Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sky was as bright, shimmering and splendid as the pale color of my blue orbs. It was daybreak, and I awoke refreshed, my cells shivering with excitement at such a wonderful morning. I threw myself off my enormous bed and rushed across the woodened floor of my bedchambers towards my window. I opened it with unrestrained excitement, for that morning, like many others, my dear friends would enter my bedroom as quickly and as cheerily as the rays of sun light. I was not disappointed. At the sight of my beauty my cherished winged companions flew over my head, curving by the door and returning to my side. They chirped and danced around me, some pecking at my slightly disheveled locks to restore them into their immaculate state while others helped me out of my nightgown and into the day’s chosen regal dress.

I couldn’t have asked for a better life. Although, truth be told, I know others may wonder how it is possible for nature’s offspring, birds in fact, to help me groom…

Well, that is only because I am Anna! Princess and future Queen of Arendelle!

Why, you must pardon my unbecoming bragging. Is just that—

Knock, knock, knock!

Darn. I groan. There’s that incessant tapping at my door that really shouldn’t occur before 11 am. 

Knock! Knock! Knock!

It got worst.

“Anna! Get up already or you will be late for school!” My mistake, now it got worst.

Well, there goes my wonderful morning of dreaming…

That was my mother by the way, because no, no matter how much I use my morning hours (and many other hours of the day) to imagine a wonderful life where I’m a freaking princess in a freaking wonderful world where animals help me dress and I’m actually happy to be awake at the unnecessary creation of dawn…my enduring wishes does make it any more real.

It is still all a fantasy created by me, and me is…

“Anna if you don’t get up right now I swear to God I will go in there with a bucket of ice cold water that I will drop on your head, because for the life of me you will not miss your first day of high school!”

Yeap! You guessed it! I’m a high school student, a freshmen to be precise (or freshgirl), who just turned fifteen last month and is currently being harassed by her mother to go to this place of imprisonment, I mean…education. How I wished it was the seventeen century and not the twenty first century where girls actually have to go to school; I know, all those feminists are turning in their graves right now, but can you blame me? It’s fucking 7:30 in the morning! On a Monday! If you ever want to prove that God doesn’t exist, just remember, Monday’s do.

Whatever, I roll of my twin sized bed with the longest groan I can muster. I hope mom hears it all the way downstairs. It would push her off my back, if only for a short while.

I hurry to the bathroom. And by that I mean that I drag my feet along the hallway until I reach the door that I push open with my forehead. After closing it, I drop all of my clothes on the floor, wash my face, and then take a bath that makes me swear under my breath because the damn water heater is broken again. After, cleaned but not really refreshed (that can only happen if this bath had taken place after 11 am), I dry myself and realize that in my drowsiness I have forgotten my clothes in my room, which forces me to scurry down the hall in only a towel while hoping no one decides to come up to check on me again; that would be so embarrassing.

Now that definitely woke me up. It is also the same ritual I have every school morning, I don’t understand why I never learn. How hard can it be to remember to bring clothes with me? Not like it matters, some things are just not worth thinking over.

Slowly, I descend the stairs and head into the kitchen where mom is preparing breakfast. She’s on the stove, working over a frying pan, but my father is nowhere in sight; he probably already left for work. I make my way to the table and ruffle my little brother’s tuft of copper hair as I sit down beside him. He barely noticed, his freckled face almost falling onto the cereal before him. I take pity on him, although I laugh at his expense anyway, and push his forehead back so he won’t drown in chocolate milk.

“You are finally up.” My mother says, too cheerful for the time of day.

I grunt in response.

“What? Aren’t you excited? You are a high-schooler now!” Her grin makes it seem like she’s the one who is a high-schooler now. She drops some pancakes on my plate and I stare at them.

No, I’m not excited at all. I already know how this is going to go. Yet, I force myself to smile a bit and say, “Yeah, totally”, for her sake.

But she’s my mother, and as such she knows there’s no excitement whatsoever in my voice and therefore there really is none in my whole being either. Yet also, because she is my mother, she refrains from pushing the subject and just smirks slightly at my inevitable fate before turning back to the stove.

I finish my breakfast rather quickly. In a way I guess I’m hoping for this day to start and finish as quickly as possible. However, as the laws of relativity go, my wish is ignored and my prayers go unheard as I waste away my life in one of the many gaunt desks the school has to offer.

You know in anime, they have this ceremony where they welcome all the newcomers. It looks like a really boring procedure, but at least it lets your know who are all the other newbies like yourself, who might be picked on with you, or in your place; unlike in real life, where they just throw you to the wolves and expect you to survive.

If I stare through the window and drown out the teacher’s incessant babbling, I can almost see Arendelle. That wonderful land I’ve created in my mind, of which I’m the princess. I imagine that there must be a place like that in this world; new and exciting, full of wonder and magic.

I’m not there though, in Arendelle. I’m here, at St. Martin’s High School (what’s up with that name? This is not a catholic school), and I’m not even pretending to listen to the gibberish that leaves the teacher’s mouth.

The bell couldn’t have sounded fast enough, and as I stroll over the tiled floors on the second story of St. Martin’s High School of Florida, I conclude clearly and vehemently that I will not spend another hour like the last one.

Quickly, I type a text to my best friend, asking him to meet me by the front gates.

The only good thing about high school is that there are no guards by the school entrance. No one to make sure you stay inside. I see my friend leaning against one of the metal gates, his hands busy with a rusty old camera he never leaves behind.

“Hey Kristoff!” I shout, sincerely happy to see him. We spoke little during summer break and saw each other even less because he took a trip to visit his family all the way up in the mountains of Idaho.

“Anna!” His enthusiasm makes me grin and his bear hug makes me cough. “How are you babe?”

Oh no, that was not going to roll. “Babe?” I give him a disapproving stare as we begin our walk out of the school’s premises. “No, don’t call me that.”

I’m proud to say that he deflates instantly.

“Aw don’t be like that. You are the only one I can practice my lines on!” He whines.

I roll my eyes, amused among the annoyance. He always does this, trying to play his “smooth” pick-up lines on me; not that a single word counts as a line, but yeah.

“And I will never understand why you pick me for it. Is not like it helps you anyway, you are still a dork!” I tease. He is a cute dork I’ll admit (never to him) but a dork nonetheless.

“Only when I’m with you!” He refutes childishly, going back to tinker with his camera.

“Yeah keep telling yourself that’s the only reason why no girl falls for you.” I smile at his seemingly offended expression, but he’s a tough boy, it will take more than that to actually hurt him. That’s probably why our friendship has lasted so long too.

With a shove to my shoulder and my promise of splitting the bill of the upcoming meal everything is forgiven; he’s easy to please.

Our bellies full and school hours spent, we return to the school with the most leisure pace we can muster, and part ways to our respective classrooms.

