The American Girl Read Online Free PDF Page A

full cultural immersion, expanding academic horizons as much as comprehension.”
    If anything, I have less comprehension. Noé is more of a mystery to me than when I arrived. Back in April she seemed excited to have an American friend, giving me friendship bracelets and mixtapes, throwing me parties. Since the holiday started, she’s been quieter, staying in her bedroom a lot . . . sang-froid , maybe, or plain old-fashioned dislike. We were hurled together by the freak weather conditions of cultural exchange, matched by an educational eHarmony through a database of hobbiesthat couldn’t possibly tell if we had much in common. Secretly, though, I think we have too much in common—living in our heads, not being, as the French say, bien dans sa peau . It makes for a lot of awkward silences at dinner, that’s for sure.
    It makes for being lonely. I even tried to phone my dad, but I think he’s too busy getting ready for the trip to Tahiti with Meghan. They’re superbusy, anyway, preparing for the new baby, the tiny half sister or brother who’s arriving just in time to fill in for me when I go off to college. Pity that kid! I mean, Meghan’s nice enough. I’m sure she’ll make a good mom. She turns twenty-five in a few weeks, so she’ll be exactly half Dad’s age by the time she goes into labor. He was supervising her PhD when they started sneaking around, and I think she thought he was a catch.
    She came to dinner once before they knew I knew and after a bottle of wine she told me “your dad is such a good listener, even when I talk about my feelings.” Then I really knew. Though I still didn’t know whether to hug her or warn her to get out while she could. So I just topped up her glass and later, in my room, I looked at some old photos Mom took of me and Dad for some photography project or other and tried to see if he listened to me back then, if we were close. But how can you tell? Just because people smile for photos doesn’t mean they’re happy.
    Poor Meghan’s learning the hard way now. Postmarriage, prebaby Dad is an absent presence, working late, drinking hard, teaching summer school so he doesn’t have to spend time with anyone who’s not an adoring student. I remember feeling bitter when they got engaged and thinking, One day he ’ll blame you for everything like he blames me. Like he blames me for Mom dying and for losing it after she did. Now that it’s come true, though, I just feel sad for her.
    Anyhow . . . to make a long story short, I didn’t talk about the stalker/message situation with Dad or Meghan or Noé or anybody. In the end, I just spent the whole night feeling totally paranoid, making a bullet-point list of suspects (in other words, a list of all the people I’ve met here so far):
    Â Â Â Â Â  •       Noémie Blavette
    Â Â Â Â Â  •       her mom, Émilie
    Â Â Â Â Â  •       Marlene who works at the café
    Â Â Â Â Â  •       Émilie’s British friend Stella
    Â Â Â Â Â  •       the school caretaker, Monsieur Raymond
    Â Â Â Â Â  •       the local kids who hang around the pool
    Seriously, though, I can’t think of any reason any of them would send me snuff movie texts. After all, I’m just an ordinary girl who happens to be a long, long way from home.

Molly Swift
    JULY 30, 2015
    H alfway back to the hotel, a pair of headlights glared in my rearview mirror, burning full blaze. I shielded my eyes. The car came closer, going faster. I craned around, blinded by the lights. Behind me, the car was almost touching. I braced for impact, squeezed my eyes half shut. I heard the engine rev, the rubber squeal of the tires swerving around me. As it flew past, it swiped the side of my rental, jolting the car.
    I almost