Bonjour Girl Read online

  For Frankie

  Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.

  — Anaïs Nin

  Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.

  — Anonymous

  Prologue

  @ClementineL’s blog, Bonjour Girl, is a total fake-ass disaster. Don’t bother reading it. It’s a waste of your precious time.

  The nasty tweet hits me like a wall of vintage boots, handbags, and boho dresses. Or like a hurricane that goes on a rampage in my soul and leaves a gaping wound in my heart. I fight back tears while absentmindedly chewing on my nails. I cringe, knowing how many Twitter followers she has. Her malicious post has lots of retweets, too. Like, far too many. Somebody please shoot me now. This is dredging up old, unwanted emotions, all the pain and worry that nearly destroyed me last year. That’s why I came here, why I escaped to New York.

  I want to crawl into the nearest hole and lie there until the school concierge finds my decaying remains.

  Okay, I’m being gross and melodramatic. I take it back. I just want to hop on the next flight to Paris and never set foot in America again.

  I feel nauseous and dizzy at the thought that the entire Parsons student body has probably seen this awful tweet and is now laughing at me. To make matters worse, I think of a Latin proverb I learned at my private school in France: verba volant, scripta manent. It literally means “spoken words fly away, but written words remain.” This totally sucks.

  My mind goes into overdrive:

  My chances of making any more friends are nil.

  My existing friends will think I’m a complete loser and will desert me.

  My chances of ever making it as a fashion journalist are ruined.

  My transfer to Parsons will get revoked.

  My parents will then kill me and ship me back to France on the next flight. (Not so bad an option considering the circumstances. Actually, that might be a good thing.)

  Again, my eyes well up, but I’m too angry to cry. My classmate’s biting words sting to the bone. Especially after all I’ve already endured in my personal life.

  What did I do to deserve all this?

  Chapter One

  My father says I’m his good luck charm. The thing is, I don’t believe in luck.

  Maybe that’s because I haven’t been all that lucky, but I have a feeling things are about to change. Big time.

  I’m half Chinese, and luck plays a big part in our culture: lucky numbers, lucky symbols, and lucky colours. I also believe in the old saying, luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.

  I did everything I could to prepare for my first day at Parsons’ School of Fashion — convinced my overprotective parents, took on an extra summer job, let go of a toxic relationship, put together a portfolio, and made a kick-derrière video that knocked the socks off the admissions committee. It was a ton of work but was definitely worth it. I mean, Marc Jacobs, Donna Karan, Anna Sui, Tom Ford … they ALL attended this amazing school.

  Camille, my neighbour in Paris who’s an up-and-coming videographer, helped shoot a short film of me climbing the stairs of Rue Foyatier (one of the most famous streets in Paris, which leads to the Sacré-Cœur) in a flowing vintage dress, holding smoke bombs that billowed bright pink and blue clouds, all to 90s hip hop. My mother said the effect was a masterful mix of class and sophistication. I like to think it was just plain awesome.

  I’m transferring to Parsons as a sophomore. I studied at the Parisian campus for a year but, for personal reasons, I decided I needed to get out of town and come to New York. So here I am, nervous as hell, standing in front of what they call The New School: Parsons School of Design. Being away from home makes me anxious, and everyone knows how competitive the school is. There are YouTube videos by Parsons alumni on the subject. I watched every single one of them, trying not to bite my nails. I need to protect them; my nails, along with my quirky sense of style, are my trademarks.

  I stand in the middle of the Manhattan sidewalk with stars in my eyes as students rush past me. I’m looking up at the skyscrapers while taking in the city’s electric energy and the billboard ads for the world’s top fashion labels. My heart thumps with excitement.

  My name is Clementine. Yes, like the fruit. I like to think that I’m tangy and just the right amount of sweet. My parents named me after one of their favourite colours. I know, it sounds cheesy but they’re both kind of artsy-fartsy so I guess they just couldn’t help it.

