The ballpoint in my pen scratches over the journal page, repeatedly carving the same six letters I have written countless times before.
WHO AM I?
Truth is, I don’t know who I am, because I had to become a role, a pretend friend, a someone for everyone from the moment I turned twelve. And now? Fourteen years later, I am a mess. A mess who has no idea who she is, what she wants, or what to do with her life.
The job is done, and I am left with a void. I partially blame my father for it, because he was the one who dragged me into this life. But then, I can’t complain about the fact that the job made me a millionaire before I even turned eighteen, and I am free to do whatever I want now. Except for knowing that I am searched for. Well, not me, but the role I had.
It should bring me peace, knowing that I changed my appearance enough to be unrecognizable, yet…I can’t shake the feeling of being watched, of always needing to be hypervigilant.
Hypervigilance. The motto of my life.
‘Always be prepared. Always be on the lookout.’That’s what my father taught me before I could even write.
Me…no. The girl whose name feels like a stranger to me, after all those years of being forced into living a role. To pretend to be someone, because my father decided.
I have lost track of the child I once was, and my plan is to start fresh here. To do whatever I want to do, and find out who Amelie Degard really is. No commitments, no more lies, no more pretending. No more my father ruling anything. No more job. Just unapologetically me.
With that, I get up to leave, because it’s the first day of my new life.
My life.
I walk past the meticulously maintained grass of Butler Lawn in the heart of the Columbia Campus. I check out the other students, and I instantly question my decision to study again. I have forgotten how annoying eighteen-year-olds can be.
Many of them are dancing while we are forced to walk like ants towards a stage with rows of chairs in front, holding some stupid flags, and wearing even more stupid baby-blue t-shirts. I only put it on so as not to draw attention to myself.
The others’ over-enthusiasm makes me sick. It might be an American thing, but my rather dry half-French, half-British existence can’t deal with it. It also can’t deal with the heat. I have heard about New York City being hot in late summer, but holy shit, I didn’t think it would be that hot.
I blow my cheeks with a raised eyebrow towards the black-haired boy in front of me, who won’t shut up about how exciting everything is and that this is the proudest moment of his life.
You haven’t even started your life, idiot,I tell him in my mind. Suddenly, he jumps up and down as we pass the parents’ section, and I roll my eyes.
When we reach the area with chairs for the new Columbians, I make sure to sit as far away as possible.
I should have decided on a graduate degree,I think to myself. But I made myself several years younger on my new papers on purpose. So, undergrad hell it is.
I scan the rows and see a blonde, long-haired, young woman in an expensive-looking, floral-printed mini dress, scrolling on her phone. She’s not wearing the blue t-shirt, and I immediately like her. From her body language, she definitely seems to feel everything of this is below her—exactly the type of person I like to be around right now. I make my way to the free spot next to her. Apparently, no one wants to sit next to her.
When I reach her, it is clear she comes from money. Her watch is a rose-gold Patek Philippe Nautilus 7118. I know because I researched watches and appearances before arriving here, but I ended up choosing a Cartier. I might have money, but I won’t pay 200k for a damn watch. I also didn’t want to give an image of being completely over it.
Her entire appearance shows her background. And I have to say, with her long legs, the attitude, I’d be the last person not to look. I am a girls girl, have been, will forever be. And I am finally allowed to live it. My role in the past has kept me from exploring my real sexuality by contract. Now, I have a world to catch up with.
I place myself next to her, without giving her another glance, and slouch in the chair.
“What a stupid shit show,” I mumble out and watch her body language from the corner of my eyes.
She stops scrolling. I feel her eyes on me; she might be checking if I am worth her attention.
“You’re telling me. Fucking minions,” she says, as I must have passed her first assessment. I have decided to wear something that is both a quiet luxury and normal. Worth the Ivy League institution, yet not drawing too much attention. Because I’m good at what I do. Pretending to be someone. Someone I have no clue about.
I look at her.
She has mesmerizing blue eyes, and with her blonde hair and pink lips, I have to keep myself from staring at her.
Keep yourself together,I tell myself.
So, I do.
“Yeah, literally,” I say and point at a bunch of people in yellow shirts. “Look at them,” I add in a derogatory scoff.