The Makeover

22 | Freewheeling

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Chapter Twenty Two |  Freewheeling

You can only be burnt in naked fire for so long before you melt into slimy chunky residues of soot. I wasn't going to sit my flat ass down and wait for that to happen.

And by naked fire, I meant the burning, enraged, fully-heated, jealous pair of shiny smaragd orbs whose stare had gotten the most intense they could be, ever since Haze excused himself for a change of clothes and left me all by myself to brave the big bad envious world alone.

Per say, Maple Hills High's head cheerleader wasn't exactly overjoyed at my definition of revenge.

But if there was one thing I would give up being immune to naked fire for, it was the fact that she now knew her place, and that was far far away from me. I was half expecting her to confront me right there and then.

I slurped up the last gulp of my cosmopolitan and tossed away the straw that had a slice of lime at it's end, directing my gaze towards the double doors at the back, that I supposed somehow led into the house. A little self-tour wouldn't hurt, would it?

I pulled myself up and my feet started towards the doors; this was one of those moments that you could either go with or not, ignoring any possible consequences that would come with entering someone else's house without being invited in, and just living in the moment.

Good Idea? Excellent Idea? Boredom-breaking Idea? Scald-escaping Idea? Bad Idea? Worst Idea? Horrific Idea? I couldn't care any less! I was just doing it!

Leaving behind the pool and the noises of clatter and chatter, splashing of water and deafening music, I sauntered towards the door with a mischievous grin; I couldn't help but feel like a naughty five year old who was about to shove her hand down the cookie jar, knowing fully well that she would be caught.

I held the golden handle of the majestic, heavy-looking pristine door that looked like it could accommodate a family of giraffes; rich ones by the way, and twisted it slowly for fear that it would break.

It creaked open with a low, chill, intimidating sound that I never thought doors could have. Well until now. I stepped a foot inside and I swear, Alice falling down the rabbit's hole had absolutely nothing on me.

The majestic vast perfectly lited foyer I stepped into looked like it would house a serengeti plant way larger than the one just below the large fancy, golden curving staircase that was veiled at the centre with Rouge Persian rugs, and most likely went to heaven.

The thick walls were incised with rare paintings, drawings of designs and prints of Egyptian citizens and pyramids, and the tall, beautiful, high arched windows were framed with velvet drapes and lacy inner curtains allowing sunlight to flood in, while rendering the 'Stop and Stare' view of the horizons of the high and low whole of Maple Hills.

My eyes zoomed in and darted up faster than the sales chart of tickets to an Ariana Grande concert, as I wobbled further in, on the shiny, polished wood, and, you guessed right, once again golden floors, and gaped at the sheer exquisiteness and  sophistication of the room I was standing in.

The bricks that made up the fireplace seemed like they were laid one at a time, most likely on a sweet smelling spring morning. I voluntarily let my eyes wander at the roughness and yet, the delicateness and precision with which everyone of them were held up straight. They were made with love, that's for sure. Even with all it's extremities, it still looked and felt like home.

WOAH...!   

Almost unashamedly, I continued gaping and staring and hounding the house, turning in awed circles until one time like every other time, that I felt someone's eyes zeroing in on me. I could tell, because sometime ago, there was always one person or the other staring at me and judging me with devious looks, and now that I'd turned pretty, I didn't necessarily have to forget the feeling.