Isabella sat, her legs up against the opposite car door’s inside handle, and peered intently at the chiming PSP clutched in her hands. One foot repeatedly tapped against the window, appropriately supported on her other ankle, and emitted a slight cracking sound from her joint. She hardly noticed the passing scenery and finally sat up, tossing the piece of electronic bliss beside her on the leather seat.
Her red hair was ablaze in the caress of the sunlight shining through the car window. The bright fashion red colour complemented the slight rose of her pale, creamy skin and brought out her deep green eyes. Often mistaken for having Irish heritage, she was a mixture of English and French, with high, rounded cheekbones and a slim jawline and sharp chin that held back her dagger-tongue behind a set of pearls. Her puckered, yet slightly chapped, rosy lips gave her a childish appeal and she was always seen more of a young girl than a blossoming lady.
Her sister, Rose, was an older replica of Isabella. She was the epitome of beauty and sophistication in a taller, thinner package. Her cheeks were sunken, almost as if she constantly sucked them in, and her lips were puckered in the same fashion as her younger sister’s, except with a touch of silicone. Her brunette hair, as straight as a pin, was always tied back in a loose chignon that hung around her long, feminine neck that matched her chestnut, almond-shaped eyes. She was mature and well-spoken, whilst Isabella tripped over her own tongue most of the time, dyed her hair constantly, and her playful green eyes glimmered with a passionate hope that Rose gave up on a long time prior.
The older sister was an Alumni of the boarding school she was being shipped off to. ‘Tiberian Hallows’ School of Gifted Arts’, they called it. It was a prestigious school built high on a cliff, almost towering over the town just below. It was a tyrant gazing over its empire – Isabella liked to think so. Their classes revolved around basic Arts, and the complementary ones were taught with a mediocre curriculum. She was attending for dancing, singing, and writing; Isabella wanted to be a showgirl.
The ritzy life of a woman with glitter and long legs was appealing, but not so much so that she was willing to travel to Las Vegas, the modern-day ‘Sin City’, and strut her stuff down the catwalks of bordellos and seedy bars. Her dream was to have her name in lights and on the stages of Broadway. Of course, it was only in Las Vegas that it was possible unless she opened her own club and integrate the lost visage of vintage beauty with the entire view of being a ‘Showgirl’. There was a lot more to being a showgirl than just wiggling breasts and shaking hips. It was elegance, grace, and an alluring gaze that left a sweet taste in the mouths of the viewers. She had that sweet taste, but had to practice her tact and class.
Her sister’s long fingers stretched over the steering wheel of her Mercedes and her face writhed into a deep frown when she looked into the rear-view mirror and saw Isabella. Their eyes met for a split-second before the younger red-head casually looked away and out the window. Trees whirled by and faded into a green and brown haze that blocked out most of the sun. The temperature dropped slightly and the previous heat that had been reflected onto her arms from the sun was gone, making them cool quickly. With a sigh, she slouched in the back seat and put one of her feet up against the back of the head rest of the seat in front of her.
“Get your feet down.” Rose snapped. “This isn’t your car.”
“Yeah? Well it ain’t yours either. It’s a ******** rental.” She replied without missing a beat.
Her sister fell silent, and when Isabella looked back, she could see the other’s knuckles whitening over the steering wheel. There was a clash of personalities between them, but they shared the same blood and were closer than most sisters, even if either of them would admit it. Fighting was their way of communicating. In Isabella’s mind, yelling was the only way she could get her message up to that high horse Rose sat herself on.
“You know,” the brunette started, “you could be a great actress. You fake your way into getting what you want. It’s better than being… A ‘showgirl’.”
The subtle insult washed right over the younger sister and she put her foot back on the head rest.
“Oh yeah? I’d rather be a showgirl than a porno star.” Her voice was tinged with angst and defiance, as most teenage girls’ voices were. “You know, since I won’t be showin’ anything private, and in your last movie, that’s all it was. Wasn’t it something called… ‘Rose takes his pe-“
“We’re here, so shut the ******** up and act like a lady.”
Rose slammed on the brakes and caused Isabella to bounce between the seatbelt and the back of the seat. It’s hard surface slammed into her sticky back that had been slowly sweating from being in the direct sunlight the entire car ride. With a harsh stare, she said nothing and unbuckled her safety belt, collected her PSP, and shoved it into her brown hemp bag.
Her sister was already out of the door and opening the trunk by the time Isabella stepped out, her black flats crunching against the fertile, yet rocky, soil path that led up, and slowly receded into cobblestone, to the giant Academy. It’s grand latticework of stone and wood was complemented by the aura of scholarly knowledge and reputation only proceeded by Harvard or an unknown city that fell below the sea millennia before. Its gothic architecture supported its façade of greatness and modest accumulation of students; it housed over a hundred and kept its quiet appeal. It loomed and soared high above the trees with its single bell tower and a few flying buttresses and secondary towers that hid themselves farther in the back.
“It’s okay, I guess.” She moaned, gathering her single duffle bag of clothing, with the words ‘Knight, Nathaniel’ imprinted in a fading black type against the green, hard denim.
Rose scoffed and placed her hand on the top of the trunk before slamming it shut.
“Do you need me to go in and hold your hand while you talk to the administrative secretary?”
