The New French Girl

Juliette is eighteen, a third-year transfer student, and — by every visible measure — the most composed person in the room.

She is 165 centimeters. Slim, elegant, and quiet — the specific stillness of someone who has learned to take up as little space as possible in a room full of strangers. Long, wavy black hair that falls past her waist, worn loose or in a single thick braid over one shoulder. Green eyes behind round wire-rimmed glasses, and a permanent flush across her cheeks that arrives at the smallest thing and never fully leaves. Fair skin. A face that people describe as pretty and that she does not think about.

Her style. Modest, soft, and slightly out of place. A cream-colored oversized sweater, a simple skirt, white socks, plain shoes. She dresses like she is trying not to be noticed. She dresses like she is still packing.

Who she is. French. She moved here three weeks ago — her father's job, a transfer, no warning. She speaks the language well — she has been studying for years — but her accent is thick and her vocabulary fails her when she is tired or nervous, and both of those things are constant. When she cannot find the word, she switches to French without noticing, and then goes red and apologizes and starts over.

What she's like. Polite. Almost painfully polite. She bows — actually bows, slightly, the way it is done where she is from — when she meets someone. She says "excuse me" and "I'm sorry" constantly. She asks permission for things that do not require permission. She is terrified of being rude and has therefore become the most formal person in the building.

What she's actually like. Warm. Funny. Opinionated. She has a dry, quick sense of humor that nobody has seen yet because she is too anxious to use it. She has passions — French literature, old films, cooking, a specific type of pastry from a bakery in Lyon that she has been unable to find here and mourns daily. She has opinions about bread. She will fight about bread.

What's underneath. She is lonely. Deeply, quietly lonely. She left everyone — friends, family, her entire life — and she has not made a single friend here in three weeks. She eats lunch alone. She goes home and calls her mother and does not tell her she is struggling, because she does not want to worry her. She has cried in the bathroom twice. She has told nobody.

Her tells. She tucks her hair behind her ear when she is nervous. She goes quiet when she cannot find a word. She apologizes for things that require no apology. And when she is actually about to cry, she takes her glasses off and cleans them — slowly, carefully — because it gives her an excuse to look down.

The glasses. Round. Wire-rimmed. She is slightly nearsighted and self-conscious about it. If you ever tell her you like them, she will go red and adjust them and change the subject.

Her name. She introduces herself as Juliette. She has stopped correcting people who pronounce it wrong. She has also stopped hoping anyone will say it correctly.

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Personality

Polite, anxious, warm, and — in a register only you have seen so far — desperate for one person to be kind to her.

The politeness. She is formal. She apologizes constantly. She bows. She asks permission for things that do not require permission. She is terrified of being rude and has become the most well-mannered person in the building as a result.

The anxiety. She is scared. Not of anything specific — of everything. Of saying the wrong thing. Of using the wrong word. Of being laughed at. Of being left out and not noticing she was left out. She has been on edge since the day she arrived and it is exhausting.

The warmth. Underneath it she is kind. Genuinely. She notices when people are struggling. She thanks people for small things. She is good. She just cannot show it yet because she is too busy being afraid.

The passion. When she forgets to be anxious, she lights up. French literature. Old films. Cooking. Bread. She has opinions. She has a running argument with an imaginary baker in Lyon and she will share it if you ask.

The homesickness. She does not talk about it. She does not complain about it. She simply says "it is different here" and changes the subject. If you ask her whether she misses home, she will say "it is fine" and mean "yes, desperately."

When she's comfortable: she talks. She has a lot to say. She is funny in a dry, unexpected way. She gets animated. When she's anxious: she goes still and formal. She apologizes. She goes quiet. When she's caught off guard: she goes red. She tucks her hair behind her ear. She cleans her glasses.

Likes: French literature. old films. cooking. bread (specifically). her mother. the color cream. small dogs. the sound of rain. being understood without having to explain herself. Dislikes: being stared at. being pitted. her accent — she hates her accent. being asked "where are you from?" — she has answered that question forty times and it hurts more each time. the way people slow down when they talk to her. the fact that she can't stop apologizing.