The doors of the Dautry’s apartment are painted a dingy white. They’re double doors, but the paint is peeling off the left door and the sea foam color of the 1950’s is showing through. My new dad jiggles the front door to get it open. I pretend not to notice and I pretend that I’m still excited for this to be like a fairytale. Even though I realized where I was about to end up as we were driving home. The big double doors open and I’m immersed in something I don’t know. It takes me a minute to realize it’s not the same France I signed up for my sophomore year of high school. The kitchen is messy and looks like mine back at home. Open boxes of chips and cereal and bread line the counter top. All carbs. My new dad opens the fridge and takes out a beer. Sitting down at the kitchen table he rolls himself a compact cigarette. It takes me five times that long to roll a blunt. I can’t get comfortable here; it’s just not going to happen.