Who would have thought two and a half hours left of classes could go by so slowly, and by the time the last bell of the day rings I’m utterly exhausted.

I pull one strap of my backpack over a shoulder and make my way out of the classroom, out of the school and far, far away from its premises without a thought or second glance; and to think it’s only Monday.

My only reprieve are my anime and video games, which I’m not supposed to play during weekdays but that’s what hand-held consoles that you can easily hide from your mother’s sight are for.

My mind is wonderfully absent of my present with thoughts of amazing imaginary worlds and awesome combat systems, when I hear the most obnoxious and irritating voice I had hoped to never have the displeasure of hearing again.

Actually, I thought this squeaky bitch had been sent to juvie or something.

Alas, her pimple full face and ridiculous nose ring are here to prove me wrong.

“My, my, if it isn’t tomato!” Her squeaky voice penetrates into my eardrums; like a mosquito I tell you.

“No, no, Shirley, I think is tom-A-to.” The voice is thick, like the owner’s body, yet with a surprising feminine undertone.

I roll my eyes at their stupid, uncreative and repetitive joke. They’ve pulled that one since seventh grade, just because of my hair.

“Hello Marshmallow!” I smirk at the round…everything (face, body, legs, arms…double chin) that is Shirley’s sidekick. She’s pale like a salamander, so really I couldn’t have been nicer with my nickname for her.

She frowns deeply, evidently hating the name that suits her so well. “Stupid, call me that again and I will make you a vegetable smoothie!” She growls.

Seriously? Did she just call me stupid while implying that as a tomato I’m a vegetable?

“Tomatoes are fruits you dumbass.” I provoke, not that they need much of that. I begin to pull my backpack from my shoulder as I wait for their comeback, because this is not the first encounter I’ve had with this girls and I already know how it’s going to end.

Fat Girl snarls like a bull, she even bends slightly as if preparing to charge at me, but Whiney Voice Shirley puts a hand on her shoulder preventing her from attacking.

“Now, now Janice, don’t be hasty.” She advices in that superior voice she thinks makes her so great; her mother is a manager at a bank, and somehow her conclusion (delusion) is that they are important people with money.

“Listen to Miss Banker here Janice, because she’s clearly better and wiser than us, even though she goes to the same public school that we do!” I say, speaking directly to Janice, although we all know I’m taking a jab at Miss Shirley’s pride.

It’s her own fault really. Last year, just before graduation, Shirley begged her mother to enroll her in the High School for Performing Arts of Florida, yet she could not pass the auditions and her mother could not pay (or bribe) her acceptance. Therefore, the fact that she’s studying in a public school, especially with all of us who she bragged to, is a real blow to her gigantic ego; one I’m not above imparting on her.

It doesn’t take much more after that. Shirley takes her hand off Janice’s shoulder and the big girl comes barreling towards me like a wayward train.

My first instinct is to run, but because I know I would have more than two bullies if I had never stood up for myself, I brace myself for a fight, again.

Shirley stands back, always all talk and no action, for which I’m glad right now because I can barely take Janice. I’m also glad for how thin and somewhat scrawny I am even at fifteen years of age. My lithe form aides me in evading most of her heavy and slow punches. I duck under her arm and walk around her, waiting for her to tire out. No I don’t know boxing, but I’ve seen enough Bruce Lee and Rocky movies to know how this is supposed to work. And it does, work I mean, I dodge her punches and efforts at grabbing me for the most part, while Shirley keeps “couching” her from ten feet away, until a yell catches my attention. A rookie mistake, Lee would be so ashamed. Still, even I, a “rebel”, tends to hesitate at the sound of an authoritarian figure; an adult. It is clearly not the same for my opponent, who wastes no time in punching me right on the mouth to then throw me on the ground with her heavy weight. I taste blood on my tongue, which disgusts me greatly, and I’m quite dizzy and out of breath even after all the weight is pulled off of me.

Composing myself as I stand and wipe at my broken lip, I see a gray haired man has come to my rescue. He’s holding onto Janice while Shirley is talking bullshit about how she tried to stop us. Whiny lying bitch.

The man is scowling and scolding us all, while saying something about calling our parents. I don’t have time for this. Besides, my parents will surely be made aware of what happened once I go into the house with dirty clothes and a bleeding mouth. So with a frown that I’m sure won’t leave me for the rest of the day, I grab my backpack, mutter a quick ‘I’m sorry’ and briskly walk away.

I end up running all the way to my house. I stop at the door and take a few deep breaths before entering as softly as I can. But of course, nothing happens within this house that my mother knows nothing about, and the soft click of the door is enough to bring attention to me.

As most of the time, she comes from the kitchen, a cleaning rag drying her hands. The recognition is instantaneous. I prepare mentally for the sermon that is to come.

“Anna…” She says with such resigned disappointment that I can’t help but instantly feel like the worst daughter ever.

My eyes to the floor, I try to save myself, “It’s not my fault, they came after me and I was not going to stand by and let them use me as a punching bag!”, but it’s no use.

She sighs, and points to the sofa, already turning to search for the first aid kit.

I drag my feet to the couch in the living room and plop my butt on it dejectedly, without noticing that there’s another body, a much smaller body, resting on it as well. The motion wakes him up, his eyes bleary for the time it takes him to yawn cutely. Then he notices me and my bruises and is like a new episode of his favorite show, “Go, Diego, Go”, has just come up. He stands on his small legs on the sofa’s cushion and looks at my face with widened eyes filled with excitement.

“Annie, you got new war scars!” He screams, truly joyous. I smirk, indulging him by letting him poke at a side of my cheek that hurts enough to let me know somehow that bitch got it to bruise.

“Of course I did Nathan! I told you I was going to start my ninja training again today. It’s only part of the job.” I shrug nonchalantly, feeling like the toughest girl in the world as he gazes up at me reverently.

“Anna you need to stop filling his head with that kind of stories.” Mom says as she sits beside me on the sofa and begins to rummage within the first aid kit. My spirits drop once again and I play with my hands as I wait for her to tend to my injuries.

“They are not stories mama! Annie has to practice her ninja skills, just like Naruto!” Nathan defends me vehemently; at least someone’s on my side.

“I really wish you stopped showing him that kind of violent cartoons when I’m not around.” I hiss as she dabs at my busted lip with a cotton ball drenched in alcohol. I’m pretty sure she’s being so harsh on purpose; someday I need to learn all of these passive-aggressive techniques.

“They are not cartoons. They are anime!” I try to argue without moving my lip much. There’s an obvious and very important distinction between the two, and anyone who has watched anime knows this.

My mother sighs once again, probably deeming me irremediable. She opts to change the subject, slightly, for she’s still scolding me, “Your clothes were new.”

“I’m sorry.” I say honestly. It was not my intention to dirty my clothes and even rip my new jeans.

She shakes her head softly and dabs at my cheek, but her eyes are no longer mad. She gazes at me fondly, because she’s my mother and what is she going to do with me?

