PRIDE & PRINCESSES: A Pride and Prejudice (type) of teen story (Sunrise High #1)

PRIDE & PRINCESSES: chapter one (Arrivals)

Chapter 1

 

Arrivals

   

    The first time I saw Mark Knightly, my world changed forever.

    That morning began almost like any other. Eyes closed, under a cloud of dark hair, I tried to avoid waking up. I had trained myself to sleep through almost any noise, including the sound of the builders constructing a new house, across the road from my own. But when the jackhammer rang out for the third time, my best friend, Mouche (pronounced Moosh), screamed. She was curled up in a cashmere blanket on the faux chaise lounge in the corner of my bedroom catching up on her beauty sleep.

     “Enough already...” she said theatrically, throwing her pillow at me as a sliver of light streamed through the open curtains. “Another bright and shiny Los Angeles day,” Mouche added as she flipped off the couch and flicked her blonde highlights off her face. Mouche rubbed her eyes and glanced at the framed photograph of the Statue of Liberty. She gave it to me for luck, for my birthday and because Mouche and I have wanted to live in New York City for as long as I could remember.

      “Never give up on the dream, Phoebe,” Mouche said when she presented the picture to me, “New York is a great place to be a triple threat whereas Los Angeles is all about the movies, darling.”

      I glanced at the shifting sky and wondered how Mouche managed to look like a movie star at 8am. I threw the pillow right back at her.

    “You have glitter face, Mouche.” I said as I stretched my legs, “and I’m running late. My mom’s plane arrives at the airport in exactly eight minutes. I promised we’d pick her up. C’mon, we’ve got to be ready. You need to get dressed.”

    “Touché,” Mouche said (she’d been listening to French phrases on her iPod all summer). “By the way, you have mascara under your eyes, Phoebe. Better wipe it off before we leave.”

    “Okay, but I don’t have time to put on make-up.”

    “That could be a mistake.”

     I looked at her incredulously.

     “You never know how many casting agents could be at LAX,” Mouche added as she dragged a brush through her tangles.

      Because we both trained as ballet dancers, we were familiar with the art of stage make-up but I only liked to wear it on special occasions. I grabbed some gloss from the top drawer. I read in a helpful guide to dating called Mrs Robinson’s Advice, that, “a girl who can’t be bothered with lipstick can’t be bothered with life,” and I’d never want to be accused of that.

    Mouche has always been good with make-up tips. You could see the results of our make-up experiments in every far flung corner of my bedroom. The place looked like a local beauty salon. It was obvious my bedroom hadn’t been tidied the whole time my mother was away in London. Oh, that’s something else you should know about me. I was born in England and sometimes I use British-isms like ‘tidy’ and ‘lolly’ and ‘shop’ instead of store.

    “We’re practically adults,” Mouche said, “your mom’s going to expect better housekeeping skills.”

    “It’s true, this place is a mess, but at least I remembered to stack the cupboards with fresh food from the market,” I said, as Mouche and I grabbed our sweaters and pulled on our Uggs in differing shades of caramel and pink.

    “Unusual combination - boots and pyjama pants,” Mouche noted, assessing her feet in the mirror. The only part of the glass not covered in used dancing shoes and feather boas from all the school plays we’d performed in, was the bottom right hand corner. Mouche flexed her ankles in the light.