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

✿3✿ Curly Haired and Clark

Chapter Three

Curly Haired and Clark

July 5

 

I went anyway.

I tried in vain to get out of it, but my dad threatened to pour water over me to get me to wake up, so I begrudgingly got up and changed. My and Agnès’s flight was at 7am, and my mom wanted us to be at LAX (Los Angeles International Airport) by 6:15am.

Between June 30 and July 5, I hadn’t had much of an interaction with Agnès. I basically ignored her, much to my parents’ distaste. But whatever.

Agnès didn’t try to talk to me, either. Of the five days that we’ve been together, she hung out with Megan for the majority of the time. They hit it off pretty well, which did make me a little jealous, but it’s not like I’ll ever admit it.

Today, I wore a black colored cami dress that stopped a few centimeters above my knees. I had on my favorite black punk boots and I had dark make-up all over my face. Today was a day of mourning.

Mourning for my lost summer and the fact that I may never get the summer romance that I had so desperately wanted.

After I was done getting ready, I trudged down the stairs like a fatigued soldier, dragging my suitcase laboriously behind me. When my dad saw me, his jaw dropped, and it took him a few seconds to recover himself.

“What the hell did you to do to your face?” he exclaimed.

“I didn’t do anything,” I said, innocently, although I totally knew what he meant by that comment. I had the so-called “raccoon-eyes” look, and my lips were coated with a layer of black lipstick.

“Wash it off,” he stated, firmly.

“Not in your life.”

“Scarlett.”

“I’m expressing myself. Je suis en deuil. Donc, je le suis exprèsesse.” I am in mourning. Therefore, I am expressing it.

My dad threw his head back over his shoulders and squeezed his eyes shut. I took pleasure in that—in the fact that I was irking him.

Good. Now he can see just how big of a mistake he was making.

“Not like this. Express yourself in some other way,” he said, calmly, through clenched teeth.

I smirked. “Anything you say, daddy.”

Realizing that there was no point in arguing with, and that I wouldn’t be freeing my face of this make-up anytime soon, my dad gave up and leaned over to take the suitcase from my hands. He lugged it out the front door and towards his Lexus RX. I followed him out into the heat.

“C’est très chaud,” Agnès moaned, appearing at the front door. She was fanning her face with her hands. A straw hat perched on that beautiful Barbie head of hers. Her blonde hair was neatly done into a side braid, and there were little flower accessories stuck into it. She was wearing a nude colored dress that stopped an inch above her knees. The sleeves stopped a few inches below her elbow and gathered loosely around her arms. It was beautiful.

And it looked expensive, too.

Well, no surprise there.

“Quelle marque?” I asked, nodding at the dress. What brand?

Agnès looked down at what I was looking at and then looked up again. She smirked. “Burberry.” And then she closed the door behind her and skipped—smugly I may add—down the stairs, her Louis Vuitton suitcase in hand. “C’est soie aussi,” she added, once she was standing beside me. As if to make her point that it was an expensive silk dress, she shoved her arm in front of my face and waved it a few times.