Most of my face has been cleaned thanks to her and the scraps on my left forearm healed with the help of my little brother by the time the front door opens and closes again.

I guess it is later than I previously thought, because dad is home. He comes into the living room; his shoulders hunched, almost dragging his suitcase along the carpeted floor.

“Hello dear.” Mom says simultaneously with Nathan’s shout of “Daddy!” He runs to jump on his lap as soon as dad has deposited himself on the love couch before us. He’s tired, we can tell, but he makes sure to smile for Nathan and ruffle his hair playfully.

His kind eyes then turn to us, mom and me, and it makes me happy to see that although it diminishes at my physical state it does not completely evaporate from his face.

“Oh, Anna…” He says, shaking his head just like mom did a while ago. He’s somewhat amused though, unlike mom had been. I grin sheepishly. “At least tell me you gave as good as you got.”

“Anderson!” Mom yells, scandalized. My chuckle answers him and he shrugs at his wife in a silent, rhetorical question of ‘what?’

And mom is ready to ignore the rhetorical aspects of his body language and go on with her usual ranting, but then dad’s humor disappears in a blink, and in its place is a sorrowful hesitation.

He exhales, long and heavy, and he’s silent even as mom probes him with a, “Dear?”

Nathan is looking up at him through worried blue eyes, and dad gives him a sad half smile before his own eyes settle over mine.

“What’s up dad? Something wrong at work?” I ask, because it seems to me that would be the only reason for his gloomy mood. My father is a happy family man, and only worries over his inability to provide for us have ever interfered with his cheery personality.

“You could say.” He mutters, waits a second, and continues, “Anna, I have something I need to tell you that you will not like.” He says, enunciating each word as if he was carefully approaching a wild animal. His gaze then goes to mom, and I can almost see the telepathic communication going between them. Mom knows what he’s talking about, I can tell from the apprehension in her eyes when she looks down at me.

I turn to dad, “Are we moving again?” I ask, a sense of dread settling on my chest from the thought of having to leave my only friend, Kristoff.

But dad shakes his head in negative. We are not moving. “Did you get fired?”

He chuckles ruefully, “Our corporation is much smaller now, but I’m still the boss sweetheart. They can’t fire me even if they wanted.”

“Then?” I have no more guesses that could shake my family’s foundation.

“Anna, do you remember why we moved here? Why you even go to public school?” He asks and I nodded my head immediately.

It had not been that long ago. Actually, I still remember with a lot of contempt those long pencil skirts that I was forced to use at elementary school as well as the high necks of our lime green blouses. I always complained about how the uniform was horrific; I’ve never been into fashion but there was just no way around that, just like there was no way around the nuns with their hard rulers and harder rules who never let me run even during recess (“Young ladies don’t do such boyish things”). I hated that private school, and although it came at a great loss for my parents, I was ecstatic when dad announced that we had to move.

I had not seen it coming, but then at ten years old you don’t much notice that your parents are lacking a shoe because they are lending it to you. Also, we left before we were actually thrown out, or so I gathered. One evening much like this one, dad came home and said: ‘We are broke, we have to leave Ireland.” The decision was final. There was no discussion as there was no apparent hope for finding a solution in our homeland. We found one far from home though, all the way in another continent, and although my then pregnant mom had been inconsolable, the sudden birth of my little brother who apparently couldn’t wait a week after we set food in Florida to look at the sights for himself took her mind off our new reality.

We were no longer the rich Callaghan family. My father was the owner and CEO of a Shipbuilding corporation no more. My mother left her charity clubs and I was taken out of the most prestigious private catholic school of Ireland.

Now we are just Anderson, Aileen, Anna and Nathan. And yes, we are still the Callaghan’s, but no one here cares about the surnames of a family that owns a furniture store.

“Yes.” I answer simply.

He nods thoughtfully. “Then, have you ever wondered how we managed to move all the way over here although we were indebted immigrants?”

Well, of course not! Like I said, I was ten! But now that he mentions it…

“Ah…no. I mean, I guess I thought you had somehow used your last resources for it.”

His head keeps bobbing like one of those dolls people put on their car’s dashboards. “Yeah, that’s pretty much it.” He says, his gaze off to the side while his palm brush over Nathan’s orange curls; the kid is almost falling asleep and dad gestures for mom to take him upstairs.

She does, and I am left alone with a very uneasy man. Dad sweeps his apparently sweaty palms over the knees of his trousers, bending and settling his elbows over them before he continues his seemingly pointless explanation.

“Anna, sweetie, my last resources to get us to a country where I would already have a job and you and your mom would not lack a house or food as I waited for my first paycheck, was to ask a friend for help.”

I nod in understanding, because that seems quite logical. As a businessman dad knew many other businessmen and as a good man he had made good friends who in my mind would surely not hesitate to help him in his time of need.

“However, in the business world, every favor has a price.” He adds, his eyes squinting slightly as if wishing for me to understand what he had yet to explain.

“Aha…?”

He exhales, seemingly exasperated with himself. “I asked my friend for the favor of helping us monetarily, for a loan you could say, one night after drinks…many drinks.”

I give him a disapproving look even as my stomach fills with wariness. My father is not a drinker, and all of this hesitance and uneasiness is making me wonder about horrible thing he could have done.

“And he accepted!” He continues. “For which I was very glad because I had not a cent left.”

“And, what did he want in exchange?” I ask carefully.

A beat, and another, and one more, and then he said, “You.”

“What?!” I shout, rising from the sofa in my shock.

“No, wait.” He tries to stop my reaction with a gesture of the hand. That will not be enough, I am more than astonished. “Not you as in…I meant your hand, in marriage.” He explains, as if that is as good an explanation as any other, as if he had just told me he was going to give away my favorite videogames to this man.

I couldn’t believe this. That my father had…no, he really couldn’t have… “And what did you say to that?” I ask, visibly outraged.

“What could I say Anna? I couldn’t let us end up on the streets!”

I huff indignantly to that. “I can’t believe you!”

I hear footsteps behind me, coming from the stairs, and soon I get another scolding from my mother, “Anna, lower your voice. This is nothing for the neighbors to hear.” She hisses.

“Of course not.” I turn to her. “You wouldn’t want your neighbors to know you are selling your daughter!”

“Anna we are not selling you!” Dad tries to defend himself, but I’m not listening, not any more.

“And to an old man no less! Did you know that mom? He wants me to marry some old dude!” I whine to her, although I knew she was at least somewhat aware.

Dad shouts over my voice. “No, of course not Anna! You are not marrying my friend!”

I turned instantly to him, those last words, that last ray of hope, stopping my tirade. “I’m not?” I say, my voice lower now but my scowl still blaring.

“No. You are marrying his daughter.”

Well, shit, because that was much better.

Let it be known that today, my life is officially ruined.

