If there is one thing I am absolutely sure of, it is this:
Americans are obsessed with parties.
By Friday afternoon, the entire school is buzzing about Madison's "Welcome Social" like it's some royal coronation. People whisper in hallways, compare outfits during class, even the teachers roll their eyes when her name appears on the daily announcements.
"Reminder," the office voice drones over the speakers, "student council president Madison Hayes will be hosting the annual New Student Welcome Social at her home this Saturday. Invitations have been distributed."
Distributed.
Such a polite way of saying weaponized.
Aaliyah leans over our shared desk in English and mutters, "I'm starting a support group for people who were invited against their will."
"I was not invited against my will," I whisper back. "I simply was not consulted before my attendance was… assumed."
She smirks. "Welcome to American politics. It starts in cafeterias and rich girls' houses."
Across the room, Madison glances over her shoulder just long enough to meet my eyes. Her lips curve in that practiced, perfect smile.
I smile back.
Very sweetly.
Mrs. Carter clears her throat. "Ladies at the back, if you're planning tomorrow's party, do it in French at least. That way I can pretend it's educational."
Half the class laughs.
I sigh and flip open my book.
I did not come to this country to become part of a social event.
And yet, here I am.
By the time school ends, my head is full of dates and themes and scenes.
Bonaparte. The American Civil War. Who sits where in the cafeteria.
Who stood alone on a Homecoming stage.
Who is about to host another performance.
In the parking lot, the autumn air is crisp. Students scatter toward buses and cars. Aaliyah walks beside me, her braids tucked into a beanie.
"So," she says, "have you fully decided? Are we walking into the lion's den tomorrow or staging a dramatic boycott?"
I exhale.
"I am going," I say. "If I avoid Madison forever, she wins by default. And I am not in the habit of letting people win by default."
"Spoken like a true politician," she teases.
I make a face. "I am not a—" I stop. "Well. Maybe a little."
"A lot," she corrects.
"Will you come?" I ask.
She hesitates.
"Madison and I have an… understanding," she says slowly. "I stay out of her events, she stays out of my clubs. Our Venn diagram rarely overlaps."
"I am asking you to overlap," I say. "For one night. As my friend. As my…
bodyguard for my patience."
Her mouth twitches.
"Your French patience needs backup?" she asks. "That's serious."
"Yes," I say firmly.
She breathes out through her nose, thinking.
"Fine," she says at last. "I'll come. But if anyone tries to make me play beer pong, I'm leaving."
I blink. "Beer… pong?"
"Oh God," she groans. "You really are innocent."
"I am not innocent," I protest. "I am selective."
She laughs. "We'll see how selective you are when you see Madison's basement."
That sounds… ominous.
Before I can ask, a familiar voice calls from behind us.
"Hey, France!"
I turn.
Charles jogs down the steps, backpack slung over one shoulder, tie already loose, as if he's allergic to structure.
"Aaliyah," he nods. "Monique."
"American boy," I reply.
He grins.
"Your security detail is freaking out because you're not in the car yet," he says. "Figured I'd come rescue them from cardiac arrest."
"I am walking to the car," I mutter. "I am not defecting to Canada."
"Yet," Aaliyah adds.
"Anyway," he continues, ignoring us, "we need to talk about tomorrow."
"Yes," I say. "We do."
He raises one eyebrow. "Ominous. Do I need a drink for this?"
"It is four in the afternoon," I say. "If you need a drink at four, you need a therapist."
"Already have one," he replies cheerfully. "She says I deflect with humor. I told her that was rude and accurate."
Aaliyah snorts.
"I am going to Madison's party," I say.
He nods. "I assumed."
"Aaliyah is coming with me," I add.
His eyebrows rise higher. "Bold."
"She is my friend," I say. "And she tells me the truth. I will need that."
Aaliyah looks between us, curiosity flickering in her eyes.
"And you," I say, pinning him with my gaze, "are not going to spend the whole night avoiding Madison and hiding in corners."