  My father’s a businessman from Beijing. He moved to Paris to open a shop that sells men’s clothing and rare books. He wasn’t thrilled about allowing his only daughter to leave Europe. New York is different. I get it; it’s the big city. Thankfully, my mother’s cousin Madeleine, a.k.a. Maddie, who’s ten years younger than my mom and teaches at Parsons, helped me find ways to convince him.

  Maddie promised to take good care of me and even offered the spare bedroom in her cool Williamsburg apartment. I really lucked out — she lives in a huge loft with a connecting studio, where she keeps all of her stunning fashion collections. I just hope she lets me wear some of her precious things.

  I’m not going to lie, I have big dreams. I’m hoping to find a job in the fashion industry after I graduate, one that allows me to write, draw, and share my fashion finds. Like many of the women I admire in the industry — Garance Doré, Susie Bubble, and Tavi Gevinson — I want to be a fashion influencer.

  Lady Gaga said, “I’m just trying to change the world, one sequin at a time.” That’s my motto. I hope to help change the current fashion landscape and shake things up. There are so many issues to be addressed, like body shaming and the negative way clothing is advertised to my generation, using only the tallest, slimmest, most perfect models instead of real people. I think that clothing should be empowering, not objectifying, and that there isn’t only one acceptable body type, skin colour, or hairstyle. I’d like to participate in the conversation in order to make a lasting impact. Call me a fashion-renaissance activist.

  Speaking of style, for my first day of class I’m wearing a burgundy-flowered silk dress, a vintage Yves Saint Laurent wool cape, an old leather handbag that belonged to my great-grandmother, black tights, and a large floppy felt hat. I’ve also added some colourful vintage necklaces I picked up at a flea market, and I’m wearing Repetto ballet slippers because it’s much easier to navigate the subway in flats. Thankfully, they also look great with my outfit. Fashion is my religion, fashion is my salvation, and fashion is the way I roll. I don’t do conventional fashion; I’m quirky and different, I have a funny-looking button nose and lots of freckles, and I go my own way.

  Am I worried about feeling lonely in New York? Of course. I’m nineteen, under the legal drinking age, and even if I weren’t, New York City is expensive; I can’t afford to go out as much as I did in Paris. And I no longer have a boyfriend to cuddle with on Friday nights or to take me to brunch on weekends in the Jardin du Luxembourg. But that’s okay. The one I left behind wasn’t that nice. As a matter of fact, he was a total jerk. Just like the Dior perfume, he was poison. But I don’t want to dwell on that, or him, anymore. He’s one of the main reasons I left Paris. I needed a clean break, a fresh début.

  My dad told me that an elderly friend once asked him, “What are you willing to give up in order to pursue your dreams?” I’ve asked myself that question a lot. His wise friend answered it for me: “It should be no less than everything.” Standing in front of Parsons’ entrance on Fifth Avenue with the future a blank canvas, I have a feeling that wise man was onto something.

  I look up at the expansive blue sky to
thank my great-grandmother Cécile. I know she’s somehow responsible for my being here. I lift my arm in the air and give her a thumbs-up.

  One fashionable gal looking out for another.

  Chapter Two

  “The only exclusive relationship I have is with my Nespresso machine,” I recall a Parsons student saying in an interview for Teen Vogue. She was going on about the school’s heavy workload and curriculum. I wonder if it’s humanly possible to maintain a romantic relationship while studying here. I’ve heard so many stories about students suffering from exhaustion and burning out. Apparently, a lot of students drop out, and those who do stick around spend the majority of their time working on school projects.

  Those are the thoughts going through my mind as I walk past the bustling school cafeteria on my way to class. I don’t know why I bother thinking about romance — I was told by some students that most men on campus are either gay, party promoters, or the building maintenance crew.

  I try to brush that off; dating should be the last thing on my mind. I’m here to learn, grow, and expand. I’m really looking forward to attending some of the design classes, even though I have no interest in launching my own label. I just love to be close to the creative process and all those luxurious fabrics.