To be continued…

Chapter Text

I wipe the vase effusively, and I mean that in the most sarcastic of ways for I couldn’t have been a better representation of a slowpoke had I been born one. My mother is patient as she dusts the living room’s furniture. She sweeps the table’s center piece of a small leprechaun and passes it over to me to wipe as well.

Everything must be cleansed, impeccably so, because the Dacres…no, pardon me, not Dacres but D’Acres, are having dinner at our house this evening; the pompousness, or snobbishness really. That surname is English (I looked it up), yet they pronounce it with a French accent because my father’s friend was raised over there. Mother tells me that his daughter is completely American though, having been born and raised for most of her life here, in Florida. She says this as if it should be some kind of comfort or reassurance to me, as if it should put me at ease to know that my…fiancé and I will at least speak the same language. Ugh, that word alone is enough to stir the boiling fury within my stomach. There is nothing, and I repeat nothing, that can make me be okay with all of this.

I wipe the vase with more vigor fuelled by the rage that has consumed me once again. My demeanor is probably very noticeable, because mom breaks the silence that has enfolded us for the whole morning.

“Anna, I allowed you to skip school today so you could calm down” She says softly, and then adds a muttered, “…without getting into another fist-fight.” Right, because what a horrible thing it would be for the D’Acres to see me with two purple cheeks instead of the one; I don’t even look towards her.

“And that’s what I’m doing.” I grouch and continue with my forceful circular motions over the vase. Maybe the color will start to fade and with it the insanity in this house; if not, then at least the contrasting, shiny silver spot will anger my mother enough.

I hear her sigh, her patience waning. “Anna, there was nothing he could have done.”

She says, or more like repeats, for the hundredth time, just like my father said last night over and over again against the door I had almost slammed on his face. But I don’t believe it; it’s ridiculous, barbaric and so utterly impossible that no one in my place would have believed the “explanations” my mother chanted after my father took his leave; he had gone to work today at six in the morning, as was his routine.

However, I’ll cite them anyway, simply to recount the nonsense.

Mom said that father had gone out after nine, which he never did, that one eventful night all those years ago. He had told her to not wait up because the talk would be long, but she had stayed up all night waiting for him anyway. He returned after three in the morning, and brought with him the stench of expensive booze. He fell on the bed with little more than a hello and she had to wait until the late morning for the news that would save or condemn us. Slowly for her scarce patience, the time arrived, and dad was given no space to leave the bed until he explained:

‘I caught him just leaving his office, and he told me that it was Friday night and any kind of business I had to do with him would have to be done among whiskey”.

“Obviously, this couldn’t wait so I followed, and his buddies kept talking about a million things that I could barely pay any attention to. It was not until the fifth beer that I finally got my chance and I told him, very fast and very precise, but also very honestly, how bad we were, how things had gone to hell, and how I really needed his help.”

“He sobered up, or so I thought he had when he placed his hand over mine and said: Alright, I’ll help you out my friend. I was so relieved Aileen, but only for a second because then he said: but I have a condition.”

“Still, I was so happy and so...desperate, that I hurried to accept without even... If I had known…”

And mom, buzzing with frightful curiosity told me she had asked him, “What? What did you accept?”

“Oh Aileen, I forgot that my friend is a lonely and sorrowful man that has never been able to get over his wife’s death, and who every day fears that his reclusive daughter will have no one to take care of her if he were to follow in her footsteps.”

Mom says she has yet to hear dad expel such a deep and sorrowful sigh as the one he heaved that morning. “I read nothing, the alcohol and the elation filling my brain, and I simply signed a contract his lawyer friend laid before me without thinking at all. I should have known that the Wolf of the Business World had already seen me coming, had already known what was going on with my corporation… Anyway, when I had the chance to read the contract, I realized that in exchange for the loan that would pretty much save our lives, he wanted an arranged marriage. ”

Mother said she was flabbergasted, and had she not been sitting on the bed beside dad her knees would have given her to the floor. “An arranged marriage? You don’t mean– ”

“No. Not to him, but to his daughter. Our first born married to his daughter.”

“But our first born is a girl!” She had argued.

“Yes, I told him that! I even showed him a photo! But…he did not believe me.”

“What do you mean he did not believe you?” She had shouted, unconvinced.

“He was greatly inebriated. He told me to stop joking and just let it be. That the contract was irremediably sealed because “Anna” looked much like a boy to him.”

“Are you serious?” Mom asked, utterly incredulous, which was the censored version of what I screamed in my brain when she told me this story. But then, I have seen photos of my youth, and I remember my tomboyish ways. If I guess correctly, the photo my dad showed his friend even had me in a baseball cap, my short hair barely showing, and that combined with the flat t-shirt and round face of my pre-adolescent days I suppose I really could have been mistaken for a boy; I never was one to prefer dresses, but what I wouldn’t give now to go back in time and force myself to wear one for that life-wrecking photo-shooting.

Dad had only nodded, and mom made him crawl back to his friend later that day to beg for an annulment of the contract; something she swears he would have done anyway. However, the Business Wolf had no qualms with the fact that my father’s first born had truly been a girl. He was a modern man (which is debatable considering we are talking about an arranged marriage here), and what was more, he said he was certain that laws that prohibited the marriage between people of the same sex would be abolished soon enough, since people were starting to realize how unconstitutional these were, and therefore there was no real hindrance to the contract.

Hence, my father’s claim had been denied, and my fate, sealed.

I think and rethink that story, and still I can’t help but think that there must have been some loophole that my father did not take the time to find.

“On the bright side!” My mother suddenly says, taking me from my musings. “You won’t have to marry until after high school!”

Is she kidding me? I give her the most deadpan expression I can muster, to which she rolls her eyes and sighs yet again. Frustrated, I wonder, “Mom, have you even considered the fact that I don’t like girls?”

Her right eyebrow rises, her features blank. I squint my eyes at her, what is that expression for? I get no chance to ask her though, as she stands from the floor and throws her rag over her shoulder. “Just put on your happy face for this evening, please?”

She asks, but we both know is not really a question. “Whatever.” I mutter and continue with the wiping of the vase. I can almost see a speck of silver now; the petty vengeance lifts the corner of my mouth.

The hours go by with my mother harassing me to clean this and that and that other thing, and to not forget the corners! Her incessant muttering, nervous and giddy as it is, irritates me to the bones and still it doesn’t stop even as we eat our lunch.

She made something simple, fried chicken and mashed potatoes, which I love. Yet, I can’t find it in me to enjoy them because in less than six hours I will meet the girl who is to become my wife. If that isn’t something to kill your appetite I don’t know what is. Mom offers me some chocolate pudding for dessert, and as incredible as it may be, I find it in me to hate this nameless girl even more; chocolate has never tasted so bland.

