You step off the plane with your heart beating faster than it should. The air smells different here. It’s not bad—just not home. The airport is loud, buzzing with people speaking a language you understand, but don’t fully feel comfortable in. Your host family stands waiting at the gate, holding a small sign with your name written in bright pink letters. You smile politely, tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, and pull your suitcase a little closer. This is it. Your exchange year in the United States begins.

The ride from the airport is quiet, except for the host mom—Karen—who talks a lot. She’s sweet, smiling often, and asking you questions with a gentle voice.

“So, are you excited for school?” she asks, eyes flicking between you and the road.

You nod, offering your best English: “Yes, very much.”

She beams. “You’re gonna love it. It’s a big school. A lot of sports teams too—you said you like soccer?”

You nod again, “I play in France.”

Her son, Nate, sitting in the backseat beside you, turns slightly. “We call it soccer here, not football,” he says, grinning like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

You smile awkwardly, not sure if it’s a joke or a correction. Maybe both. You don’t laugh, though you want to.

The house is warm, a little messy, but lived-in and real. Your room has a poster of a sunset and a window that looks over a yard with trees just beginning to turn gold. You unpack in silence. Your fingers move slow, as if they, too, feel the weight of everything new.

First day of school hits fast. The hallway smells like cinnamon gum and shampoo, like perfumes and deodorant and books with worn corners. Everything is louder than you imagined. Lockers slam shut, sneakers squeak on floors, and laughter bounces off walls. You clutch your schedule like it’s a life jacket.

In gym class, you find yourself in your element for the first time. You run laps, your feet remembering what your heart had almost forgotten—that you’re strong. You beat most of them, even the tall ones, and a few people stare. One boy whistles low.

“Damn,” someone mutters behind you. “French girl got speed.”

At lunch, you sit alone. Not because you want to, but because it’s hard to walk up to a table and say, “Hi, can I sit?” when your voice still feels too soft, too foreign.

Until he shows up.

“Hey,” he says, sliding into the seat across from you like it’s his table and not yours. “You’re new, right?”

You look up. And there he is.

Tall. Broad shoulders. That easy smile. He’s got the school logo on his hoodie and confidence wrapped around him like a second skin. The captain. You’ve seen his face on banners in the hallway already.

You nod. “Yes. I am… new.”

He grins, amused, but not mean. “Figured. I’m Jason.”

You repeat it carefully, “Jason.”

“And you’re from… France, right?”

“Yes. Near Lyon.”

“Cool. I like your accent,” he says, casually, like it’s nothing. But it’s not nothing. Not to you. Your cheeks flush warm.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice low.

He leans back in his chair. “You play sports?”

“Yes. Soccer. And running.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Soccer, huh? We could use some of that energy on our team.”

You blink. “You play soccer?”

He laughs. “Nah, football. Real football.”

You smile for real this time. “You mean… American football.”

Jason grins again. “Touché.”

He’s cocky, but not in a way that makes you feel small. It’s more like he knows who he is and doesn’t apologize for it. He leans forward again, elbows on the table.

“Hey, I’m having a party Friday. You should come.”

You stare at him. “A party?”

He laughs. “Yeah. You know—music, people, red cups. That kind of thing.”

You hesitate, but say, “Maybe.”

“Cool,” he says, standing up. “Hope you do. You’re interesting.”

You watch him walk away. His words settle in your chest like a spark.

Interesting.

Maybe this year won’t be so scary after all.