The Cinderella Agreement (Completed) [Featured Story]

03: The Agreement

CHANGE she must do, but change she did not know how to do. After standing in front of her bathroom mirror for stretched minutes that felt like decades, criticizing almost every physical structure that constructed her anatomy, she resolved to deal with appearance first.

Having close to nobody to guide her, Mit retreated to the warm hands of the Internet, resuming an evening of protracted watching of makeup tutorials on YouTube. The effort proved abortive at the end of the day, as she shut her laptop lid in utter fear, heart palpating rapidly.

Reason being, she was shocked by the open exercise of witchcraft by the people on the Internet, since their seasoned expertise had surpassed the level of skill or experience. So she decided on the most logical and obvious explanation: It was pure witchcraft!

Or maybe photoshop or something.

Eye makeup like that could only exist in digital screens, surely.

This was the mindset she held that night as she went to bed, one that still remained when she woke up, and as she went to school; a little lump manifesting in the back of her skull like a tumour, but more reassuring and less cancer-y.

So one could imagine the surprise that hit her when she saw Paris Holland's precise eyeliner during Trigonometry class that Tuesday. Was this real life? The wing was sharp enough to kill, she could swear on it.

There was something about perfection that induces a heavy feeling of awe to all onlookers, and Mit was well aware of this, because she was actually tempted to tap her finger against it to test if it could actually slice through flesh.

She almost did too, had not Paris whipped her head in the nick of time to catch her hand mid-air.

"What the heck are you doing?" Paris hissed, slapping the offensive hand away. "Stop staring at me, weirdo."

But Mit was far too amazed to take insult in her words. The eyeliner was the only thing that mattered in that moment; it deserved the respect. "Are you a witch?" she queried bluntly. Maybe Paris hid her broom in her locker? It would perfectly explain her unearthly and devilish cackle.

What Mit didn't understand, though, was why Paris was gawking at her like she belonged in an asylum. Was her question not orthodox? Or maybe Paris could no longer speak nor understand English in the span of a few seconds?

"Tiene usted las sandías peludas?" Mit tried again, boasting inwardly of her flawless Spanish.

Although her pride was short-lived, every bit of it crumbling down to a gritty pile as Finn whispered to her, "Dude you just asked her if she has hairy watermelons."

Her cheeks stained, but nevertheless she raised her chin defiantly. "Same difference."

The tell-tale scraping of metal against tile made it known that Paris was scooting her desk away, and Mit tried a last ditch attempt to repair her wounded ego: assuming that Paris was probably just shy.