In more than one occasion after mom and I have gone back to cleaning the house—the backyard now—I wish for time to still. I no longer care that my present is unhappy. I would retrieve laundry from the cords, brush the leaves off the ground and continue to clean our house for eternity, so long as I did not have to go forward into such a dark future.

No magical troll, like the ones I’ve imagined in Arendelle, comes to my aid though, and at four thirty or so my father appears through the back door, a bag in his hand, my little brother on his heels and a careful smile on his face that I do not return.

Mom goes to him and greets them both with a kiss while I continue to sweep the dry leaves off the porch.

“Anna.” He calls and I feel obligated to look over at him. With no delight whatsoever, I watch him near one of the chairs and deposit the bag he has brought with him on top of it. He wastes no time retrieving what’s inside and my eyes go a little wide at what he shows me. “Look, I got you a dress, for tonight!”

It would have been a beautiful dress, its spaghetti straps and length making it wonderful for the summer heat that had yet to leave, and the different tones of green (besides being my favorite color) actually combine well with the orange flowers that curve from its lowest hem up to its waist. It would have been a lovely dress that even I who am almost allergic to them would have loved to wear…if only it did not reaffirm the fact that I was getting primped for selling.

My jaw tightens in preparation of the imminent lash out, but my brother’s squeaky voice interrupts me.

“Annie you are going to look to pity!” His unresolved issues with the R (that appear randomly and selectively) make him sound all the more adorable and suddenly I’m incapable of letting out all of my anger.

Forcefully, I bring a sweet smile to my lips for him, but say nothing to his compliment even as I ruffle his reddish curls in gratitude when I practically run into the house.

The time it takes me to sprint up the stairs and into my room feels like double the span of time it took my mother to be knocking at my door, incessantly so.

I search for cover under my blankets, and wait for her to breech my privacy by using that elusive (for me) extra key and open my door.

“Anna.” She begins softly, trying to appease me, again. I sense her nearing the bed, and soon after a weight is dropped carelessly on top of it; I’m assuming is the dreaded dress. “Come on, it’s already pass five and they will be here soon.” She coaxes.

“No! I don’t want to have dinner with them, I don’t want to meet her, and I certainly don’t want to marry her!” I shout, the sound muffled by the sheets.

Another weight falls onto my bed before the sheets are taken from my face rather swiftly. “Go take a bath.” She orders.

“But mom—” I whine.

“I know Anna.” She breathes, looking down at my pitiful face. “But we’ve all had to make sacrifices.”

“Appropriate wording, because a human sacrifice is exactly what you are doing!” I hit the sheets over my belly in a rather petulant manner; not that I care.

My mother of course, only rolls her eyes. “Oh, don’t be such a drama queen Anna.”

I huff, utterly appalled. True, I am often prone to dramatics; I’ve spent half my lifetime within my brain in an imaginary world named Arendelle, it’s only logical for her to think so. But this is not the case and she knows it!

“Alright look, let’s just meet them, okay? And if I find them… unsatisfactory, I will talk to you father about this.” She proposes.

‘Unsatisfactory?’ What the hell does that even mean? And ‘about this?’ About what exactly? That proposition couldn’t have been vaguer if it had been written as the definition of vague.

My eyes, filled with my evident lack of trust and suspicion, I begrudgingly slide out of the bed, grab the bag with the worst attitude I can ever remember having, and stomp my way to the bathroom.

When I come back, my mother is still sitting on my bed, a conglomeration of make-up articles sprawled upon it.

“No.” I say instantly.

“But Anna, you are wearing such a beautiful dress. Don’t you think a little make-up will go great with it?” She says, picking up a very shiny, pink lipstick. Let it be known that I did not bye that, it was a gift.

“No.” I repeat, resolute. “This is not prom mom.” I add and lean down to pick up the only “make-up” that I actually wear somewhat often without being coerced to: lip-gloss. That’s it, that’s all I’m wearing for this horrible ordeal.

Mom rolls her eyes for the umpteenth time and stands from the bed allowing the issue drop.

“Fine.” She says, and moves behind me to tug on the crisscross strips of cloth that are supposed to be made into a bow but that I can never manage to tie as such by myself.

Because of my resistance to make-up and easy made hairdo (two plaits, as always), it takes little time for me to finish with it all. By then, there are already voices coming from below. They are gruff, and I can identify one as belonging to my father, but the other one, the other one fills me with anxiety because I know that it can only belong to one other “awaited” person: The Friend.

Mom’s eyes return to me from their attachment to the closed door. She places a hand on my cheek and brushes it with a thumb, giving me a gentle, reassuring smile that the nerves don’t allow me to reciprocate. In this moment, the only thing that’s within my cranium is a distant memory of when I used to get sick as a child. She would come to me with the bottle of medicine and say, ‘drink it without thinking!’ It seems to me that that’s the kind of attitude she has now, the one she wants me to have as well. With a nod of her head towards the door she pretty much reaffirms, ‘No time for cold feet.’ And so, albeit hesitantly, I step behind her and exit my room.

The murmurs are slightly louder now, but only two voices can still be heard and I wonder, with brewing hope, if the girl has pulled out, if maybe her father is here to break the contract and spare us both. But there are chuckles and happy mutterings that let me know that my faith is futile.
We have to go down before dad runs out of thing to say that might entertain them in the threshold, and yet I don’t move a muscle. Mom gives me a secretive glance, the kind that used to mean we would do something no one would be a part off. It used to be silly things, like eating the cookie dough or buying that one thing dad would never know about. Today is about having the advantage of catching a glimpse of them before they can see us. I give her a small smile in assent to her plan, and softly, subtly, we lean over the banister.

There are three figures down below, close to the entrance. First is my dad, with his back to us I can only see the excited hand gestures he makes as he speaks. Then, before him and to his left, is a man a head taller than him. He is lean with broad shoulders and he’s white, very white, and I’m white but I mean that his skin tone makes his sleek blond hair look platinum, almost white, or is it the other way around? Either way he is in this fine line of being an albino without actually being one. His eyebrows are thick, which is good for him because otherwise I doubt they would have been noticeable considering his complexion. I can’t see his eyes very well, but they seem to be a strange blue/hazel kind of tone encased within rectangles that cringe with wrinkles on their corners when he laughs. And of course, he has a mustache, because what successful English business man doesn’t have one? It moves upwards when his shiny white teeth make an amused appearance. Adding to all of that, his straight posture and the press navy suit with a similar tie and a white undershirt that he dons makes the “friend” look like a king. I glance to my mother swiftly, and end up doing a double take at her glazed eyes. Great, she’s already enamored with this dude; that does not bode well for me…

Shaking my head in disbelief, I opt to ignore her tastes and return my eyes below to finally gaze at the bane of my existence. And when I finally see her, standing to my father’s right, the only words that comes to mind, and which I breathe out of my mouth without a second thought, are:

“Oh, fuck me…”

“Anna!” Mom, who has picked this precise moment to come out of her infatuated stupor, chastises me.

