* so sick of this town

[Brigitte Babineaux]

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i'm out on my own again *
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Campus. Students. Professor - that one was easy. Assignments. Essay. Paper - not so easy; apparently this one was most commonly used to refer to something that seemed exactly like a ré-essay. Essay. Paper. But the latter was also the sheets that you wrote on. Duh. Papier. Brigitte rolled her eyes behind her sunglasses, biting her lower lip slightly with concentration as she continued walking. Path. Tree. Bench. Leaves - apparently this word could not apply to paper though. The sheets-of-paper kind of paper. Feuille could be both but it was either a sheet of a leaf. Sheets didn't fall from les arbres and vous ne pouviez pas imprimer quelque chose sur un leaf. You could not print something on a leaf. And when you thought that you'd learned a new word and practiced the perfect question in your head before politely asking the young gentleman beside you for a leaf because you'd run out... He laughed. Oh, he wasn't laughing at her, non, that was the good thing. Bien pour lui. Another flick of her eyes. Sarcasm. Magnifique. Non, l'homme était parfaitement gentil. He was nice. It wasn't as if her French accent was anything less than painfully obvious. Apparently, les garçons Americans aimaient les filles Françaises. Chanceux pour elle, non? At least, that had been the case with this guy. He'd been more than happy to flash her a patient smile and say that he was sorry but he didn't quite understand. So she'd had to roll her eyes and gesture at the lined paper he was taking notes with - while mentally berating herself for not realizing this morning that she'd almost come to the end of her notebook and needed a new one - and whisper "Papier?" as if she was talking to a moron. She couldn't help it, the haughtiness always reared its head as a defence and even if he was just trying to be friendly and charming, laughing made her uncomfortable when she wasn't completely sure if she was in on it or not. Or if he was laughing at her. But he hadn't been, non, bien sûr, non. After all, he'd still been smiling when he'd given that little "Ohhh" nod of his head and passed her a few le-sheets and whispered back "Paper." Right. Because there was such a difference, excusez-moi. Normally, Brigitte wouldn't have minded but it wasn't as if this guy was the first to try and correct her. Allo! She was trying, here. Laissez-le, vraiment. English was a complex, complicated language and there seemed to be more exceptions to the rules than they were examples that actually followed the rules. She'd gotten some books on grammar and studied them but it all seemed to be a mess and vraiment, sometimes she just wanted to speak French. Was that such a problem? Did he not understand her because she'd said "Papier" instead of "Paper"? If that was honestly the case, she certainly wouldn't have been annoyed as she'd have been too busy feeling sorry for this guy as he was obviously lacking intelligence. Idiot. There was another word that was similar. Ooh la la! Sarcasm again. Magnifique.

Oh well. Oui, that guy had been idiot, that much was obvious. When he'd asked her after class what her name was, she'd gotten even more confirmation. Normally, she would have introduced her as Bree. The first two hundred times of getting called "Bridget" - she cringed - were scarred into her memory as it was, merci beaucoup. But she'd felt like testing this guy out again, giving him one last chance. So she'd said her name was Brigitte. It was, after all. His response? "Nice to meet you, Bridget, I'm Sam." ...Bridget. That disgusting, ugly name that most of the idiots around here apparently seemed to think was the same thing as her name. Were they really so thick that they could not wrap their tongues around two syllables just because they were slightly different from a name they were more familiar with? Bree-ZHEET As in jeete, if you really needed to break it down. Not BRI-jit, that horribly unattractive American name that she was absolutely sick of being called. No. Brigitte. Say it right, damn it. Oh yes, she'd learned to swear in English already. She'd been here for a month after all and that was something that you picked up rather quickly. Not that it came automatically, no. She only swore as an instant reaction to things and although she was starting to pick up English from being so immersed, it was by no means her first instinct. And no offense, but she really hoped that it never was. Although, that made no sense, seeing as she was now living in New York and it probably would become instinct after long enough but... Just let her feel superior a little longer, kay? Merci. Smoothing her low sort-of-to-the-side ponytail down, Brigitte let herself twirl the end as she continued walking through the campus. Right. Campus. She'd been going over words in her head before she'd gotten so distracted thinking about that idiot. Campus. Students. Fall. Well, that was the season. Another word for it. She preferred Autumn. Much more similar to automne. And it wasn't also a verb meaning to... well, to fall! Tomber! Je tombe, tu tombes, il ou elle tombe, nous tombons, vous tombez, ils ou elles tombent... I fall, you fall, he or she falls, we fall, you fall, they fall. First of all, what was with "you" and "you"? Did any of them hear a difference there? No, neither did she. Which made no sense because how in the world was she supposed to know if someone was referring to her specifically or to the group - this became especially confusing during lectures - and how was she supposed to know whether someone was being appropriately polite or not? Maybe Americans just weren't polite so they didn't need another way to say it. That seemed likely enough to her. And then... really? Fall, fall, fall, fall... It was all the same. Not only were the impolite, but they were lazy or stupid or both. "They" being Americans? Well... anyone who spoke English.

Les idiots, all of them.

But that sort of mindset wasn't going to help. She was here, in New York, and the circumstances may not have been the most ideal but she was out of Paris and far, far away from her mère and her sœur and that was the important thing. Although she needed to e-mail Anotinette back sometime tonight but she pushed that out of her mind. Thinking about sensitive subjects when in a horrible mood was not a good idea. Indeed, when some guy accidentally bumped into her, she couldn't prevent a muttered "Casse-toi," from escaping her. Ugh. Oh well, it's not like he even knew what that meant, most likely. It didn't count as being rude if they were too stupid to understand you. It was like cooing terrible things to a baby or a dog. As long as the tone was right, you could threaten to kill them and they'd still coo or wag their tail. So as long as she smiled sweetly, she could quip "fuck off" as much as she wanted and she'd probably still get a smile in return. Ils étaient si intelligents, non? She snorted and readjusted the stap of her Louis Vuitton purse-slash-book-bag. Ow, mon dieu, she hated having to carry around books. It was even worse if she was wearing a tank top and the strap pressed into the skin of her shoulder. Today, however, the fitted leather jacket she had on prevented that. It was the sort of thing she'd worn with her friends back in Paris when they were trying to project a certain vibe of edginess but this morning, she'd just thrown it on because it was a bit chilly outside and it was the closest thing she'd seen. Was it a bit much paired with her black dress? She didn't think so? Non, non, c'était belle. And her cute purple flats with the ribbon provided a nice, girlier touch to the outfit. Yes, it was fine. Nonetheless, she still liked going over what she wearing in her head from time to time, just to... reassure? Yes, reassure. In the same way that she reassured herself of all the new words she was learning as she made her way through campus. Ground. Street. Road. Edifice. Or wait, no, building. Apparently edifice was a word too, though. But no one used it. Which made no sense because it sounded so much nicer - and was so much closer to édifice, non? - and... Ah mon dieu, she didn't want to go over this again. There were only so many things that could frustrate you before you just accepted the conclusion that yes, English was stupid. So why was she here again? Rolling her eyes, Brigitte stopped twirling her hair, letting the ponytail fall against her chest, and crossed her arms tightly. She was doing the right thing. She'd made a smart choice... Right? Of course right. She could do this. She could do anything. She was Brigitte Babineaux, damn it, and she was magnifique. But in Paris? She wasn't always that magnifique Brigitte. In New York? She could be her all the time. That was why she was here. Even if, she couldn't help thinking wistfully, at least in Paris, people knew how to speak properly. And how to pronounce her fucking name.

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