bomb disposal technician. It was indecent. A private lounge, a king-size bed that could have slept a family of five, and a bathroom the size of my entire old apartment. A panoramic view of the neighborhood stretched out from a balcony overlooking a turquoise pool.
—The view is even better at night, she whispered behind me.
I'm going to have to sell both kidneys.
I let out a long sigh as I walked back into the bedroom. I had to lance the financial boil before I got used to the luxury.
—I was thinking of asking you for about 500 dollars a month, what do you think? she blurted out before I could open my mouth.
—Pardon me?
She scratched the back of her neck, looking genuinely worried.
—Is that too much? I knew it. Let's say 300 then? she corrected herself hastily.
—No! On the contrary! Arabelle, that's pennies. That's not even the price of a broom closet in New York!
— Well... you said you only had your savings... I just wanted to give you some breathing room.
She avoided my gaze. That's when I realized. Behind the gold leaf and the fingerprint scanners, Arabelle was trying to buy my friendship at a discount. She wanted company so badly she was ready to fire-sale her palace. It was touching—and a little sad.
—To be honest, I would've preferred you stay here for free... We're friends now, right? she added with a shy smile.
—Okay. 500 dollars it is, I decided. But on one condition.
Her eyes sparked.
— Which is?
—As soon as I snag a job, we move to market rate. Got it?
She bit her lip before nodding. The tour continued: five monumental bedrooms, a kitchen fit for a Michelin-starred chef, a private bar, and an underground garage that could've doubled as a luxury bunker. I understood her desperation better now: living here alone is like living in a museum after closing time. It's cold.
After helping me settle in, she wished me goodnight. As soon as the door clicked shut, I whipped out my laptop. I couldn't stay the "poor friend" indefinitely.
I frantically clicked on every listing: waitress, housekeeper, photographer, delivery driver, secretary... I would've applied to be an astronaut if the paycheck was right.
First interview in two days. I have two days to learn how to stop looking like an intruder in a castle.
The next morning, my alarm went off with the cruel regularity of a metronome. For three seconds, I thought I was back in my old place, but the echo of my own breathing in this 1,600-square-foot bedroom brutally reminded me of reality: I was officially the best-housed squatter in Brooklyn.
After getting lost twice in the hallway (I almost walked into a closet that, I'm not kidding, was bigger than my kitchen in Montreal), I finally made it to the ground floor.
The silence was deafening. Until I reached the kitchen.
Arabelle was there. Or at least, a version of Arabelle I hadn't met yet: the "rough morning" model. She was wearing a silk robe that probably cost more than my computer and was attempting to tame a coffee machine that looked like the cockpit of an Airbus A380.
—Morning... I murmured, not daring to break the solemn calm of the marble room.
She jumped, nearly knocking over a jar of organic coffee beans.
—Oh! Katrine! Did you sleep okay? The room wasn't too... chilly?
—No, I was mostly just afraid of tripping an alarm on my way to the bathroom, I confessed, stepping toward the center island, which was large enough to serve as a landing strip.
An awkward silence settled in. I didn't know if I should help myself to the fridge or wait for a formal invitation signed by a notary. Arabelle, meanwhile, was staring at the coffee machine with pure hostility.
— It's not cooperating? I asked.
—My dad had it installed. He says coffee should be a 'sensory experience.' Right now, my sensory experience is mostly just wanting to cry in front of a touch screen that's asking me for the air humidity level just to grind a bean.
I stepped forward. My biostatistics classes weren't helping me here, but my survival instincts as a broke person—and my few years of experience as a barista—definitely were.
—Let me take a crack at it.
After hitting three random buttons and ignoring an alert regarding atmospheric pressure, the machine finally spat out a dark, steaming liquid. Arabelle looked at me like I'd just turned water into wine.
—You're a genius, she breathed, taking her cup with both hands.
— It's just reverse psychology applied to appliances, I joked.
We sat on high stools. The contrast was striking: her, the disheveled heiress in silk, and me, in my questionable patterned pajamas and frizzy hair defying the laws of gravity.
—Hey, Arabelle... I was wondering... the pool downstairs... is it geothermally heated or is the sun just afraid of you?
She nearly choked on her espresso.
—We almost never use it. My dad had it built because some Air Force general told him it was 'strategic' for relaxation. I think he mostly just wanted to flex.
She looked down at her cup.
—It's a bit ridiculous, isn't it? All this empty space.
—It's true...
She wasn't some arrogant "bougie" girl; she was just a girl who owned too many chairs and didn't have enough people to sit in them.
—Shall we start with breakfast? I have cereal that costs as much as rent, but it tastes like cardboard. Want a bowl?
—Only if we eat them with silver spoons, I quipped, opening the cabinets.
I was learning a bit more about Arabelle. Behind the bubbly personality, there seemed to be someone truly sensitive.