I pay her no mind because for the love of God, how could I? I just can’t believe this! My eyes have been glued to the aforementioned bane of my existence, and my mind can only process the ridiculousness of how said bane looks. Seriously, she looks like she was taken out of a fucking magazine. No! Scratch that, as if she had been abducted from some royal palace. Yes, that’s it. Just like her daddy King, she looks like a fucking Princess!

She is wearing a dress for tonight as well, not like mine, no of course not. Whereas mine is a summer dress, hers is almost a gown! A beautiful gown with different tones of blue that hug her every curve, from her ridiculously long legs, to her even more ridiculous petit waist (I can even see her hipbones, I swear) to her stupid perfect boobs that I’m sure are at least one size bigger than mine. And in case the dress was not tantalizing enough with its “subtle” snowflakes shimmering in the foyer’s light and leaving me blind (I bet Princess Snob had them made of diamonds), there’s sufficient shimmering pale skin to catch your attention! The long sleeves of the dress do their best to make it appear modest, but I think the intent is useless when your shoulders and 90% of your smooth leg are on display!

All of that is not even the worst part. Up a naked, slender neck, there are thin slightly pink lips (Am I glad that I did not listen to my mother now!). She’s smiling politely at my dad, and the gentleness of it raises her prominent cheekbones that have the softest tinge of rosy blush over them. Her eyes are not like her father’s though, they are big and round, and even from here I can see the dark hue of blue that engulfs them; they cringe slightly but there are no wrinkles. Her eye-makeup, a dark purple that accentuates the color of her eyes, was probably (definitely!) done by a professional, and the same must have happened to her hair; you would think it free and uncaring yet perfectly tousled by nature’s winds, but there’s a complicated braid done after the shorter, smooth locks have been blown back. It is also covered with mini snowflakes (diamonds!) like her dress. Her hair really is platinum though, her eyebrows however, are a shade darker; I’m hoping she’s a pharmacy blond because someone in real life just can’t look this perfect.

And here I was expecting a Mr. Beans! I mean, why else would a father arrange a marriage for his daughter! His disgustingly gorgeous looking daughter…

Suddenly I feel a pull on my arm. Mom is urging us to go down the stairs and I go along with her kind of in a daze. I just can’t get over the fact that “the friend” would think someone like her needed help in the relationships department. Unless, she has really deep issues, and she’s actually a psycho! Or maybe she has a horrifying pass and my parents have just set me up with a sociopath!

I don’t have much time to think of any more possibilities or to even plan my escape, because without my notice or conscious consent we have already reached the first floor.

“Good evening!” My mother says, pulling me to stand beside her.

“Good evening Mrs. Callaghan.” He says, lifting a hand to shake my mother’s. “My Anderson, you had not told me your wife was such a beauty.” He dares say, and then dares even more to lean down and kiss my mother’s hand. Kiss it! Literally!

My mother giggles stupidly while my father chuckles politely. “Yes, well, we had not much time before.”

“That is true.” He acquiesces, raising and letting go of mom’s hand. “But I’m positive that will change now.” He says with a charming smile as he looks among us three. And then, his eyes settle on me. “You must me Anna.”

I gulp, unable to say anything, anything at all. My mother is quick to speak for me, and also to shove me forward into the mouth of the wolf. “Yes she is!”

His smile grows even more, almost predatory, letting me know where the nickname came from. He turns then, and does the same thing my mother has just done to me, to his daughter; albeit much more gently.

“Well Anna, my name is Abner, and this is my oldest and only daughter, Elsa.” He says, mostly to me.

The Elsa chick nods almost imperceptibly, had we not all been staring at her we would have missed it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Anna.” And then to my parents. “You have a beautiful home Mr. and Mrs. Callaghan.” The kind smile that’s on her lips is as charming as her father’s. It almost makes me puke. My mother however, preens at such a courteous being.

“Oh you are such a doll, thank you!” She says to what the blond girl simply nods her head again in acceptance; I wonder if that’s the only movement she can make. So perfect even in her manners, she must be a robot.

There’s an awkward silence after my mother’s words have been received that lasts about a second. Then my father hurries to break it, “Well Aileen, perhaps we should get started with dinner. My friend and his beautiful daughter here have an affair in a few hours.”

“Oh, is that so?” She asks, moving away from the foyer. Slowly, hesitantly in my case, we begin to follow her down the hallway. “May I ask what it’s about?”

“Of course.” The Wolf, I mean Abner, says. “I’m participating in an Art Auction.”

“Oh, that sounds so interesting.” Mom replies. I roll my eyes. Of course it does!

“Indeed. Perhaps in the future you could all accompany us.” He suggests.

“Oh that would be so wonderful! Don’t you think so Anderson?” He turns to dad who is following her closely in the path to the dining room.

“Perhaps.” He smiles at her, the turns his head slightly to speak to the tall man. “I’m surprised you decided on today to come here then Abner. Since you also have that event I mean.”

“Yes, well, you know what I think about tardiness.” The blond man says.

“That is alright for no one but you?” Dad chuckles.

“Yes, and that is fashionable.” He half jokes. For some reason his answer reminds me of Princess Diaries. Didn’t the Queen of the movie say something similar to that?

We are about to cross the archway to the dining room when suddenly mom stops. Being behind my father I can’t see anything upfront, but a whiny cry lets me know exactly what has happened.

“I’m hungry!” Nathan shouts.

“Dear, won’t you be a bit more polite? We have guests.” Mom says, bending down to speak to him.

From around dad’s shoulder I can see Nathan looking, or more like accessing, the intruders. He looks to the tall blond man for like a second, then moves to Elsa and stares for like an hour. It doesn’t take me long to realize what has happened, and when he moves and takes her hand, everyone else also realizes with much amusement what has happened; little traitor.

“You are pity, so you will feed me.” He states, leaving no space for argument.

My mother shakes her head while dad and Abner laugh. Meanwhile, Elsa’s face has turned the shade of my hair, which I find very ridiculous. It’s a five year old, who blushes are a five year old’s compliment? My fiancé apparently.

Mom succeeds in changing Nathan’s mind, so that he will let Elsa eat in peace because is the first time she’s been here and mom really wants to know what she thinks of her cooking; or so she tells him. He relents on the feeding as long as he can sit beside her on the table and as long as the ‘pity girl’ promises to feed him next time she’s over; bashfully, Elsa accepts.

We sit at the table shortly after. Mom brings dinner to the table, which consists of: white rice, stew, sweet bread, buttered corn and green salad. There are a few dressing for the guests to choose from, Raspberry Vinaigrette, Caesar and Thousand Island, although we usually have our vegetables dried or in butter. When mom sits down beside me and in front of Nathan (to keep an eye on him while he harasses Elsa), she gestures to what looks to me like a banquet (when did she have time to cook all this?), a smile on her lips, giving us the cue to dig in.