He blinks. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," I say. "This is your story too. You started it with her years ago. You are not allowed to leave me alone on that stage."
He stares at me for a long moment.
Then he laughs softly.
"You really are terrifying," he says. "Has anyone ever told you that?"
"Several people," I reply.
He nods. "Fine. I'll be there. I'll even be… present."
"Emotionally, not just physically," Aaliyah adds.
"Wow, two therapists," he mutters. "Lucky me."
We reach the motorcade.
One of the agents nods curtly at Charles. Another opens the car door for me.
"Aaliyah," I say, turning back, "I will text you the details. Bring something comfortable. And something sharp."
She grins. "I always do."
Saturday arrives faster than I expect.
The day moves strangely—slow in the morning, then suddenly too quick in the evening.
I spend most of it pretending to do homework while actually reading the same paragraph over and over. My mind keeps drifting.
To the pink envelope on my desk.
To Madison's words.
To Farron in the market, telling me that sometimes just existing outside someone's script is rebellion.
And now here I am, about to walk into another girl's carefully written scene and set my own lines.
My mother knocks on my door just after six.
"Come in," I call, staring at my open closet like it is an enemy.
She enters, taking in the chaos of clothes on the bed.
"Oh, Monique," she says, smiling faintly. "I see the great battle has begun."
"It is not a battle," I say. "It is… strategy."
She laughs softly. "Of course."
I hold up two options.
A simple black dress that hits just above the knee—elegant, safe, European.
And a pair of high-waisted jeans with a silk camisole and a cropped jacket—more American, more casual, still undeniably me.
My mother considers them.
"If you wear the dress," she says, "they will see the princess the internet is talking about."
"And if I wear the jeans?" I ask.
"They will see the girl their age who happens to be a princess," she replies.
My throat tightens.
"Which one should they see?" I ask.
She smiles, this time with that look she gets when she is about to say something I actually need to hear.
"Whichever one you feel like protecting tonight," she says. "The other one will still be there tomorrow."
I look between the two outfits.
In the end, I choose the jeans.
I am still me.
But I am not handing them my crown on a silver platter.
At six-thirty, I'm standing in front of the mirror.
Black jeans, fitted but not tight. A cream silk top. A short, dark green jacket that hits my waist just right. Small gold hoops. My hair in a low, loose twist instead of the severe bun.
I look… normal.
For me.
Still polished, still French.
But not like I'm going to a diplomatic dinner.
"Bonne chance, ma chérie," my mother says, kissing my cheek. "And remember—observe before you act."
"I always do," I say.
She arches an eyebrow.
"…mostly," I add.
She laughs and leaves.
My phone buzzes.
Aaliyah: Outside. Your security is intimidating. I'm pretending not to be scared.
I smile and type back:
I will come rescue you from them.
The car ride to Madison's feels shorter than the one to school.
Probably because I spend most of it listening to Aaliyah hyperventilate softly beside me.
"I feel like I'm being smuggled," she mutters, eyeing the tinted windows and the discreet earpieces on the agents.
"You are simply being transported," I say. "There is a difference."
"Yeah," she says. "One sounds illegal, the other sounds boring."
She looks amazing—black jumpsuit, gold eyeliner, her braids piled on top of her head.
"I cannot believe I let you talk me into this," she grumbles. "I had plans tonight."
"Doing what?" I ask.
"Re-watching a documentary about corrupt oil companies," she says. "It was going to be very romantic."
I laugh.
"You can watch it tomorrow," I say.
"The corruption will still be there," she agrees.
The car slows.
Madison's neighborhood looks exactly how I imagined: huge brick houses with perfect lawns, trees wrapped in fairy lights, driveways big enough to hold three cars each.
Her house is at the end of the cul-de-sac, of course.
Lights spill from every window. Music thumps faintly even from outside. A string of cars is parked along the street; clusters of students hover by the front steps, laughing too loudly.
"Wow," Aaliyah says as we pull up. "She went full Netflix teen movie."
