Our Best Enemies

Rennes, France – September 2008

In a world where appearances ruled, there was nothing more brutal than the first day of school.

Aside from the usual stress about schedules or wondering if you'd end up in the same class as your friends, there was an invisible pressure pushing us to show our best selves the moment we walked through the school gates.

Everything had to be perfect: the outfit, the hair, the shoes, the bag… and, of course, the famous story of our amazing summer vacation.

I hated the first day of school.

But it wasn’t the classes or the endless list of assignments that made me anxious—it was the way people looked at you.

Year after year, it felt like everyone had become some kind of fashion critic.

Some judged you for not being trendy enough, others because your clothes weren’t name brand. And then there were those who scrutinized your body to see if it “fit the mold.” Special mention to the girls who were shamed for wearing either too much or not enough makeup.

People would probably say I was being dramatic, but to me, the first day had the power to define your place at school for the next ten months. And I had no intention of messing that up.

This year was different. It was senior year, and on top of that, I was starting over in a brand-new school.

I was walking in with no one to lean on.

When my mom found out she was being transferred to Rennes, I did all the research I could to avoid making any missteps. What I found was that Dreyfus High, although public, had a reputation for attracting all the “rich kids” in town.

We weren’t wealthy, but with her new night-shift nursing job, my mom made a good living. And my dad—who was just happy not to have me around as often as the divorce settlement allowed—always made sure to pay child support on time. That came with a few perks, like getting way too much allowance for a girl my age.

At least that gave me a chance to blend in a little better with my future classmates.

Less than twenty-four hours before that dreaded day, my carefully selected outfit and bag were laid out neatly on my desk.

I was now in the bathroom, struggling with the tweezers to take care of the unibrow that had nearly settled in between my eyes after weeks of summer laziness. The stairs creaked, signaling my mom’s imminent arrival. It was 7 p.m., which meant she’d be leaving for her 8 p.m. shift soon.

“Camille,” she called out. “I left a croque-monsieur in the oven for you. Just heat it up when you’re ready for dinner,” she added, watching me from the bathroom doorway.

As my hazel eyes met hers in the mirror, I waited for the comment. She always had something to say.

“You really should’ve gone to the hairdresser like I told you,” she sighed after a pause, like I’d committed some sort of crime. “Your hair’s too long. It makes your face look chubbier.”

Told you so.

“I just wanted to grow it out and see how it looked, Mom,” I said with a smile that I hoped masked how annoyed I was.

The truth was, I planned to give my curls another shot, but my old short bob didn’t help me appreciate them.

“Too bad. You look so pretty with a nice blow-dried bob.”

“I still have time to change my mind before the weekend,” I said quickly, knowing full well she’d bring it up again and again until I gave in.

“As you wish, sweetheart.”

That, of course, wasn’t true. It was never whatever I wished for. She always found a way to make me bend.

“I’m really sorry I can’t be there tomorrow morning for your first day,” she added. “But you’ll tell me all about it later, okay? I better get going if I don’t want to be late. Kisses, kisses,” she said before disappearing down the stairs.

Not even five minutes later, I heard the front door lock.

I wished I could say I was surprised or upset that she wouldn’t be there for something that meant so much to me, but those feelings had long since turned into disappointment. The hospital was less than ten minutes away by car, traffic included. I knew she preferred spending that last half-hour before her shift chatting with her new coworkers instead of staying with me.

I should probably be happy instead of feeling sorry for myself. Most teens would kill for the kind of freedom I had once she stepped out the door.

It was Monday night—there had to be a rerun of Joséphine, Ange Gardien on TV to help me take my mind off things before bed.

I sighed and tried to pull myself together.

There were worse things than being second place in your parents’ lives, right?

—

11:30 p.m.

My beauty routine was over, the croque-monsieur long gone, but I still couldn’t fall asleep.

You might think it was first-day nerves keeping me up, but no. The real culprit was my neighbors, who apparently thought Monday night was a great time to throw a party.

I’d been tossing and turning in bed for almost an hour, unable to ignore the laughter and music pouring out of their stereo.

