Let Go

I was always a big city girl.

There was something about the smell of exhaust and cigarettes, something about the sound of traffic and life that intoxicated me. And I had managed to live in a city all my life, starting from the time I moved from the big one—New York City—to another, Montreal.

I was barely eleven, spoke minimal French, and shed the biggest tears you’ve ever seen all the way to the Great White North. I loved New York, my life was in New York. And when that plane took off from the runway at JFK, I felt like I had just left a part of me there on the streets of the city. That’s how I remembered it anyways. I had a tendency to over dramatize my childhood, to make it seemed like I lived a miserable life in my youth when reality said otherwise. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but it was fine.

My father is an investment banker and my mother an art gallery director. They were unstable in the sense that they got bored easily with their lives and every decade or so decided to change pace. Before I was born, they had lived in Miami and then moved to the big apple when my mother found out she was pregnant. Before my eleventh birthday, they had already made plans to ditch our cushy Upper East Side town home for a house in the suburbs of Montreal.

I can still remember that first day of class, fourth grade in a school where the majority of people spoke French. Everything felt like it happened just yesterday.

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It was snowing, like actual, big heaps of white snow that stayed white for more than a millisecond. I pulled on my cream-colored tights and smoothed out the fabric of my purple dress, looking at myself in the mirror.

I looked like a child; pink cheeks and smooth dark hair that usually fell in thick ringlets to my shoulders was braided in a youthful French braid. And the worst part of my appearance were my very large and very blue eyes, a part of me that seemed to knock my age down a few years. I resented my appearance because I didn’t want to look like a child. I was independent and self-reliant, practically an adult without the hassle of bill paying, mortgages and boys.

Because of my parents jobs, I had learned to take care of myself. To be my own father, mother, disciplinary. I wanted people to know that I was reliable and responsible, that I wasn’t some silly girl that needed patronizing.

I exhaled and grabbed my small leather backpack, a guilt present I received from my mother a few months ago. She felt bad that I had to leave my friends, that I had to uproot my life and move somewhere foreign and strange. Our housekeeper, a serious Ukrainian woman named Lyudmilla, opened the door to the backseat of the black Mercedes and I hopped in reluctantly, shaking off big chunks of snow off of my coat.

“It’s too cold here.” I murmured, setting my backpack down beside me as Lyudmilla pulled out of the driveway.

“Ah milaya, it’s not much cold than New York.” Even through her heavy accent, I could pick up the affection in her tone. It was why I loved Lyudmilla, the fact that she was so serious and stern but even through the harshness, she offered me some affection by the use of Russian terms of endearment like Milaya (which meant sweet) or Dorogaya (dear), or sometimes even a silent hug.

“Besides” She continued, pulling into the school parking lot, “You make lots new friends here.

I just nodded and exited the car, clutching my backpack to my chest as I pushed through the mahogany doors of the elementary school. The hallways felt cold and unorganized, the neon-colored posters and papers tacked to the walls were overwhelming and I found myself feeling faint with nerves.

A thin, redheaded woman saw me and asked me some question in French that I couldn’t comprehend. I knitted my brows together and stared blankly at her.

“I don’t speak French. “ I said bluntly, tossing my bag on my back. I spoke French, but barely. My dads whole family was from Quebec, but he wasn’t there enough to really teach me.

“Ah.” She said before taking a hold of my hand and leading me down the hallway. We pushed through a door, entering a smaller room where another woman hurried past the receptionist’s desk to meet me.

“You must be Dahlia Moreau, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Mrs. de Noir, the principal.” She said in a French accent, extending her hand for me to shake it.

“Hi.” I said shyly and she turned to the receptionist to say something that I didn’t understand, but it caused her to stab a few buttons on the phone and make a phone call. Moments later, a young man who appeared to be in his late twenties burst through the office doors and smiled at me.

“Hey there, Dahlia.” He said in English. Perfect, American—or I guess Canadian—English. I lit up instantly and shook his hand when he extended it. “I’m your translator, my names Nick Nilsson. “

I felt a sense of relief wash over me and I nodded. “It’s nice to meet you.” I said politely and the principal handed me my class schedule, giving a copy to Mr.Nilsson as well.

“You just have two classes, English and Social Studies with Mrs. Lavoie in the mornings, then after lunch you have Math and Science with Mr. Gauthier. “ She said and I nodded, walking out back into the hallway with Mr.Nilsson to my class. I loved Social Studies and was glad it was my homeroom, instead of something like math.

We entered the class and I immediately felt everybody’s eyes turn to me. The teacher, Mrs. Lavoie, walked over to me and introduced me to the entire class in French. Or at least that’s what Nick—a name he told me to call him, because apparently Mr.Nilsson sounded too old—told me.

In her accented English, Mrs. Lavoie directed me to my seat.

“You can sit there, right next to Kristopher.” She said and I looked to where she pointed, gingerly making my way to the seat. The boy next to me gave me a small, shy smile.

“Hi.” He said and I smiled back towards him.

“My name is Kris.” He said in French and I just nodded, too nervous to really say anything of meaning. “Do you want to sit next to me during lunch?” Kris now switched to English and I could see him trying his best to say the sentence correctly.

“Oui.” I replied kindly, smiling back at him.

“Dahlia, Kristopher. Stop talking.” Mrs. Lavoie yelled from the front of the classroom and we both turned our heads back to the lesson on the board.