And we do. Some more civilized than others. Alright, everyone more civilized than me. I’m not putting up any kind of pretense here to be honest, because I don’t “dig in”, I “dive in”, when it comes to food, quite literally. Not that I’m a pig, but I grab what I like, in the quantity that I like, and I eat it like I enjoy it because I do. On the other hand, I’ll admit I’m also hoping Elsa will raise her eyes and look right across from her to find a girl she would be ashamed to take out to her high-class shitty events. Maybe then she will fight her father over this stupid arrangement.

However, Elsa is invested in her own food. She’s having a bowl of stew that her father, who was closer, served for her. She has not made a sound or given any indication of liking or disliking it, which has my mother’s nerves frazzled. Her tension is palpable, and I just don’t understand why she wants to please this girl so much, especially when Le Mister D’Acres has already boasted about how wonderful it is.

I glare behind the bread I’m munching on, willing her with my mind to hurry up and say something, anything, before my mother shakes the whole table in her anticipation. Finally, she looks up towards my mother, and with that annoyingly dazzling smile compliments her cooking.

“This stew is delicious Mrs. Callaghan. I can only imagine how the rest of your cooking must taste.”

Why darling, you did not need to go so far. Your haughtiness is showing; not that my mother notices.

“Why thank you dear. Although there’s no need for last names here. You can call me Aileen, like everyone else.” It sure is rubbing off on her though. ‘Why thank you dear?’ Who truly speaks like that in this time and age? Also, what’s with the forwardness? I know I’ve been calling Mr. D’Acres by his first name, but that’s only been in my head!

Elsa only smiles that irritating smile of hers, again, and goes back to her stew, seeping gracefully. Yes, because there’s a graceful way to sip stew, who knew! Apart from that interaction, the blond girl says nothing more, at least not those of us capable of carrying a logical conversation. To my brother though, she gives all the attention in the world.

Meanwhile –and by the expanse of time that word entails I mean, during the time I have been subtly glaring daggers at Elsa that she either doesn’t see or is ignoring quite skillfully—my parents have had like three topic changes. They spoke of my father’s furniture store, ‘How is it going?’ ‘Great!’ ‘Wonderful! But if you need help with anything, don’t hesitate to ask.’ ‘For now that won’t be necessary but I appreciate it!’ There was a sudden smell of dog (wolf) in the room for a second.

Then they jumped to, ‘So Aileen, what do you dedicate your time to while the husband’s away? It must be cooking because even the salad is tremendous. And these dressings! Did you make them yourself?’ ‘Oh! Such a flatterer, but yes I enjoy cooking, only as a hobby though, and you are correct, I made the dressings as well. I bet you can tell that I’m a rather traditional Irish woman. For now I like tending to the house and my children, but who knows, once Nat is a little older I might join Andy at the store.’ ‘That’s great, nothing like family to keep a business going. Right, Elsa?” The girl nodded solemnly, and her father accepted it without question.

I think the last subject I tuned in had something to do with Nathan. He asked him about school, and what he liked to do. Nathan did not pay him much mind, preferring to play around with his corn while giving half-assed answers of ‘Yeah’, ‘Nah’, and ‘I like coloring with Annie… oh! And ninjas.’ He looked up for a second so that Abner would understand the severity of how much he liked ninjas.

The man laughed at his antics, and I thought he would go back to charming my parents, but because luck is a bitch who hates me dearly, he turned to me.

“What about you Anna? What do you like to do?” He asks me after swallowing a mouthful of rice.

I’m caught off guard. My dead-fish eyes turn to look around at everyone. They are staring back expectantly, even that Elsa girl. What does she care? What does her father care about my likes? My little brother comes to my saving, thank God, because I am still thinking about how to answer. What did I actually want to tell him?

“Annie likes ninjas too!” He says proudly. I internally accept that answer to be close enough to the truth.

“Really?” the man chuckles and I notice he actually has dimples; great, these D’Acre’s are a factory of charm. I bet mom noticed hours ago. “Does that mean you like sports? Martial Arts, perhaps? ”

The answer is yes, not exactly martial arts, but to sports in general, yet I only lift my shoulders to him.

“She does.” Mom interjects. “Sadly.”

“Well honey, at least she isn’t bullied.” I think dad was trying to help, but the poor fool has now idea how embarrassing that was! Also, that’s a lie, we all get bullied, even Kristoff, we just don’t take it! “She gives as good as she gets.”

“Anderson! You really need to stop encouraging her!” Mom scolds to which my father just shrugs.

“Now, now Aileen, I think that’s a great quality. My daughter does need a strong companion, someone who can protect her.” He puts an arm around the thin back of his daughter, and from under my orange eyebrows I can see heat rushing to her cheeks. Good, I won’t be the only one traumatized by this endeavor.

I can finally see where he’s heading though. We are finally reaching the topic all of the pleasantries were foreplay for, the humongous pink elephant in the room.

“What about school? Do you have a favorite class?” He digresses though, opting to continue digging within my brain.

“I don’t really know.” I mutter, my eyes glued to the crumbs of bread that are on my plate.

“I bet you are good at physical education. You must like that one at least, most kids do.” He adds.

“I guess.” I shrug.

“Have you thought about the future?” Oh no, no way, I’m barely a freshman, don’t go there man!

“I don’t know. Um, no.” I reply in the same manner I have for every single question, monotone, uncaring, showing how much of a hassle this is for me.

“Anna, you could give a little more, don’t you think?” Mom dares to say. More? Have I not given enough by sitting here while the same future he’s asking me about has been ripped from my hands just last night?

“That’s alright. I know at her age I did not have much figured out either. It is a difficult time on its own, even more if you have to decide so many important aspects of your life.” D’Acres, Abner, Wolf, or whatever his name is, says, and it stinks of condescension.

The bile that rises in my throat prevents me from holding my thoughts any longer. I forget that he’s an adult, I forget that he’s a friend, and just lash out as swiftly as a bullet.

“What about you? Do you even know what you are doing here? To me? To your daughter?” You can almost touch the accusation; I might as well have just called him the most deplorable father in the world. And though my barely restrained glare is directed straight at him, I can see from the corner of my eye how Elsa’s orbs have widened in surprise and how her jaw has tightened with tension and offense.

From my parents, I can practically feel the appalled astonishment. So grand is it, that it is my father who shouts my name in rage.

“Anna!” He pretty much growls. I can tell what he’s thinking: he raised me better than this. Well that’s too bad because I thought him better than a child trafficker too.

From all the negative emotions around the table, I must say that even in my anger I was rather surprised to find that the one less affected by my words was the one I most wanted to attack. Abner D’Acre’s optical rectangles have broadened slightly, but this is as perceptible as his daughter’s nods, and by how quickly he fixes his features I believe myself the only one who caught the movement. They settle, those hazel pools of his, and regard me with the most unexpected, and unwanted, kindness I’ve ever received from any male adult who is not my father.

