Bottled Beauty

Bottled Beauty Ch. 1

NOTE: I DO NOT OWN THIS STORY. This is written by an amazing writer named Bianca. I am just posting it to share. The only thing I do own is the cover art.

 

“Celia, what do you think of this?” Milo asked me, picking up a small vase and showing it to me. The top was chipped, and a long crack ran down the side.

     I glanced at the vase and then at my friend. “Nah,” I said. “I’m just not feeling it today.”

     Milo groaned and put it back on the table. “Sorry,” he apologized to the woman manning the stall before following me; I had already started walking away. “Celia,” he groaned, looking at me with his chocolate eyes, “you’re not going to see anything you like today, are you?”

     “Psh, it depends on what I see,” I said, catching my reflection in an antique mirror propped up on another table. It was a fairly cool day by Los Angeles standards, but I still looked fairly disheveled: my long hair which I had up in a ponytail was slipping free of its tie, and my white cotton shirt was wrinkled and covered in a thin layer of dust.

     Milo shook his head. “And to think,” he said theatrically, “that I gave up my whole Saturday to go antique shopping with you, and you don’t even like any—!”

     “Oh shush!” I interrupted with a laugh. Milo was my best friend and I knew he didn’t really mean it. “I’m sorry. Do you want to go home?”

     “Nah,” Milo said, shaking his head. “As long as you find something you like soon.”

     “Don’t rush me,” I said, strolling to the next stall. This one had a collection of porcelain figurines, each one hand painted. The dolls were beautiful and petite, but not my style. I liked old stuff. Things found in ruins but cheap enough for me to buy and add to my collection. Things with secrets and cool pasts. Milo, however, picked up a figure of a ballerina wearing a tutu, her leg extended in a graceful arabesque.

     “Hey,” he asked, pointing to the ballerina, “are you going to go to your sister’s dance recital this weekend?”

     “Wouldn’t miss it,” I said. “Cara’s been rehearsing for months.”

     My older sister, Cara, was a really great dancer. There was just something about her that could make the simplest movements look graceful. It was as if she had this wonderful gift bestowed on her since birth. My whole family was like that. My mom worked as an artist, painting beautiful landscapes that were hung in art galleries and sold well enough to make a decent profit. My dad, on the other hand, had a brilliant mind. He could solve the toughest math problems as long as he had a piece of paper and a pencil.

     I, on the other hand, was just a plain Jane. A normal fifteen year-old girl named Celia who had a liking for history so old that no one alive can remember it. And honestly, I was perfectly fine with that.

     Milo put the dancer back down. “Let’s move on. You don’t like anything here.”

     “You can tell?”

     He chuckled. “I’ve only known you for a year, but I think I’ve got you pretty figured out.”

     I rolled my light blue eyes, remembering the day I stayed after class for math. Milo had needed community service hours and had offered to help me learn algebra. Soon enough, we realized that we shared a couple of classes and we had been friend ever since. There was always something nice about Milo, something reliable. I was friends with kids in my classes and had a good number of people I hung out with on a regular basis, but he was always the go-to kid for anything, and I could always trust him.