"Of course she did," I murmur.
An agent opens the car door.
The autumn air hits me, cool and sharp.
I step out.
Heads turn.
Not because of the car, or the security.
Because of me.
The rumors have clearly done their work.
"Is that her?"
"Yeah, that's the princess."
"She's shorter than I expected."
"Shut up, Tyler."
I resist the urge to pull my jacket tighter.
Charles appears from near the porch, hands shoved into his pockets, a dark blue shirt under his jacket. His hair is messier than usual.
He looks… good.
Annoying.
"Hey," he says, coming down the steps. "You made it."
"I said I would," I reply.
His gaze flicks to Aaliyah. "Hey. You good?"
She rolls her eyes. "Ask me in an hour."
"Come on," he says. "Madison will want to make a spectacle out of greeting you. Prepare your face."
I sigh. "My face is always prepared."
"That's what I'm worried about," he mutters.
We walk up the steps together.
The front door is open.
The music is louder inside—some pop song with too much bass. The foyer is full of people, all holding red cups. Madison likes color-coordinated alcohol, apparently.
Fairy lights wrap the banister. Balloons spell out WELCOME NEW EAGLES above the staircase.
New eagles.
Americans and their birds.
As we step into the entryway, Madison appears at the top of the stairs like she's been waiting for her cue.
Of course she has.
She looks… flawless.
White dress, not too formal, not too casual. Hair curled. Makeup perfect. Smile practiced.
"Monique!" she calls, descending the stairs like a movie star. "You're here."
I force my features into something resembling friendliness.
"Bonsoir, Madison," I say.
She reaches us, air-kisses my cheeks as if we have known each other for years, and then pulls back to take me in.
"You look amazing," she says. "Very… chic."
"Thank you," I reply. "You look very… prepared."
Her eyes spark for a second.
"I've been planning this for weeks," she says. "Wanted to make sure our new students feel properly welcomed. Especially the important ones."
Her gaze flicks briefly between me and Charles.
"Let me show you around," she adds.
Before I can answer, she links her arm through mine and turns, pulling me deeper into the house.
Aaliyah raises her eyebrows at Charles.
"Keep an eye on her," she murmurs.
"On which one?" he asks.
"Both," she says, then vanishes toward the food table.
The tour is exactly what I expect.
Living room: full of people dancing, couches already claimed by couples pretending they're alone.
Kitchen: island covered in bowls of chips, trays of food, and an alarming number of bottles.
Backyard: fairy lights strung over a patio, a fire pit, groups huddled in circles.
"Basement's where the real fun is," Madison says, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Games, music, no parents."
"I see," I say.
We pause near a doorway.
She turns to me.
"I meant what I said at school, you know," she says. "About understanding pressure. About… expectations."
I study her.
"You did not invite me here only to talk about my feelings," I say.
She laughs softly. "No," she admits. "I invited you because you're… inevitable now."
"Inevitable," I repeat.
"You think people don't notice the way Charles looks at you?" she asks quietly. "The way the news talks about you two in the same breath? 'The president's son and the French princess.' That's a headline waiting to happen."
My cheeks heat.
"He looks at everyone like that," I lie.
She snorts. "No. He doesn't."
She steps a little closer.
"Here's the thing, Monique," she says. "You and I? We're not that different. We both know how to stand where the cameras are. We both know how to make people listen. We both know how to survive parents who have plans for us."
She tilts her head.
"But there's only room for so many queens in one story," she adds. "And this town already picked me a long time ago."
I meet her gaze steadily.
"I am not here to steal your crown," I say. "I brought my own."
Her mouth twitches.
"Cute," she says. "But you might want to remember—you're playing on my board now."
Something inside me snaps into focus.
Calm.
Sharp.
I straighten my shoulders.
"I do not play on anyone's board," I say quietly. "If I am in the game, I am also rearranging it."
She studies me for a long beat.
Then she smiles.
"Good," she says. "Maybe this year won't be boring after all."