  After picking up a cup of tea in the basement cafeteria, I finally make it to the classroom and take a seat. I pick a spot near the window. I unload the contents of my bag onto my desk: my polka-dot agenda and a light-pink pencil case filled with pens in every colour. My accessories are met with a few side stares.

  I’m not surprised. Compared to most students here, I look like a unicorn. Or Miley Cyrus, depending on your point of view. Especially with each of my nails painted a different colour, my rainbow-coloured backpack, and my ton of vintage necklaces. It’s a look that’s more feminine, more flamboyant than what others here wear. But it’s a look that feels totally me.

  I dropped by school yesterday to pick up some books and noticed that most of the kids wear all black — you know, that gothic look: oversize and baggy, with lots of skull jewellery. It’s a style made famous by designer Rick Owens and it reminds me of Marilyn Manson videos. It’s such a far cry from my own style. Maddie said the teachers joke that the school’s palette is limited to black, grey, and white. I think it’s a big yawn.

  I knew I was going to stand out here and I’m okay with that. Personally, I’m a big fan of fashion bloggers who boldly dye their hair pink and purple and wear sparkly rainbow dresses. Don’t get me wrong; I do appreciate the bon chic, bon genre Parisian elegance, but the fashion style? Not so much.

  In addition to wearing all black, some of my classmates look like they have a major attitude. I don’t let that get under my skin. I assume Coco Chanel was met with some nasty looks when she wore her avant-garde pieces, and I bet she ignored them. She was a total badass and one of my greatest inspirations.

  I look around the room hoping to find a like-minded tribe and notice a few young women huddled together at the back, staring at an iPad. I recognize the host from Project Catwalk on the screen. It’s no surprise; parts of the show are occasionally filmed here on campus. The women are laughing and cheering. I decide to walk over.

  “Hey,” a woman says without looking up from the screen. “What’s up?”

  “Hi there, I’m Clementine. Just wanted to introduce myself.”

  “Hi,” one of them responds, not bothering to look up from the screen.

  “Clementine. Now that’s interesting,” another says. I’m not sure whether she’s being nice or sarcastic so I keep a cool distance. But I’m hopeful.

  “Where are you from?” one of the girls asks, having torn her eyes from the screen and now staring me up and down.

  “Paris.”

  “Oh, fancy … excusez-moi,” the tallest of the trio, a brunette, responds with a mock French accent. I respond with a tight smile.

  “We love Paris, don’t we ladies?” the girl says, and they all coo.

  I still can’t tell if they’re being sincere so I try to look on the bright side: I might be making some friends. One of them is wearing a bright-lemon satin bomber jacket, a vintage striped cardigan, and rolled-up boyfriend jeans with royal-blue pumps. She has wild, curly black hair and piercing, feline green eyes.

  “Hey, I’m Stella,” she says, holding out her hand. She then introduces me to her friends.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I say. “Love the jacket. It’s a great colour. Very refreshing.”

  “No kidding, right?” Stella says. “Not many people around here appreciate colour. I like to think we’re the bold ones.” She points around the room.

  “Where are you from?” I ask. Stella looks not only older than my other classmates, but more mature and far more confident.

  “Chicago,” Stella says. “I’m a second-year transfer. I dropped out of law school to join the Parsons fashion program. I guess I wasn’t cut out to be a legal eagle.”

  Stella’s not only stylish, but classy and smart. She’s the type of friend I’m looking for. I hope she feels the same way.

  “Are those Repetto flats?” she gushes.

  “Yes. You have a good eye.”

  “I can spot them from miles away. I wish I had a pair in every colour,” Stella says. “I saw them inVogue Paris. Major drool.”

  “Thanks. Very comfy, too,” I say. I’m thrilled we’ve found a connection. Parisian fashion is always a good start.

  “Hey, why don’t you get a room?” a female voice calls out in the most condescending tone.

