I live in a huge mansion with my brother, my three cousins, my two aunts, my grandmother and my parents, when they are present. Oh and I also have a white Angora cat. Marshmallow. I love this home with its masterful staircase that smells like old wood, its huge kitchen and its library that are the envy of the inhabitants of our small Canadian town of Brome Lake, in Brome Missisquoi County.My great-grandfather, Count Edward de Verlayne, built this large, solid building on Canadian Loyalist land on the border with the United States. Erected on the edge of a large park, it runs alongside the road on the shores of Brome Lake. I love the large park shaded by hundred-year-old elms and maples and the climbing roses along the colonnades surrounding the porch. And then there's the scent of humus exhaled by the earth when the dew falls and the song of the red cardinals in spring.

My parents, two brilliant research scientists, are away for six months of the year. Right now, , they are measuring the shrinking of the Arctic ice cap and its impact on the lives of polar bears.

My name is Chenoa Petersen and I will be eighteen this Saturday. I know that my parents, even though they can't come, have planned a surprise for me. I can't wait to find out what it is. In fact, I'm sure it will be related to my Saturday party, my entry into the arena, as Aunt Molly calls it, the famous 'ball.' No one uses that word anymore, ball, but for my grandmother, the Countess of Verlayne, it's a tradition. If she couldn't keep the crinoline, she kept the word.

I wonder which dress I will choose to go with my chestnut hair. Yes, dark chestnut, not blonde, not quite black, not red, a beautiful dark brown, classic and common. But I take good care of my hair; it cascades in slight waves just below my shoulders. It matches my brown eyes, not blue, nor green, nor with any hint of something else, just brown. But people say I'm quite pretty. Actually, I like my reflection in the mirror. As for my accent, I'm perfectly bilingual. It's neither distinctly Québécois nor European. Here, they say I speak with Ottawa French and Estrie English. Go figure!

The dress? I'm undecided. -Black is elegant, but too traditional. Red? I'd draw too much attention. On the other side, this will be my birthday. In the end, no, still, it's too flashy. Oh, I don't know. . . I'll see later.

I am really excited about Saturday night.My best friend Wendy and I have carefully planned the guest list. Most of my friends from Bishop's University will be there. We've just eliminated the spoilers like Joe, Lilly and their gangs. Luckily the reception room at the mansion is big enough, there should be forty people.

Joseph, our butler, and Theresa, our housekeeper, pampered me and took care of almost all the preparations for the evening with my aunts. They have always looked after my brother and me, ever since we were little. I think we're their favourite. My cousins are bitchy, frivolous and fickle, but they're quite harmless... You'll have to forgive them: they're only fifteen, sixteen and seventeen. Ludiwine, Mélanie and Jacinthe are my Aunt Molly's three daughters. A widow, her three daughters are her life. And despite the loss of her husband, Molly is always happy and cheerful, whereas my other aunt, Éléanore, is gloomy and mysterious. I avoid her most of the time because I don't like her sarcasm. Mum says she's become bitter since their elder sister Patricia's fatal accident. It's a taboo subject at home, we can't talk about it. Nor can we mention their other sister Antoinette, who is languishing in a psychiatric hospital for something I'm not allowed to mention either, and which scares the hell out of me.

You guessed it, my maternal grandmother, the Countess of Verlayne, had five daughters: Patricia, Éléanore, my mom, Antoinette, and Molly. My grandfather died shortly after the birth of my aunt Molly, the youngest. As for my dad, he doesn't talk much about his family. I think he had a falling out with them when he married my mom.

I don't know why I'm telling you all this. This evening is both exciting and stressful for me, because I really want to get closer to Quentin, the science teaching assistant. In the end, my parents forcing me to take this extra science class turned out to be a good thing, at least more so than the maths class! No, because in the first place, how becoming a violinist had anything to do with science and maths? In short, it was part of the 'deal' with my parents.

Ah! Quentin! All the girls think he's gorgeous, with his ever-doubtful pout and his big, light eyes hemmed in with blond lashes. He's got a lot of charisma and his Scandinavian features are just so dazzling! He is finishing his doctorate in biology this year. Next year, he'll be going to Australia for his end-of-studies placement. He's so nice, but that's the problem, he's charming and attentive with all the girls, not just me. Oh, what I wouldn't give to be asked to dance! He's so attractive. Mum wrote to me that I shouldn't let myself be impressed, that what counts is inner beauty, that I shouldn't rush into things because I shouldn't make any mistakes in that matter.

I remember the first day I met him. He was substituting for the science teacher, who was on sick leave, and he taught us biology for the entire first term. Now that Professor Chambrier is back, we see him less often.
— You should just invite him, Wendy had said, her green eyes wide open.

— You think so ? A student inviting a teacher, that's bold.

— Chenoa, he's not really a teacher, he's an assistant. And since the permanent teacher came back, he's not your 'teacher' any more, she said, mimicking the inverted commas on the word "teacher" with both hands.

—  We're not even sure he's coming.

— No, but if you don't invite him, you'll never know. Besides, he's so polite, I don't see him refusing.

Wendy's eyes, which she had subtly made up, had returned to their almond shape that I envied so much.

— So if he comes, it won't be for me, but just out of politeness?
— Chenoa, stop it ! You know what I mean... Besides, just knowing that you invited him, I can tell you that all the girls will be there. Your party is already a success. I can predict that for sure...
— I really want him to come! He's so cute! Oh, I'll die if he doesn't come... Never mind the competition, I just want to see him so badly! He has those little crow's feet around his blue eyes; it's so adorable!
— I think you're madly in love, Chenoa!
— Yes, I admit it. I can't find a single flaw in him. Don't you like him?
— Hum. Sure, but blondes aren't my type. And I find him, how should I say... too serious! I need a boyfriend who's not like me, someone a bit crazy, a bit unreasonable. Quentin is such a buzzkill at times, I find him boring.
— Boring? What are you saying? He's the most fascinating man I've ever met...

I must have pouted, because Wendy had put her index finger on her cheek and she usually only had this tic when she was trying to spare me.

— Yeah, that's what I said. You're blind. You're getting carried away with the confidence that goes with his age. He's a good five to seven years older than us. Besides. . .

She had stopped and put a finger to her mouth. . .

— He certainly has a girlfriend.

I collapsed on the couch with a sigh of despair.

— Oh, shame on me! If he comes with someone, my heart will be destroyed forever and I'll be the shame of the whole evening... I'll never get over it!

— Yes, you would, just like everyone else! ... When I think about it... you see him marking his papers every evening at the café and nobody has ever seen him twice with the same girl . In fact, maybe he's a skirt chaser...

My eyebrows rose in concern.

— Is he? Is that so?

— Well, go on, invite him, we've got to find out the truth anyway.

So there it was, I had just finished the electronic invitation on my tablet. After one last hesitation, I sent the email to Quentin. My reputation was done for. If he came with someone, I would be the laughingstock of the class, and if he came alone, all my classmates would pounce on him, and he would probably hate me for it. Was I a masochist?

In any case, Quentin or not, I had only one year left. At the Verlayne's, all the girls must be married and well married by the age of nineteen. Otherwise. . .

@madytoppnorth - copyright