The rest of the evening unfolds in fragments.
Loud music.
Sticky floors from spilled drinks.
People shouting over each other, laughing too hard.
A group asking me to teach them French swear words.
("No," I say. "Learn your own first.")
A guy trying to guess my favorite cheese.
(He is wrong.)
In the kitchen, Aaliyah leans against the counter, sipping soda from a plastic cup.
"How's royal diplomacy going?" she asks as I join her.
"Delicate," I say. "Madison and I just had a conversation about shared trauma and mutual destruction."
"Fun," she says. "Want a chip?"
"Yes," I say. "Salt helps."
Across the room, Charles is laughing with a group of guys from the soccer team. His smile is bright, easy. But every now and then, his eyes flick to me.
Checking.
I hate that it makes my chest feel… strange.
Aaliyah follows my gaze.
"You know," she says, "for a girl who claims she hates Americans, you've picked a very dangerous one to orbit."
"I am not orbiting," I say. "I am… occasionally intersecting."
She snorts.
"Sure," she says. "Keep telling yourself that, princess."
Later, somehow, we all end up in the basement.
Madison wasn't lying.
It's like walking into another world.
Colored lights. A huge TV on one wall. Sofas, beanbags, a foosball table. More music. Games I don't recognize.
And, in the corner, a beer pong table.
I stare.
"So," Aaliyah says, appearing at my elbow, "this is the part where people start making choices they'll regret by Monday."
I wrinkle my nose. "It smells like bad decisions."
"Accurate," she says.
Madison is holding court near the center, surrounded by people. Charles stands a little apart, watching, jaw tight.
I watch him watch her.
The air feels… electric.
"You okay?" Aaliyah asks quietly.
"Yes," I lie.
Madison spots us.
"Monique!" she calls, waving us over again. "Come play!"
"Play what?" I ask warily.
"Truth or Dare," someone says. "Classic edition."
I raise an eyebrow. "I am not twelve."
"Exactly," Madison replies, eyes gleaming. "That's what makes it interesting."
I should say no.
I know I should.
But then she glances at Charles.
Then back at me.
And I understand.
This is not just a game.
This is a test.
"Fine," I say, sitting on the edge of the circle. "I will play. For a little while."
Aaliyah mutters, "I hate this," and sits beside me.
The game starts.
Silly questions at first.
"Have you ever cheated on a test?"
"Who was your first crush?"
"Which teacher do you think is secretly a robot?"
Laughter.
Dares.
Someone has to chug a disgusting drink.
Someone has to text their ex.
It spirals.
It always does.
I watch.
Listen.
Wait.
Then it's my turn.
"Monique," Madison says, her voice smooth, "truth or dare?"
The circle leans in.
"Tant que nous sommes déjà en enfer…" I murmur.
Aaliyah snorts. "What?"
"If we are already in hell," I translate, "we might as well look around."
I meet Madison's eyes.
"Truth," I say.
Her smile sharpens.
"Okay," she says softly. "Why are you really here?"
The room goes quiet.
She doesn't mean the party.
She means this country.
This school.
This house.
She means Charles.
All of it.
My heart thuds.
Across the circle, Charles's shoulders tense.
I could deflect.
I could lie.
I could say, "For school" or "For an experience" or "For my safety."
But the truth is more complicated.
And also, in this moment, very simple.
I take a breath.
"I am here," I say slowly, "because my father thinks it will make me a better leader one day to see how another country works. Because my mother thinks it will be safer for me to be close to your government than close to my enemies. Because my grandmother lives here and my heart wanted to be near her."
I pause.
"And," I add, "because I was tired of people making plans for me in rooms I did not choose."
Silence.
Then someone whistles softly.
"Damn," Maya says from somewhere in the back. "That was a lot."
Madison tilts her head.
"That's… honest," she says.
"You asked for truth," I reply.
Her eyes flick to Charles.
"And what about him?" she asks lightly. "Did you know he'd be part of the package?"