I’m caught off guard, yet again, by his demeanor and his accompanying words. “You have every right to ask Anna.” He says mildly, placing his elbows on the table and intertwining the fingers of his hands. “And the answer to that is yes, to every single one.”

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. He glances at my father, the corner of his lips lifting slightly before he returns his attention to me. “I see you have yet to master any of your father’s skills in the office we practice, and that is fine. Elsa is on that road as well. But allow me to give you your first lesson: when seeking information, you must always ask the most precise question. Dead-on I tell you.” I would have felt scolded, had his eyes not kept their gentleness.

Yet despite of this, while heeding his advice, I hurry to try again. He does not let me say anything more though, for the Wolf is a time managing man. “Sadly, we do not have much more time for that now.”

I exhale an irritated sigh, bite my tongue and cross my arms over my chest, waiting for him to take his leave now that he does not wish to answer any more of my questions. Nonetheless, the man is nothing but a sneaky bastard, and manages to spring upon me:

“Since I would like for you and Elsa to have a little chat before we leave.” Well fuck, that’s what my face is saying. I’m not sure what the deer-caught-in-headlights look on Elsa’s face is saying though. “What do you say Mr. and Mrs. Callaghan? A little privacy for our girls?”

“Y-yes. That seems like a good idea.” Dad was not expecting his wonderful idea either.

“The back porch was cleaned this afternoon, so why don’t you girls go there?” To the semi-lit backyard, under the cold night, with a strange girl, gee thanks mom.

I glance towards the blond and find her looking at everywhere but at me, or at anyone else. It seems the napkin has captured her attention this time.

“Anna, do you expect her to go on her own? Go show her where it is?” Where do you think is? In the back, is the backyard! That’s what I’m screaming in my head, and through my squinting eyes I’m sure my mom can translate. I get up from the table very, very reluctantly, and grumble a ‘Follow me’, before practically stomping out of the dining room, back into the hallway, and down its path to the door that leads to the patio.

I wait for her sitting on the corner of a plastic bench we have on the porch by the door. Soft footsteps arrive soon, the opening and closing of a screen door follows, and still I don’t raise my gaze towards her, preferring to stretch it over the expanse of darkness before me; the light of the porch only illuminates up to the wooden swing that’s half way into the yard.

That was my plan, to plant my bottom on top of this plastic straps and wait until she got tired of my silence. Besides, I doubt she has much desire to speak to me either, if we take into account her behavior during dinner.

It seems that the D’Acres exist to prove me wrong however, and the blond rasps her throat in search of my attention. I give her a side glance and gesture to the other end of the bench for her to finally sit.

Now be quiet girl. Our parents are surely muttering about who knows what over at the dinner table. They won’t even notice if we don’t speak a word. Later you can lie, tell him we exchanged more nauseous pleasantries, or you can expel the truth you’re repressing for once in your life, but for now, let’s just ignore each other.

I hoped, but this girl is nothing if not polite, and awkward silence is everything but well-bred.

“That’s a pretty dress” She says, scanning my attire from my sandals up to my pigtails. For a second there I think this is a horrible attempt at flirtation, now wouldn’t that be horrific? But no, her shoulders are straight and she’s looking down her lashes at me (although that could be because I’m kind of slouching) and somehow I’m just certain that she’s mocking me.

“Let’s cut the crap, okay?” She looks alarmed, but waits for me to continue. “I know you don’t like me—” I say as a matter of fact, because it appears to me that that’s all it is.

The girl seems to not agree and she rushes to explain, “Oh, I never said I did not like you—”

“You didn’t have to, and it’s fine. I don’t like you either!”

One would think I had pushed her by the way that she jolts back at my confession. I suppose she was not used to honesty. Her attitude, that had been nervous but pleasant before, instantly goes rigid in a defensive way. I can tell I’ve hit a nerve, but the reason for it escapes me. Why would she care if I liked her or not?

“How old are you?” Her voice is controlled enough to be courteous, but it has turned colder than the pudding I had this afternoon.

“Fifteen.” I answer, accepting the unspoken challenge. It’s in there, somewhere; her poised form tells me so. I align by body towards her, readying myself for what’s to come.

“I can tell. You have the manners of a fifteen year old.” She says, her voice as soft as always, but I can identify sarcasm when I hear it, and that was a sarcastic insult right there. The gall of this girl!

“Oh yeah? And how old are you?” I demand.

“Seventeen.” Oh, well excuse me, Albus Dumbledore!

“Yeah I can see that. Is not for your manners though, but for those crow feet that are beginning to appear around your eyes.” I point to the corner of her left eye and I lie. I had said she was perfection after all, horribly disgusting perfection.

For the first time since I met her, I finally get something other than fake politeness. She glares, actually glares at me with the affronted fury of a thousand ogres. Her knuckles are even turning white (whiter) as she fists the gown above her knees, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I actually feel kind of smug about what I’ve managed to extract from The Princess.

I can almost hear what her hidden, gritting teeth are about to shout at me, but her outburst is cut short when her father opens the backdoor. Shame, I really wanted her to throw herself off the pedestal my parents have put her on.

Her temper is concealed astonishingly quickly when she turns to let her father know she has heard him when he’d said, ‘I’m sorry girls, but it’s time to go Elsa, or else we won’t be fashionably late anymore.’ He laughed at his own joke, and Elsa nods, repeatedly and so quickly that she almost looks human.
Well, good riddance! It’s about time. Yes, go! Fly with the winds, or drive in your expensive Mercedes Benz to some place, any place, that’s very, very far away from here. And never come back, never!

I wish it so hard, and I’m giddy with the prospect of never seeing either one of them again. I’m sure even my eyes have glazed over with my preemptive happiness. And there she is, nearing the archway, almost crossing it. I’m so close to jumping from this bench and doing the happy dance I do every time I defeat a tough dungeon monster. So close, her back is to me, he is turning while pulling on the screen door, I’m on the edge of my seat, and then…

He looks back, smiles at my high spirits and misunderstanding them, says, “I’m really glad you two got along so well, and you have nothing to worry about Anna. You’ll have more time to talk soon. I’ve homeschooled Elsa all of her life but I thought it best for her to attend your school from tomorrow onwards. That way you’ll be able to get better acquainted. No place like High School to work on friendship, and the subsequently, love, right? Well, have a good night! ” He smiled broadly, finally closing the screen door and guiding Elsa through the hallway, away from me, and out of my house.

He did not see the stiffness return to his daughter’s shoulders at his little speech, even less did he notice my own smile drop from my lips.

But I saw it, I feel it, how his words break me, how they blew my happy bubble and stole all of my hope.

There’s the flimsiest wonder in my head. Now that the man is so resolute, what more can be done? What more can be said?

Except…

“…Fuck.”

To be continued…