My Grudge Against Pirates

Gerald | Evan O'Rourke | photography

My Grudge Against Pirates by Elliot Sharpe

I could barely sit still in the cramped airplane seat—from outside the small window, the ground was finally visible again. I was finally in France! We landed a few minutes later, and the passengers began grabbing their suitcases and filing out of the plane, myself included. Based on the letters we’d been exchanging since mid-February of that year, Adeline and her parents were supposedly waiting near one of the airport’s entrances. Suitcase and backpack in tow, I quickly hurried through the various airport processes, before finally getting to the doors Adeline had referenced.

I made sure my jeans were still pegged properly, before taking a deep breath and stepping outside. It took me a few seconds to find her, since I hadn’t actually seen her appearance before, but I managed and made my way over. Adeline, a girl my age, offered me a friendly smile.

I offered her my free hand, grinning. “Bonjour, Adeline!”

Adeline gave me an appraising look, and as she shook my hand, she giggled a bit. Kind of weird, but I brushed it off. “Bonjour, Melissa. It’s wonderful to finally meet you. This is, ah, ma mère and mon père.” She gestured to the man and woman standing behind her, who both offered friendly smiles as well.

“Bonjour, Melissa. Please call me Lauren.” Her mother introduced herself in a French accent similar to Adeline’s. “We’ve heard so much about you from Adeline.”

“Oui, yes, she’s described you as quite a character.” Her father added, speaking in an even heavier accent. “Je m’appelle—er, my name is, Marcus.”

I giggled. “It’s a pleasure to meet all of you.”

Adeline gestured to a grey car nearby. “Devons-nous y aller?” (“Should we go?”)

“Oui.” I replied with a smile. Marcus helped me put my things in the trunk before sitting in the front with Lauren. I climbed in the backseat beside Adeline, buckling my seatbelt. As we drove off towards Adeline’s city, I couldn’t help but stare out the window at the French scenery rushing past. It was probably quite similar to American scenery, but being in France somehow made it cooler.

“So, Melissa. What are American schools like?” Adeline asked, leaning closer.

“Huh? Oh, they’re nothing special.” I said, tearing my eyes away from the window. “Very fashionable, though, if I do say so myself.” I added. France was known for its fashion, and I’d be damned if I missed an opportunity to prove that America was also fashionable.

“Oh?” She smiled again, though there was that same slight humor to it. “Is that why your jeans are like that?” She gestured to my pegged jeans.

I grinned proudly, having done it on the flight there with a new pair of jeans I’d bought myself. “Yep! It’s called pegging your jeans, and it’s a super popular thing to do in the states. Pretty fresh, huh?”

“Fresh? Ah, oui, I s’pose it is.” Adeline replied, lips twitching.

About an hour later, we were parking in the driveway of her townhouse. I stared at it for a few seconds, earning me a nudge from Adeline.

“Is it that different from American houses?”

I blinked, a bit embarrassed. “W-well, no, but it’s cuter, y’know?” It could’ve just been the excitement of being in a new country, but it really did look better than my one-story suburban house back home. It was built with bricks colored a pretty, rusty shade of red, and the windows all had flower boxes hanging out of them with flowers I didn’t recognize. A quaint stone path led up to the front door, which was painted a nice shade of off-white (even if it was chipping a bit around the edges).

She shrugged, guiding me inside the house and leading me upstairs to her room, the stairs creaking under our feet. Her room was a bit smaller than mine, but worlds ahead in terms of decorations. She gestured to the side of the room opposite her bed, where an inflated air mattress was sitting.

“That one’s for you.” She said, sitting on the edge of her own bed. I nodded, setting my bags down.

“Your room’s really cool.” I told her. “My parents won’t let me hang any band posters in my room, let alone Bon Jovi.”

Adeline chuckled. “Collet monté.” (“Uptight.”)

“Un peu.” (“A little.”) I replied, grinning sheepishly.

“Melissa, I’ve been meaning to ask.” Adeline said suddenly, leaning forward a bit. “What, er, did you do to your jeans, exactly?”

I glanced down, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Well, they’re very, ah, tight around the ankles, no?”

“Oh, you mean that they’re pegged!” I grinned, a bit proudly. “Yeah, I did them myself.”

“Pegged?” She echoed. “Is that an American thing?”

I tilted my head. “Is it…not a thing here?”

She giggled again. “Non. Tell me about it.”

I nodded. “Well, it’s this super popular thing in America, where you fold your jeans over and ‘peg’ them in place so they’re tight around your ankles. Cool, right?”

“Ehm.” Adeline looked at me with a sort of sympathetic look on her face. “Melissa, la mode in France is, how do you say it…ah, oui, wide pants.” (“...the trend...”) She gestured to the base of her pants, which were quite flared around the ankles.

I blinked, feeling a looming pit of dread forming in my stomach. “R-really? That’s, um, that’s trendy here?”

She nodded, lips twitching again. “Oui. It’s a bit…silly-looking to walk around with jeans serrés.” (“...tight jeans.”)

In that moment, I decided I had a grudge against two parties. First, any and all of the popular girls from my school who wore stupid pegged jeans, and second, pirates for coining the darn term in the first place. I blushed in embarrassment, hiding my face in my hands. Adeline giggled.

“It’s not that bad, Melissa.” She tried through laughter. “Just undo it and you’ll be fine.”

“Right.” I mumbled, undoing the pegging with clumsy fingers.

She walked over to me, offering me a hand up. “Let’s go get some macarons to take your mind off of it.”

I took it, and as I followed Adeline back downstairs, I decided then and there that I would never be stepping foot in France again.