I feel heat rise in my cheeks.
"I did not come for him," I say firmly. "But I am… glad he is part of it."
The words leave my mouth before my brain can catch them.
The room inhales.
Charles stares at me.
Madison's smile freezes.
"Well," she says after a beat. "That's… something."
"Now it's my turn," I say calmly.
Her eyebrows rise.
"This isn't how the game—" she begins.
"You asked me a real question," I cut in. "I will ask you one."
The circle shifts.
Tension.
Electric.
Madison exhales. "Fine," she says. "Hit me."
I look at her.
Really look.
At the perfect hair.
The perfect dress.
The girl who was left alone on a stage.
"Madison," I say, voice level, "truth or dare?"
She hesitates.
"Truth," she says at last.
"Do you actually want the life your parents have planned for you," I ask softly, "or are you just afraid of what happens if you don't?"
For a second, everything in her face falls away.
The control.
The calculation.
What's left is a girl my age who looks very, very tired.
She swallows.
"That's not a fair question," she says hoarsely.
"You asked me one that wasn't fair," I reply.
She laughs once, sharp.
"Fine," she says. "You want my truth?"
She lifts her chin.
"I don't know," she says. "Sometimes, when I'm on stage or running a meeting or planning one of these stupid parties, I feel… powerful. Like I'm already more than what they decided I'd be."
Her voice cracks.
"And other times," she continues, quieter now, "I feel like I'm just rehearsing for a role they cast me in when I was twelve. And I don't know who I am when I'm not in it."
No one speaks.
The music upstairs thumps faintly.
Someone coughs.
Madison's eyes are shiny.
She blinks hard and smiles again.
"There," she says. "Happy?"
I hold her gaze.
"No," I say. "But I respect it."
Something passes between us.
Not friendship.
Not forgiveness.
Understanding.
A tiny, fragile truce in the middle of a battlefield.
Later, after the game disintegrates into dares I refuse to participate in, I slip upstairs to breathe.
The house is quieter on the second floor.
I find an empty study and step inside, closing the door halfway.
Bookshelves. A big desk. Family photos.
One catches my eye.
Madison, younger, in a soccer uniform, grass-stained and grinning.
Her parents on either side, both in suits, both on their phones.
She's looking at the camera.
They're looking at something else.
I sigh.
"Deep thoughts?"
I nearly jump.
Charles stands in the doorway, leaning on the frame.
"Do you enjoy sneaking up on people?" I demand.
"Yes," he says. "It's my hobby."
He steps in, closing the door behind him.
"You okay?" he asks.
I sink onto the edge of the desk.
"I am tired," I say. "And my head hurts. And this country is very loud."
He chuckles.
"Welcome to America," he says.
He moves to stand beside me, shoulder brushing mine.
"I heard what you said," he adds quietly. "Downstairs. About… being glad I'm part of it."
Heat rushes to my face again.
"I was under pressure," I say. "Truth or Dare is a manipulative game."
"You could have said you barely tolerate me," he says.
"I do barely tolerate you," I reply.
"But you're glad I'm here," he says.
I look at him.
His eyes are softer than usual.
Less joking.
More… real.
"Yes," I say.
He exhales slowly.
"Me too," he says.
Silence.
Soft.
Strange.
Comfortable, and also not.
"You and Madison," I say. "She told me her truth too."
He flinches a little.
"I figured," he says. "She doesn't like to lose at any game, even the emotional ones."
"She is not just the villain," I say.
"I know," he replies quietly.
"You hurt her," I add.
"I know that too," he says. "I just… didn't know how to not."
I nod.
"It is possible," I say slowly, "to feel bad for someone and still not let them decide your life."
He looks at me.
"Is that what you're doing?" he asks. "With me? With… all of this?"
"I am trying," I say.
We stand there for a moment, side by side, two kids in a stranger's study, holding more power and more fear than feels reasonable for our age.
