Bottled Beauty

Bottled Beauty Ch. 4

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.

“This,” said Milo, shaking his head slightly in disbelief, “is incredible.”

     “I know, right?” I said, watching my friend cradle the perfume bottle between his forefinger and thumb.

     We were sitting on the couch in my living room. Bright afternoon sunlight filtered in from the windows behind us, highlighting everything in the room in a cheery yellow cast. I loved the living room. It was the one room in the house that reflected my entire family. My mom’s favorite paintings of fields of flowers hung on each of the walls, side-by-side with my father’s framed diplomas. The floor was a beautiful honey-colored wood that Cara had liked to dance when she was younger, and on the mantle over the fireplace were a few of my bazaar-hunting finds on displays.

     But my favorite piece was the piano. My dad had bought it in San Fransisco when I was six, but it was dark and old and perfect. Although no one in my family could play more than simple one-handed songs on it, it anchored the room and drew all eyes to it. And on top of the piano, proudly displayed, were pictures of my sister and me as we grew up. A chronicle of time.

     “You’re not trying to trick me, right?” Milo asked, drawing me away from the piano. His face was wary, his dark eyes slightly narrowed. “Did you swap the bottles?”

     “Why would I do that?” I said with a sigh, leaning back against a navy blue pillow. “Plus, where would I have found an almost exact replica? A perfect new replica.”

     “They sell lots of good knock-offs at the bazaar for tourists,” my friend mumbled in defense. He twisted the golden cap off and sniffed inside. “Mmm,” he said, his eyes growing wide. “This smells so good. Like bottled amazingness.”

     I laughed at him. “Bottled amazingness?”

     He flushed. “I’m good at math. Descriptions aren’t my thing.” He screwed the cap back on the glass bottle and reached for the tag around the neck, the little card with Chinese scribbled on it in black ink. “So you don’t know what this means?”

     “Do you?” I asked hopefully.

     He shook his head. “I’ve taken Chinese as long as you have and I’ve never seen any of these symbols before, though that one kind of looks like a three, or maybe it’s the letter K.” He paused for a second. “My mom may know, though.”

     I blinked. “Your mom?”

     He nodded. “She’s a curator at the museum. Come on, Celia, you know that.”

     “Ahh, I forgot!” Milo’s mom was the sweetest woman in the world. She made the best chocolate chip cookies I had ever tasted and was always willing to tell some embarrassing childhood story about Milo. I associated her so much with her amazing baking and storytelling skills that I completely forgot about her job. “Do you think she could translate this for me? I really think it has to do with the weirdness going on recently.”

     Milo shook his head. “Celia, people giving you compliments isn’t ‘weirdness.’”

     I looked at Milo. “You have to admit it’s weird. You can’t even deny it. You saw everyone in math today! We didn’t start class for a half hour because we got into a whole discussion about my clothes!” I winced at the memory. I wasn’t used to being the center of attention, and it had felt awkward.

     He sighed. “Fine, I guess that is a little strange.”

     “What I think is even stranger,” I suddenly wondered out loud, sitting up, “is why you’re the only one who hasn’t gone crazy over this whole thing.”