Isabella hardly turned her head over her shoulder and squinted one eye at her in disapproval.
“No, I wouldn’t want you there, anyway. Wouldn’t you want to come in and see all the guys you slept with? ******** cougar.”
“Shut up and go ******** hang yourself from the bell tower, ‘Bell’.”
He was on fire. Cursing, he flicked the hot ember off the sleeve of his slate gray, silken suit and rubbed the fabric between his finger and his thumb to assess the damage. There was a small hole, the sides singed to a light brown and exposed a bit of his black dress shirt beneath. James casually placed his hand back on the arm of the antique, red wingchair and tended to his thin cigarette with the other.
He sucked back on it, inviting the presence of death into his lungs where it settled for some time, impregnating his insides with tar and nicotine, and came gushing out with a taste of burnt tobacco. It had been his only vice since he was sixteen, when he was defiant, dangerous, and a rebel without a cause bent on making everyone’s lives living hell to get his kicks. James sure did get his kicks, and punches, and a steady knock to the teeth from his father. Reminiscing brought nothing but regret and intolerance for what he had been, yet there was a hint of longing there. He longed, desired, and fantasized about being a teenager again. He wanted that freedom from responsibilities and the chance to take it all back, and to have taken his life seriously before he had been thrown in prison.
It was only when his grandfather stepped into his life that he began to study and focus on what he wanted and what he needed from around him. He needed support, the ability to adapt, and responsibility if he wanted to succeed. At first, he hadn’t taken the old man seriously and pushed him away. That had been his way of coping with what he didn’t like or want; distancing himself as far away as possible. It didn’t work, and the old man finally grabbed him by the collar, held him against the wall of his cold, steely prison cell and looked him straight in the eye to tell him the truth about life, the truth about success, and the truth about death. It was all connected, and it was what he needed to hear.
After being bailed out, and saving his skin from the desperate men in prison, his grandfather took him in and pushed him to finish his schooling, always telling him that it led to bigger things. It was only later that he realized that ‘bigger things’ meant the undertaking of an Academy, or an ‘Institute of Gifted Knowledge’ his grandfather affectionately called it. It as flipped from an old, ancestral home from his grandmother’s family that had been abandoned for years. Restored, it glowed with the permanence of life and the inevitable adoration of all that set their eyes on it.
It was all placed on him. A twenty-five year old, dark haired boy who felt as though he were wearing his father’s suit to work. The position hung on him and dragged him down some days, otherwise he was regal and serious about being a Headmaster. All things went by him, and he felt responsible for the first time in his life. Responsibility was a grand thing, but put in the wrong hands, could have dire consequences. He was reluctant to take the position, much like any person with the offer up for grabs, but when his grandfather passed away and forced him into it, James had no other choice but to accept and hold his head up high. That had been two years ago.
The tall man sat in his chair, smoking his cigarette, the blue essence of lingering cancer wafting through the air and finding itself out the open picture window behind him, and looking over the enrollment papers and profiles of the students attending. His light blue eyes scanned over them greedily, switching from side to side in repetition and blinking from time to time. He had a dark tan, from his mixed heritage of Native American and Sicilian, that made him seem more ominous and intimidating than it did comforting or fair. James held an air of slight arrogance and intrigue that went hand-in-hand with his crooked smile. His face was almost flat, with a slight curvature around his jawline that squared it out and gave him a chiseled appearance. There were a few scars, namely one that went from the corner of his eye to the top of the cheek, scattered over his figure that stuck out with their white, ghostly mask over his dark skin. Most of them were never seen; only by the women he pleased.
There was a soft tapping on the door and he looked up from the papers. His fingers plucked the cigarette out from between his thin lips and flicked the ashes subconsciously into the ashtray on his desk. Within a few moments, a short blonde woman popped her head through the door and took a step in, her arms hanging by her side and accentuating her womanly curves.
“There’s someone here to see you, Sir. She’s one of the new students.” She chimed.
He tapped his finger against the thin shaft of the cigarette again and arched a black eyebrow. “And?”
She paused, her mouth agape nervously. “I-Uh, thought you might want to meet her. She’s enrolled in several classes and is spending quite a lot of money to be here, Sir.”
The shell of anxiety that she held herself in was cracking and he could start to see the anger welling up behind her doe-like brown eyes. Her lips pursed after every sentence and her jaw was beginning to shift forward defensively. He knew his secretary like the back of his hand, which he occasionally used to rub over her cheek. Nooshia was too easy to read, and he gave her a sly smile to coax her uprising ferocity.
Her chest lowered and he could hear a slight sigh of relief escaping from her. “What’s her name?”
She paused and her eyes shifted slightly. He could see her lips trying to scour her memory for the name, but drawing a blank. Her fingers twitched uneasily and she bit down on the inside of her cheek.
He rolled his eyes. “Go find the name, then come back, Nooshia.”
With a quick smile, she nodded and scampered out of the room as if she were avoiding a disaster zone. She had childish antics, even frightful and aghast at times, but she had a way with people and could talk her way out of any situation. James kept her around to deal with the people he didn’t want to, still clinging to his boyhood habit of distancing himself from things he didn’t want to deal with, and for a nice body to look at.
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Julii's blog.
Well, this is a blog. So, I plan on writing about anything that comes to mind. I usually rant -- Just so you're aware.
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