  I turn around and come face to face with a woman in heavy makeup, arms covered in ink, staring at us menacingly. The left side of her head is shaved. She’s wearing a ripped grey T-shirt underneath a black vest and looks as though she might eat us for lunch. I try not to judge her based on her looks (after all, I’m here to advocate for diversity), but my open-mindedness disappears when she throws her discarded gum wrapper at me, and it lands in my hair. This leaves both Stella and me speechless.

  “What the —” I stammer.

  The young woman gives me an exaggerated wink that makes my anxiety level shoot way up. I feel queasy. And it’s only my first class.

  I never thought I’d get insulted and attacked on my first day. It’s worse than I thought. I picture myself giving her a piece of my mind. My mother always taught me to stand up for myself. But I decide to take the high road and ignore her instead. I just hope this woman will stay away from me and, more importantly, that I won’t regret my decision to enrol at The New School.

  Time will tell.

  Chapter Three

  “Beauty fades but dumb is forever,” a male voice whispers.

  “Excuse me?” I retort, spinning around. Okay, now I’m really offended. My father was right; I should have stayed in France.

  “No, sweetheart, I’m not talking about you,” the guy says with a wry smile. “I’m referring to that lame douchebag who just insulted you. I’m Jake. And you are?”

  I relax and extend my hand. I like this guy already. “Clementine.”

  “Clementine? Wow, love the name. Don’t worry about Debbie Downer, she probably forgot to take her tranks,” he says, shaking his head and placing a pencil behind his ear.

  “Thanks,” I say, turning to face him fully and get a closer look. He’s got a round figure and the sweetest smile. He’s wearing large black hipster glasses, black and white checkered pants, and a grey sweatshirt that reads MORE ISSUES THAN VOGUE in bold white print. He’s also sporting the coolest sneakers with silver shoelaces and shiny moons and stars. Jake looks older than most of the other students in class, including Stella. My guess is that he’s in his midtwenties.

  “Where are you from, sunshine?” he asks, putting a smile on my face.

  “Paris,” I say, throwing the gum wrapper into my empty paper cup.

  “I should have guessed fr
om the chic look.” He points at my ensemble with his pencil.

  Pfft. If only he knew I found the dress at the Salvation Army, my favourite place to hunt when I come to New York. I decide to keep that to myself. I don’t need any nasty comments from the fashion police.

  “Are you staying in the student dorms?” he asks.

  “No, I’m staying in Brooklyn. With a roommate.”

  “Cool. You’re missing out on some serious partying though. I hear the ladies can get pretty wild in there sometimes.”

  I shrug. That’s not why I’m here. I don’t tell him that my parents let me drink at home if I want to. To me, it’s no big deal.

  “What about you? Where are you from?” I ask.

  “Queens. It’s not as glamorous as the City of Light. We don’t have the Louvre but we have the Louis Armstrong House — you know, the trumpet player?”

  “That sounds interesting.”

  “Yep, it is. It’s a shrine to his amazing talent and his wife’s passion for vintage wallpaper. She was a woman after my own heart.” He places his hand on his chest. “I just love Toile de Jouy.” He says this with an exaggerated French accent that melts away my frustration.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Jake. And thanks for looking out for me,” I say, giving the nasty girl a stare. She ignores me and pretends to look away. I brush it off; I have more important things to think about, like making a good impression on my first day at school.

  I take a seat, wave at Stella, and wink at Jake. I like them both. I can already see them becoming part of my A-Team, my new “glamily,” so to speak. I open my notebook while Jake stares at my nails. I can tell he’s impressed by the tiny white daisies and gold hearts glued on them. I well up with pride. This could be the start of a great friendship.

  Our teacher walks into class. She looks to be in her midthirties and is dressed in head-to-toe black, with a pearl necklace and Prada platform oxfords. She has vintage eyeglasses and her hair is tied in a neat ribbon. She’s not as stylish as Maddie, but she looks elegant and smart. She goes over the class outline and asks us to partner up with a classmate to discuss our personal fashion history.