"Keep your heels, head and standards high."
-Coco Chanel
I've always been a fan of getting dressed up. Girls who say they love sweatpants and hoodies and hate heels and dresses honestly haven't lived - to me, looking good makes me feel good. Then again, they probably don't have an aunt who designs clothes for a living, so it'd probably be a little hard for them to fund it. Realistically, I think I have enough clothes to wear a completely different outfit everyday for at least a year and a half.
But anyway, that's not the point. The point is, I like getting dressed up. Which is a bonus I guess, because I have to get dressed up a lot. My parents are... successful, to say the least, and so social gatherings are a regular thing. And with the paparazzi stationed almost permanently outside of your house, you kind of have to look your best. One time I stayed over at my friend Jess's house and went home wearing a pair of baggy sweatpants and a hoodie, and the paparazzi swooped down and got a good few unflattering pictures of me. That was fun. Yeah, not really.
Right now I'm wrapped in my towel trying to decide whether to wear a blue or cream dress for tonight. I have dirty blonde hair and so those colors are ones which compliment me most. I sift through my closet which is bursting with clothes and pick out the two possible dresses. The blue one's a little creased though and I'm pretty sure there's a picture of me wearing it in a magazine somewhere, so I put it back and lay the cream dress on my bed.
My makeup and hair doesn't take me too long, I'm so used to doing it now that I'm pretty quick at it. My hair is just past shoulder length and it's quite wavy. Not like my mom's, hers is curly and really light blonde. I've seen pictures of her when she was my age and she was stunning - still is, in fact. Age has only made her more beautiful, her eyes crinkled from a life smiling and tanned skin mostly unwrinkled. And her blue eyes are still as bright.
Then there's my dad. I guess I take after him more. He has dark hair and what were once ice blue eyes, have now turned to grey. I have his exact eyes. They're not blue, although some days they do have flecks of the color. Most of the time, though, they're pretty plain. And whereas dad has black hair, which is now greying a little, I have dirty blonde. It started off pretty dark brown at birth but the sun has lightened it quite a bit and so now it's got a lot of highlights.
My younger sisters, Juliet and Harper, have our father's hair. Black and curly. Although we all have pretty similar faces, I wouldn't say we look even a bit similar. People say that our family look nothing alike, but you can still tell that we're all related. There are a grand total of seven in our family. There's me, mom, dad, Juliet, Harper, Fisher and Jacob. After five kids, I have no idea how mom still manages to have such a great figure.
I'm the oldest at seventeen and I suppose I'm basically the face of our family - after my parents, of course. Fisher is just a year younger than me, but he's not that into the whole posh social scene so he prefers staying home. After him came Jacob, who's fourteen, and then there's Juliet who's seven. The youngest of us is Harper who is four. The boys take after mom, with blonde hair and blue eyes, my sisters take after dad, with dark hair and blue eyes, and I guess I'm a mix of them both.
I take out my hairdryer and blast my hair until it's dried, parting it as usual down the middle. Then making a start on my makeup, I decide on a smoky brown eye look with fake eyelashes. My face is pretty spot-free and so I don't really have anything to cover up, but I put on foundation anyway, dusting my face with powder, bronzer and blush. I dither over my lipstick choice for a moment before settling on a peach color, and I swipe it onto my lips. I have a pretty sharp cupid's bow and my lips are full, so I have a lot to cover.
When I'm done I slip into my dress. It's a strapless cream piece which gets tighter at the waist and then reaches down to my knees. The skirt is choppy, with ruffles of soft fabric and netting. It's one of my favourites, so I've been saving it. That's the thing about regularly attending these social functions - I can't be photographed wearing the same thing twice. It's so stupid. The paparazzi will genuinely put together a four-page spread if they catch me wearing the same outfit twice, eating fatty foods, or god forbid if I'm wearing sweatpants.
I honestly wonder if they have nothing better to do with their lives. Obviously not.
I grab a pair of plain gold high heels from my closet and dump them on my dresser beside my clutch bag. I choose a necklace to wear with the outfit and match it with a gold cuff bracelet. Taking my shoes and bag in my hand, I quietly make my way downstairs.
Did I forget to mention that I'm not technically allowed to be going out tonight? Well I guess the cat's out of the bag now.
You see, on a recent physics quiz I scored a grand total of 53%. Yeah, pretty dire. My parents told me that there were to be no more parties until my grades improved, but tonight is going to have to be an exception. There's an art exhibition at the local gallery. It's a highly prestigious establishment, with marble floors and high ceilings. I'm really into art, and I've been looking forward to tonight for weeks. There's no way I'm missing it.
I can hear my parents laughing and talking in the kitchen, so I quickly slip out of the front door, letting the door click onto the latch before I make my way to the garage. The ground is cold against my bare feet, so once I'm in my car I blast the heat, slipping my feet inside my shoes. I feel a little bad about lying to my parents like this, but they'd understand. Besides, from the stories they've told me, it's not like they didn't do anything rebellious when they were my age.
So basically my parents met when they were in high school, but they'd been best friends before then, like in middle school or something. And I guess dad was a bit of a slacker, but mom was a straight-A student who never did anything wrong, so they were polar opposites. But I guess opposites attract, because they've been together ever since. I see some people who've been married for years and the sparks just... gone. But that has in no way happened to my parents. They are completely taken by each other - still. It's beautiful, actually.
Their whole life, in fact, is pretty beautiful. They had this friend called Fisher when they were my age, but he died I think, and so they named my brother after him. And my uncle, Jacob, he had autism. My mom set up this charity to help raise awareness for childhood autism because she had a cousin who had it too. I never met Jacob. His autism was really quite bad and one day he had a stroke and he died. So that's why my brother's called Jacob.