I had to face the facts: I wasn’t getting my eight hours of beauty sleep. I’d have to make sure to cover up my dark circles with powder in the morning.

The numbers on my clock glowed on the ceiling, reminding me that I had only six hours and fifty-four minutes left before my alarm would go off.

Since sleep wasn’t happening, I got up and opened my bedroom window and shutters.

The air was still warm for a September night in Brittany, and only a few stars were visible due to the light pollution. A light drizzle had started to fall.

I climbed up onto the windowsill to get a better view. With my back and head against the outside wall, everything felt a little quieter from up there. The music didn’t bother me as much anymore.

“You’re not gonna jump, are you?”

A male voice.

Startled, I almost fell backward into my room.

After regaining my composure, I looked around, trying to figure out where the voice had come from, but saw nothing. No sound stood out, except for the music, and no shape emerged from the bushes across from the house. I must’ve been really tired to be imagining voices.

Then a light chuckle came from the darkness, and a young man emerged, holding a cigarette. He looked up at me and took a drag, the ember glowing faintly in the night.

He seemed about my age—maybe a bit older, it was hard to tell in the dim light. But he was definitely tall. I could tell by comparing his silhouette to the low wall beside him.

As he stepped closer, the house’s motion light flicked on, and suddenly my palms were sweaty.

He was hot. Like, really hot. And he was staring straight at me with these piercing gray eyes. His almost-white blond hair was messy, like he’d just run his hands through it, and that cocky smile of his almost made me fall out of the window again.

“It’s late, little girl. Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?” he said, full of sarcasm.

“I’m not a little girl,” I snapped back.

“Are you of legal age?” he asked, still staring into my eyes.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” I shot back. My answer seemed to confirm what he had been hoping for.

“So, definitely a little girl then,” he said, mocking me.

I scowled. At almost 17, I didn’t look like a child anymore, even though wearing an Aristocats pajama didn’t help my case. The stranger moved closer, keeping his eyes on me, and seemed to enjoy watching the emotions flicker across my face. Seconds passed, as if he were waiting for me to contradict him again to prove his point.

Instead, I said coolly, “You’re right, and given your advanced age, it would be wiser for you to stop talking to me. People might think you’re trying to corrupt a minor.”

His eyes widened a bit, but then he smirked again.

“Shame. I’d just found a distraction after escaping a boring party.”

“And how is talking to a stranger more interesting than partying with your friends?” I asked without thinking.

He chuckled, ignored the question, and said:

“I’ve never believed in coincidence. Do you?”

I blinked, confused.

“I mean, what are the odds I’d come out for some fresh air right when you decided to jump out the window?” he asked.

“I wasn’t going to jump!” I exclaimed.

“A detail,” he dismissed with a wave of his hand.

A long silence followed, and I turned my gaze back to the sky to end the awkwardness of his eyes on my face.

“You new in town?” he asked eventually.

I looked back at him, right into those gray eyes.

When I didn’t answer, he laughed.

“Cat got your tongue? That’s okay. I’ll figure it out.”

The music stopped suddenly, catching my attention and the door to the neighboring house slammed open.

“J, where are you? We’re heading out, you coming?” called a high-pitched voice.

A girl, clearly.

I glanced back at the boy just as he flicked his cigarette into my mom’s planters.

“Good night, Juliet,” he said with a confident smile before walking toward the voice calling him, leaving me no chance to correct him.

“Were you talking to someone?” asked the young woman.

“Nope, just the neighbor’s cat,” he replied, bored.

“You’re such an ass,” she laughed. “Come on, the others are waiting.”

And those were the last words I heard before I shut my window, the storm-gray eyes of the stranger still burned into my mind.

⭐️⭐️⭐️

Hey! You’ve reached the end of the first chapter ❤️

The story of Camille, Raphaël, and Jens touches on several sensitive topics such as abuse, harassment, addictions, and eating disorders. If these topics make you uncomfortable, feel free to skip this story.

I hope you’ll give this novel a chance.

Enjoy

Nola ❤️