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Beatrice:

The dull hum of the air conditioner, mixed with the low chirp of the cicadas waking up in the iris bushes outside my window is making my head pound. The air is thick, and oppressive and my curly auburn hair is sticking to the back of my neck.

   “Girls! Come on! We have to leave,” calls my dad from his position at the front door of our tumble-down house. He has been lingering there for the past half hour, waiting eagerly to take my mum out for her birthday dinner.

   I stand up slowly, and my head spins. It’s sweltering.

Evangeline, my oldest, perfect sister, appears at my bedroom door. Her long, sandy blonde hair flows immaculately down her straight shoulders. She is wearing a silky red dress, showing off her slender, toned legs, and her flat stomach. She is tall in strappy scarlet high heels, and her lips are a glossy pink. Her eyelashes are coated in thick black mascara, setting off her aqua coloured eyes.

“Bea, what are you doing?” she asks me, and I can tell she’s eager to leave. Evangeline, or Eve, as we all call her, has always looked after me, even better than my parents do. She is a mature 17 year old, and only three years older than I am.

“ Come on, Bea. Get changed. You can’t wear your shorts to Lodovico’s.” I sigh, and she starts rifling through my wardrobe, tossing a pale blue dress onto my bed. “Quickly, get dressed,” she says, and scurries downstairs. I toss on the dress, and tug a brush through my wild hair. I scurry down the stairs, where my parents and Eve are waiting.

Dad is wearing a stiff black suit, and his shoes are shined so much I can see my reflection in them. His hair is neatly combed, and his glasses are placed perfectly on his nose. Mum, on the other hand, looks much more relaxed. She has on a long flowy plum coloured skirt, and a matching singlet top. Her shoes are lavender slip-ons. 

“Finally, Beatrice. You took your time,” says dad.

  “Oh, leave her alone, Harold,” says Mum, “It’s boiling. She’s bound to be slow. Speaking of which, Vi’s taking her time.

“Violetta! We’re leaving! Hurry up, or we’re going to be late!” bellows dad. “I’ll get her, dad,” offers Eve.

Eve has always been the perfect one, the favourite. Mum and dad beam at her as she darts off, her shimmering hair swishing from side to side.

Seconds later, Eve returns, dragging Vi behind her. Vi is my other sister. She is sixteen years old, only one year younger than Eve. She has long blonde hair like Eve, but hers is curly, and she dyes it midnight black. Vi is wearing charcoal coloured skinny jeans, and a simple black t-shirt. She is trying to make a point of not dressing up.

Dad frowns at her. “What took you so long, Violetta? And why aren’t you dressed up?” he says, trying to keep his cool. Vi shrugs. I can tell she’s angry. Dad called her by her full name, a feat that should never be committed.

Our parents have always been into old-fashioned English names. Evangeline, Violetta and Beatrice. If you ask me, Eve wound up with the worst of the lot, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She never complains, Eve. Always the ideal child.

Dad opens the front door, and it squeaks as it opens. Our house is old, built in the mid 1800’s. Everything is falling apart. The doors are constantly falling off their hinges, the wallpaper is peeling away. Although we live in Australia, my parents have always loved the idea of living in an old English house, with their three old English daughters. They haven’t done a thing in the way of renovations.

As we file out of the house, I am hit in the face by thick, stuffy, hot air. We are in the middle of a stifling heat wave, and I can’t wait for it to rain, to wash away this blistering warmth.

We pile in to our dusty red car. The seats are made of leather, and they burn the backs of our legs as we sit down. I yelp from the sting, and Eve quickly drags the picnic rug from the back of our station wagon and spreads it down on the seat.

As we drive along, Mum  sings to the radio, Diana Ross, Michael Jackson, Dusty Springfield. Her voice is clear and steady, never trailing off into the distance. Dad joins in, entirely off key; he is shouting more than he is singing. Eve has the best voice of us all. She sings loudly, proudly, sturdily. Beautifully. I can see that Mum has a tear in her eye just listening to her.

Vi has her eyes closed. She doesn’t want to be associated with this family. She wants to be back home, holed up in her bedroom on Facebook.

I wind down my window, let the breeze tickle my face. I relax. This is where I belong, with my family. I will never be as happy as I am now.