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	<title>Suit Luggage &#187; Gossip Girl</title>
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		<title>What do you think of this?</title>
		<link>http://suitluggage.com/blog/what-do-you-think-of-this/</link>
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		<pubDate>Sat, 17 Jul 2010 20:55:47 +0000</pubDate>
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				<category><![CDATA[Books & Authors]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Gossip Girl]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Old Man]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Rousseau]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Suitcases]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Weird Girl]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[{{ s i l v e r }} eριcαяιcαcу ♥ asked: It&#8217;s the first chapter to my cousin Layton&#8217;s story, Innocence is Bliss. She&#8217;s almost 14. &#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212; CHAPTER ONE “Mademoiselle Reid?” My attention was drawn away from the weight of my luggage to the suited man standing beside the midnight Cadillac before me. “That’s me,” [...]]]></description>
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<div><em><strong>{{ s i l v e r }} eριcαяιcαcу ♥</strong> asked: </em></p>
<p>It&#8217;s the first chapter to my cousin Layton&#8217;s story, Innocence is Bliss. She&#8217;s almost 14.<br />
&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;<br />
CHAPTER ONE</p>
<p>“Mademoiselle Reid?”</p>
<p>My attention was drawn away from the weight of my luggage to the suited man standing beside the midnight Cadillac before me.</p>
<p>“That’s me,” I said, bewildered. Who the hell was this greying old man and how did he know my name?</p>
<p>“Ah, I’ll take those,” he gestured to my bags, but as he approached me I clung tighter to my suitcases. He took my confused expression as cause to explain.</p>
<p>“I’m Gaston Rousseau, your mother’s chauffeur.” His voice was thick, and his French accent was heavy. </p>
<p>I had known I was going to be picked up from the airport, but I’d expected it to be by my mother in her rusty, peeling, crimson V W Beetle that I remembered from my childhood. I guess times had changed. But honestly &#8211; chauffeur? What was this – Gossip Girl?</p>
<p>He held his hand out to me and I reluctantly let go of my bags to shake it. His grip was like that of a limp lettuce. I stood silently watching as he put my bags into the trunk of the car and then opened the door for me.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” I said as I slid in. He appeared shocked, as if he wasn’t used to that kind of treatment. I had to admit, I wasn’t used to this sort of treatment either. People carrying my bags and opening my doors with no expectations of gratitude. Another thing I wasn’t used to was being called “Mademoiselle Reid”. Back home, I was just plain Alexis, or “that weird girl who spends her lunch hour in the library”.</p>
<p>The Cadillac was surprising, to say the least. It was spacious – longer than an SUV but shorter than a limousine – and the beige-brown interior, though displeasing to the eye, was more than comfortable. As Gaston put the key in the ignition, I noticed a built-in cooler and a small head-rest television screen. </p>
<p>Despite the cushioned seating, I felt uncomfortable alone in the back of the car. Gaston didn’t appear to bother by the silence, but broke it upon taking a look at my face in the rear-view mirror.</p>
<p>“Madame Tyler is delighted to have you staying with her.”</p>
<p>I noticed how he said “staying”, rather than “living”. It looked as if this wasn’t a permanent placement. And “Madame Tyler”? Things were certainly formal in this place. I had only ever heard my mother being referred to as two things: “Stellar Fashion’s creator, Stella-Marie” by the media, and “your mom” by Dad.</p>
<p>Dad.</p>
<p>Just thinking about him brought tears to my eyes. His death hadn’t exactly been unexpected; his cancer had been developing for over a year. I’d thought I was prepared, but as I watched him take his last breaths, I realised that you can never prepare for heartbreak. Then, as if the death wasn’t enough to deal with, I was being sent to live with my attention-whore of a mother who couldn’t give a damn about anything but her fashion career. She was more than happy to hand me over to Dad when they got their divorce, and she was only taking me in now because of the implications abandoning me would have on her image.</p>
<p>As I sat there, tears rolling down my cheeks, I silently wished for my best friend back in Canada – well, my only friend back in Canada – Ethan. I was sure he’d probably forgotten about me by now, even though I’d only left him this morning. I wasn’t the sort of person who was remembered when they left – in fact, people were probably eager to forget me. I was quiet, and most people were oblivious to my existence. Including my own mother.</p>
<p>Several minutes later, I dried my eyes and replied, “I’m delighted to be staying with her too”, but all that spilled out was sarcasm.</p>
<p>Gaston frowned momentarily, but soon regained his composure and his smile returned. He pulled up outside a white building.</p>
<p>“Nous sommes arrivés, Mademoiselle,”<br />
&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;&#8212;<br />
PLOT: After bookish, quiet pianist Alexis Emily Reid’s father dies from cancer, she is forced to move from working-class Canada to upper-class England to stay with her mother (who was more than happy to hand her over to her father when they divorced). At her new school, she quickly befriends Kara Christina Watson, a gorgeous popular girl, and begins to hang around with the popular crowd. Being the most beautiful girl in school, Kara has the most beautiful boyfriend. Enter the rather unpopular musician Edward James Schuyler, with whom both Kara and Alexis are smitten. Alexis – or Lexi, as she is called by her new friends – is not used to the popular life, but manages to progress relatively well. As time goes by, she becomes increasingly close to Ed, who helps her with her entry for the London Young Musician of the Year Award. At a party, she drinks a little bit too much and shares an intimate moment with Ed. Kara walks in on them, and freaks out. Suddenly, Alexis goes from being popular to hated and even ends up pushing Ed away. With everything spiralling downwards, she realises she can no longer block out the bad thin<br />
NOTE: I was referring more to the writing, not the plot. She&#8217;s only 13. She just wants to know how fluid her prose &amp; grammar is.</p>
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