"If you want to leave," he says suddenly, "we can. I'll make an excuse. We can blame my dad. Or national security. Or an international cheese crisis."
I laugh.
"An international cheese crisis?" I repeat.
"It would get my attention," he says.
I consider it.
Leaving.
Staying.
Running.
Standing.
"No," I say at last. "Not yet. There is one more thing I have to do first."
He groans. "That sentence never ends well."
I smile.
"Relax, American boy," I say. "I am not going to start a war."
"Yet," he mutters.
I roll my eyes.
When we go back downstairs, the party has shifted again.
Some people have left.
Others are more unsteady.
Madison is on the patio now, alone for once, staring at the fire pit, her arms wrapped around herself.
Aaliyah spots me from the doorway.
"You survived," she says.
"Barely," I reply.
She nods toward Madison.
"You going to talk to her again?" she asks. "Or are we making a dramatic exit?"
I look at Madison.
At the girl who almost became someone else's queen.
At the girl who still might.
"At least say goodnight," I say. "It is basic manners."
Aaliyah snorts. "You and your manners."
I cross the patio.
"Madison," I say.
She startles slightly, then schools her expression.
"Monique," she replies. "Leaving?"
"Yes," I say. "Thank you for having me."
She studies me.
"You're… different than I expected," she says.
"Vous aussi," I reply. You too.
Her mouth quirks.
"Was this everything you imagined American high school parties would be?" she asks.
I glance around.
At the red cups.
The sticky floors.
The secrets.
The truths.
"No," I say honestly. "It was… more."
She laughs softly.
"Monique?" she says.
"Yes?"
"Try not to ruin my life," she says lightly.
"Try not to sabotage mine," I reply.
Her smile turns real for just a second.
"No promises," she says.
"None from me either," I reply.
We stand there for a heartbeat.
Then I step back.
"Bonne nuit, Madison," I say.
"Goodnight, princess," she replies.
I do not correct her.
In the car on the way home, Aaliyah falls asleep against the window, her head lolling to the side.
Charles sits across from me, legs stretched out, watching the city lights blur past.
"Well," he says softly, "that was…
something."
"Yes," I say. "It was."
He leans his head back, eyes closing for a moment.
"Tomorrow," he says, "they'll post photos. They'll write captions. They'll invent stories about tonight. They always do."
"I know," I reply.
"But we'll know what really happened," he adds.
I think of the truths spoken in that circle.
Of Madison's cracked mask.
Of my own admission.
Of the way his eyes looked at me in the study.
"Yes," I say quietly. "We will."
The car hums.
The city glows.
I rest my forehead against the cool glass and watch my reflection blur.
Princess.
Girl.
Player.
Piece.
For the first time since I arrived in this country, I feel all of those things at once—not fighting each other, but… layering.
Complicated.
Messy.
Real.
"Monique?" Charles says, eyes still closed.
"Yes?"
"Thanks for not letting her make you part of her story," he murmurs. "For… making your own instead."
I watch him.
"You helped," I say.
He smirks without opening his eyes.
"I'm an excellent supporting character," he says.
I roll my eyes.
"You are not a supporting character," I reply. "Stop saying that."
He opens one eye.
"Then what am I?" he asks.
I look at him.
At the boy who refuses crowns and still carries the weight of his father's.
At the boy who makes jokes instead of confessions and sometimes, when he thinks I am not looking, lets fear show on his face.
"At the very least," I say slowly, "you are… a complication."
He laughs softly.
"I'll take it," he says.
I smile out the window.
Tomorrow, there will be whispers.
Next week, there will be new games.
This year, there will be a thousand chances to lose myself in someone else's plans.
But right now, in this car, in this strange country, with this infuriating American boy half-asleep across from me, I feel something dangerous and exhilarating unfurl inside my chest.
Not just curiosity.
Not just survival.
Possibility.
Maybe, just maybe, this chapter will not be written for me.
Maybe I will write it myself.
In French.
In English.
In every language that says: I am here.
And I am not anyone's script.