Arabella // H.S

1

Harry.

Mr. Ainsley provided me with a guide that outlines her daily schedule, the addresses leading to her whereabouts, and her medical history. Between then and now, I have spent some time briefly memorising the information. It is crucial for me to do this job right — if not for me, then for my family.

On Monday, Arabella Mae Claremont works at a quaint cafe near her living quarters which consists of a rundown, but affordable, unit complex.

On Tuesday, she attends her English Literature class at approximately 8 am, then catches a bus from the university to her usual Tuesday shift at the cafe.

On Wednesday, she attends her Poetry class and then volunteers at the local library, assisting her elderly friend, Janine Samuels, with stacking books back into their rightful places.

The rest of her week carries on similarly, a repetitive cycle of mundane work, classes, and voluntary endeavours.

Mr. Ainsley made a point that she doesn't go out with friends very often.

Arabella is nineteen years of age, born on an island within Oceania to her English father, Aaron, and Tahitian Mother, Isabella, who died while giving birth.

She is allergic to tree nuts, experiences mild asthma, and has once been admitted into a hospital due to fainting from malnourishment, which leads me to assume that she must have suffered from an eating disorder in the past.

Besides that, it isn't too difficult to keep up with this girl, especially when everything about her seems as generic and simple as the next. I expect that she is a pushover as a result of her habitual benevolence. I also expect her to be plain, on the inside and out, judging from her plain lifestyle. And I also expect that my job won't be as difficult as Mr. Ainsley seeks it out to be.

With a sigh, I rest my head against the steering wheel of my car.

Today is the first day I patrol for this girl, and I plan to do so discreetly. Personally, I don't fancy the thought of getting to know a severely ordinary teenaged girl — a girl who apparently doesn't plan to make it to her Literature class on time.

After checking my watch for the umpteenth time, I find out that her class indeed started 5 minutes ago. This surprises me. I wouldn't have taken her as one for tardiness, but she's proven me wrong as I have yet to see a girl descend from the apartment complex.

I wonder what she looks like?

Some ideas have been infiltrating my mind as I tediously wait upon her arrival, and pretty much every idea has concluded in a basic blonde bombshell with raunchy clothing.

I keep pondering over what she may look like, until I catch a sudden movement from the corner of my eye. I might not have even noticed, had I been too caught up in my thoughts, but the figure's flailing around gives me no other choice.

I scan the car parking space until I see the figure that caught my attention, a small figure that indeed belongs to a girl.

I watch her intensely and take in every single detail I can grasp from this distance.

She's different from how I expected.

Her hair isn't blonde and her clothing style isn't raunchy. Her skin is of a caramel complexion, much like an island girl from Tahiti. Her hair is messily tied in a pony tail, with dark curly ringlets framing her face. She's inherited the Tahitian features of her mother, without a doubt.

Her attire, on the other hand, is that of a tomboy. She adorns a jumper a few sizes too big and some sporty shorts matched with scuffed up runners. Her entire appearance is haphazard, unflattering and undeniably rushed as she speed walks through the area.

Perhaps I could find her rather pretty in the face. My job, however, taints any sort of attraction I could ever possibly feel towards the girl.

I watch closely as Arabella scurries her way towards the bus stop across the street. She stops before the road and carefully looks from left to right before deciding that it is indeed safe enough to cross.

She doesn't even make it two steps before tripping over a bump in the road. I nearly leap out of my seat as she continues to stumble clumsily, hoping that a car won't speed by and flatten her against the road. I was preparing myself to intervene, but pause as she regains her composure. Stopping to scan the area around her, Arabella's cheeks become rosy as she clearly hopes no one witnessed her almost accident.

I sigh again, frustrated.

I hope to God that she isn't accident-prone. I can't afford to have her dumbly get herself killed on the first day.

I then regain my focus towards the dorky girl, sighing a breath of relief as she finally makes it to the bus stop. She sits at a bench on her own, my curiosity being prompted when she pulls out a book of some sort.

I wonder what a girl like her would read.

Perhaps a classic romance? The ones that are devastating and serve no other purpose than to make sappy women blubber with tears?

Most probably.

My gaze on the reading girl is disrupted when I spot a dingy bus turn into the same quiet street as us. I take this as an opportunity to get out of the car, hoping that Arabella is engrossed enough in her novel to not notice the sound of my car door closing.

I've decided that the best method to this protection plan is to closely follow her, thus I will try enter the bus without her noticing.

When the bus comes to a stop in front of her sitting quarters, blocking any view I have of her, I swiftly make my way to the rear entrance of the vehicle.

Hopefully she doesn't sit at the back of the bus.

I turn the corner of the bus and quickly survey the area to find out that she has indeed made her way inside. I follow suit and enter through the back entrance.

My prayers are answered. She sits idly at the front of the bus, chatting with the elderly driver as she does so.

"I'll be sure to drive as fast as I can, my dear," the man chuckles, "wouldn't want you to be later than you already are now would we?"

She cutely giggles, much like a four year old.

At that, I roll my eyes and choose to block out their conversation, slumping further into my seat with a scowl to match the way I feel.

Arabella will be the death of me.