Another ball. Great. My father was dragging me along to another ball. My maid, Sally, had dressed me in a lavender ball gown with matching heels, light makeup, and doing my hair in soft curls.
I walked down stairs and my father looked at me with pride.
"There's my Southern Belle!" he smiled.
I rolled my eyes, " Must I go to another ball? I'd much rather stay here and talk with Sally."
He sighed as he took my hands into his, "I know you don't enjoy balls all to much, but you're the best dancer I've ever seen and, " he hesitated, "Hamilton's bringing his son."
I stifled a laugh, " Must you always compete with Hamilton?"
"We're Jeffersons! We're better than they are!" he defended.
"Yes Father. I shall go to the ball so you can show me off to Hamilton and so I may possibly find me a suitor, " I giggled.
"You're 18 my dear Y/N! You need a husband!" he exclaimed as I stepped into the carriage.
I stepped out of the carriage with my father's help. We walked into the ballroom and we greeted George and Martha Washington.
"Y/N dear! It's great to see you again!" Martha said while bringing me into an embrace.
"It's great to see you too, Mrs. Washington," I responded, hugging her back.
"How has your studies been going?" Washington asked after Martha released me from the embrace.
"It's pleasant, thanks for asked," I smiled as I shook his hand.
"My pride and joy! First female student accepted into Princeton!" Father beamed.
"Save the bragging for Hamilton," Washington and I said in unison.
We laughed before waving goodbye to find Hamilton.
"You look just like your mother," Father said out of nowhere.
I smiled, "I do?"
"The spitting image," he smiled as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
"Hello Jefferson, " a shorter man with dark, scruffy hair and a goatee said, "is this one of your slaves?"
Father started yelling at him, "HAMILTON, YOU BETTER APOLOGIZE FOR TALKING TO MY DAUGHTER LIKE THAT!!"
I pulled Father's hair so he was down to my level," Remember your manners!" I let go of him and sighed, "My name is Y/N Jefferson, I apologize for my father's outburst, and I can assure you I'm not one of my father's slaves."
As I finished talking, a woman with straight, black hair in a blue dress and a boy about my age with dark, curly hair and beautiful freckles, walked up next to Hamilton, who was red with embarrassment.
"You did what now, Alexander?" she asked calmly but there was venom in her voice.
"He asked if my daughter was one of my slaves!" Father spat out.
She glared at Hamilton, "Apologize."
He turned to me and said sheepishly, "I'm sorry for calling you a slave, Miss Jefferson."
Before Father could open his mouth again I spoke up, "You're forgiven, just don't make the same mistake again."
Hamilton was baffled by my maturity and reasoning. I don't blame him. Father is pretty hot-headed, and most people expect me to be the same.