I have no freaking clue why they called me Scarlett.
Don't get me wrong, I like my name a lot. It's pretty unique and it leaves an impression, but I suppose I never really lived up to my name until a few years ago. So Scarlett means danger, like a warning and when I was a kid I was pretty quiet. As I got older I began attending these parties and found my voice, so it became a little more appropriate. For the paparazzi you have to be pretty quick thinking, and so I've developed quite a lip. I've been referred to as 'Snarky Scarlett', 'Sarcastic Scarlett' and, maybe my personal favourite, 'Super Sassy Scarlett'. Yeah, wow. So the press think I'm witty yet lovable, the general public think I'm adorable and even the people who hate me admit that I have some pretty great comebacks.
I pull my car out of the garage and drive out of the back entrance to the house, so that my parents won't see me. The drive to the gallery is somewhat uneventful and as I arrive I can already tell it's going to be a good night. There's music playing but it's tasteful and there are men waiting to take my car for me. I allow one of them to help me out of the car and I hand him over some bills as a thank you.
"Thank you, miss," he nods and I smile at him.
"Thanks," I say, making my way inside. The air outside is cool, but inside I can already feel myself warming up. People dressed in black line the walls, holding trays of champagne and another assorted beverages, varying in color.
"It's fruit punch," one of the workers informs me, a woman with a sloping nose and a mess of freckles covering her face.
"Oh, thank you," I say, taking one of the glasses. The drink is cold and red and I welcome the fruity taste. I wander around a while, taking in the work displayed on the walls. There are a lot of people here tonight and when I begin to feel kind of crowded, I turn off into a much quieter room. In fact, it's completely empty, which I find a little weird. I shrug to myself and examine the artwork in silence. My heels tap on the marble flooring. The room is a circle and I walk with the wall on my left until I'm almost back at the door. A large statue takes the centre of the room, a winding, twisting figure made of clay.
The painting nearest the door is one I recognize. It's by a pretty famous artist and I'm surprised that it's being shown so openly, without any barriers. I step closer to it as I look, which is probably the worst idea of my life. As I do this a large figure seemingly throws themselves into me, knocking my arm and sending my drink flying all over the painting.
I think it's safe to say that I'm in deep shit.
In fact, not even deep shit, like a pile of elephant shit that's thirty metres high and I'm stuck underneath it.
That was kind of gross, but you get the picture.
I just kind of stand there for a moment, staring. I'm at a loss for words, which is odd for me. Suddenly my brain whirs back into motion and I snap my head to the person who just made me destroy a million dollar piece of art.
Ouch, million dollar. That makes me feel ill.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I screech at the body beside me. As my eyes dart up to look at the person, I mentally groan.
If there was a contest for a situation that goes from bad to worse, this would win hands down.
Standing before me is Cameron Daniels, teen heartthrob and grade-A jackass. He may have fooled the press and adoring public, but not me. I see right through his persona, it's almost transparent. We've known each other for years but I try to make these encounters short. Our parents are pretty good friends and so we spend a fair amount of time at each other's houses. And each time we're together makes me want to throw myself off a cliff. This is no exception.
"Hiding," his deep voice replies and I roll my eyes.
"Well listen here you pile of donkey shit," I growl. "You've just ruined a million dollar painting, so I think you should get out your little rich boy wallet and start paying up."
"I ruined it?" he asks and I notice he's a little out of breath. "Oh no, I think you did that sweetheart."
"I did?" I repeat. "I think you need to reassess this situation my friend because you were the one that knocked into me."
"I had apple," he says, lifting his empty glass in front of my face.
"Well how about I replace that apple juice with piss?" I reply.
"What are you even doing in here anyway?" he asks, eyes darting around, ignoring my comeback. I'm a bit annoyed actually, I thought that was a good one. "This bit's off limits."
"No it's not?"
"Yes it is, didn't you see the sign?"
"Obviously not," I reply coldly. "Now, we're both mature people, reasonable people. And so I think we can maybe come to an agreement on this."
"Did you just call yourself mature and reasonable?" he clarifies and I nod. A splutter of laughter leaves his mouth. "Bullshit."
"Can you tell your small intestines I say hello, because your head is probably that far up your own ass," I snap and this only causes him to laugh more.
"Oh honey, if anyone should be saying hello to their intestines, it's you." I fold my arms into an indignant pose and sniff.
"Wait, do you smell that?" I ask and he looks at me, confused. "Yeah, I think I smell something. Oh yeah, that's what it is, it's bullshit."
"You have quite the lip on you," he observes.
"I've been told," I tell him. I hear footsteps approaching and I panic. Really quickly I step towards Cameron. "Okay, listen here. I'm not supposed to be here tonight and I sure as hell don't need my parents seeing me plastered all over magazines tomorrow with this ruined painting beside me. Now I know you don't like me and you can sure as hell bet that the feeling is mutual, but I'm literally begging here. So I need you to do something for me, a favour so to speak. I promise I will do whatever you want in return, as long as it's not disgusting, illegal or degrading. But will you just please cover for me right now?"
With a subtle smirk he steps ever closer to me and cocks his head to the side. "But, what's the fun if I can't get you to do something illegal or degrading?"
"You forgot disgusting," I say. "Is that a yes?"
"It's not a no," he says.
"That's good enough for me," I decide. "I'm going to go and slip back into the main gallery. You have no idea how much you're helping me out. Thanks, I guess, for doing this."
"You owe me, remember that," he says.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," I make my way to the door. "See you later, Cammy."