Scarlett and her Disastrous Summer [ H i a t u s ]

✿2✿ Agnès

Chapter Two

Agnès

June 30

 

I could smell her before I could see her.

Strong Dior perfume and designer Givenchy clothing, a Louis Vuitton handbag in hand…

Her Prada heels tapped irritatingly against the cool surface of the oaken flooring as my dad led her inside. I was sitting on the sofa, fiddling with my phone, while for waiting for her to get here (I was gonna hang out in my room, but my dad forced me into coming downstairs. He said it was rude to not greet Agnès). I was playing 2048 and was trying in vain to somehow get those two 512 tiles together.

I was failing so far.

“Où est-ce que ma cousine?” I heard Agnès ask, in that arrogant-sounding voice of hers.

“Elle est chez la salle de séjour,” I heard my dad respond.

“I wonder what she looks like…” Laurent wondered, aloud. Like me, dad made him come down here, too, to wait for Agnès. But unlike me, Laurent didn’t put up a fight. Anyway, he was sitting beside me on the couch.

“Me, too,” I replied, sarcastically, glancing briefly at him. Like my mom, Laurent had hazel hair and blue eyes—in fact, he’s the only kid in the family that actually has hazel hair and blue eyes. The rest of us inherited dad’s brown eyes and dark brown hair.

“Scarlett! Elle est lá!” my dad called, enthusiastically, from the foyer. I could hear his footsteps approaching the living room.

I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes when I saw her enter. She looked the same as she had three years ago: Long, wavy blonde hair that fell to her elbows, bright eyes as blue as the ocean, modelly perfect figure and height, and cute freckles dotting the bridge of her nose.

I looked at her jealously. She still looks like a Barbie to me, I thought. Compared to her, I looked an ogre—I mean not in the literal sense. Just that when compared to her, I looked fatter, and somewhat uglier, too. I was short…at least in my opinion. Megan was even taller than me and she’s two years younger than me! I’m only five foot five (okay, it’s probably not that short, but when you’re thrust into a classroom where more than 75% of everyone is at least 5 foot six and up, then yeah, you do start to think you’re short).

I’ll admit, I’m self conscious. I freak out when I get my picture taken and I try to avoid mirrors whenever I’m out in public. I’d rather imagine myself looking imperfect, rather than seeing myself being imperfect.

“Je la vois,” I said, addressing my dad as if he were deaf. I see her.

“Bon. Bien, euh, est-que tu veux quelque chose de boire ou manger?” my dad asked, looking at Agnès.

Agnès, who was inspecting her perfectly manicured nails (I bet they cost a bazillion dollars), looked up and said, “Non, merci. Mais j’adorais si vous pourriez m’apporter un bouteille d’eau.” She smiled brightly at my dad.

No surprise there. Of course she’d ask for water and nothing to eat. That’s probably why she has such a picture perfect body. Wait. No. She looks like a stick.

“So Agnès,” I started, forcing myself to be nice to her. I smiled at her. “How are you?”

“Bon,” she replied. She gave me a bored look.