I WAS SO, so wrong.

Since we’d spent so much money on my sweater and the umbrella, we didn’t have enough money to buy tickets to go up the Eiffel Tower, causing me a moment of regret for the extravagant purchase. It was the one thing I really wanted to do while I was in Paris.

Eric and I walked back to the apartment, stopping by a coffee shop for a caffeine boost to help keep us awake for several more hours. By the time we climbed the stairs to the apartment, I was exhausted.

Eric said he was going to play Dad’s Xbox, so I decided to check out my temporary room. Considering my soon-to-be stepsister already lived in it, it was surprisingly impersonal. There was a dresser between the two beds, and I picked up one of two photos perched on top. Eva and a man were sitting in the picture, his arm draped around a young teen girl. Her black hair and dark eyes were so similar to Eva’s, I would have recognized her as Camille even if Eva hadn’t shown me a different picture of her. Based on the background, the photo could have been taken anywhere. Who was the man? Eva’s previous husband? I knew she had been widowed a couple of years ago, but not much else.

The other photo was of a young girl with an older woman, standing in a vineyard. The girl looked like a preteen Camille and bore a resemblance to the woman. Was she Camille’s grandmother? I set the frame on the dresser and looked around. Other than the photos and several textbooks stacked up next to the bed on the left, there was nothing else that told me anything about my new roommate. Only that her room was very different from my warm, cozy room full of throw pillows back home—it made me wonder how different she was from me.

Camille’s clothes filled the dresser and the cabinets that lined the wall next to the door. The cabinets reminded me of something I’d seen in the demo apartments at Ikea. Finally, I turned my attention to the closet. I learned two things from riffling through the hanging clothes—one, Camille’s clothes were much more sophisticated than my own, and two, judging from the lack of storage space, I might be spending the next two months living out of suitcases. I pulled out a dark gray dress that looked like it belonged to a businesswoman, not a seventeen-year-old girl, and held it up in front of me, wishing I had a mirror to see how it would look on me. I hung the dress on the closet door, then turned my attention back to the closet. Nope, no space.

After hugging me good-bye at the airport, my mother had whispered in my ear that there was a present tucked into my suitcase to remind me of home. Suddenly I needed that piece of home. I lay one of my bags on the floor and unzipped it, digging through my clothes. After flinging a small heap of belongings onto the floor, I finally found it: a jar of peanut butter. I smiled even though tears burned my eyes.

I missed my mom. If one good thing came out of my father’s abandonment, it was that we’d gotten closer.

A sudden wave of exhaustion hit me, and I lay down on the bed, still cradling the plastic jar. I closed my eyes, telling myself that I’d rest for just a moment. But when I opened them, I found myself staring into the face of the girl in the photos. Only now she looked several years older and not nearly as friendly.

She broke into a string of French, and although I didn’t know what she was saying, it was pretty clear she wasn’t happy.

I sat up and blinked. “I don’t understand you.” Why had I never considered the fact that Camille might not speak English?

She stopped ranting and put one hand on her hip. She narrowed her eyes and pointed a long finger at me. “Stay out of my things.”

“You speak English,” I said in surprise.

“And I take it you speak no French at all.”

“No.”

She released another angry tirade I couldn’t understand, then took a deep breath and switched to English. “You Americans are all alike—you think the world revolves around your pathetic country, and it shows in how you behave.” She pointed to the open closet door with her dress still hanging on it. “That is mine. Stay out.”

I crossed my legs on the mattress and shook my head in confusion. “I was only looking. I didn’t do anything to your stuff.”

“You touched my dress!” she shouted, pulling the dress off the door.

“It’s a dress, for cripes’ sake. Calm down!”

“Did you try it on?”

This girl was unbelievable. I jumped to my feet, getting angrier by the minute. “Yes. I put it on naked and rolled around in it. And I haven’t showered for days.”

“Heathen!” she screeched.

Eva appeared in the doorway, her eyes wild with worry. Turning to Camille, she spoke in French accentuated with angry gestures. Camille answered back, flinging her hand toward me as she spoke.

“I’m standing right here!” I shouted.

Camille spoke in her native tongue, but Eva held up her hand. “Camille, speak in English. And we don’t have time for this. Dinner is ready.”

Camille balled her hands into fists and released a cry of frustration, then stomped out of the room.

Eva gave me an apologetic look. “I see you met Camille.”

“Yeah . . .”

She was silent for a moment and then sighed. “My daughter is taking this situation just as badly as you are.” She offered me a soft smile. “I apologize for her behavior.”

I wanted to argue that Camille appeared to be taking it worse, but opted to keep my mouth shut.

Camille shouted something in French and the front door slammed.

Eva put her hands on her hips and looked up at the ceiling before lowering her gaze to mine. “She’s going to spend the night with her friend Marine.”

I supposed it was wrong to let Eva see how relieved I was to hear that.

“Camille is having trouble adjusting to all of this. Give her some time to get used to you being here,” Eva said, giving me a reassuring smile. “I’m sure you two will become friends by the end of your holiday.”

I wasn’t holding my breath.