T.I.U; Cupid's daughters

04

I sigh and shuffle through the pile of papers. They’re opened letters I got back from the universities I called. They’re all rejection letters. I don’t believe they’re sorry about not excepting me. I have an IQ of 198! How could they turn me down?

Someone knocks on the door and Hunter strolls into our room. He sits down next to me at our desk. He glances at all of the paper and arches a brow at me. “What’s all of these papers for?” he asks. Normally, his smooth, deep-ish Australian accent sooths me, but not right now. It’s not as defined as other Australians- we came to Canada when we were young, but we both have a hint of it in our voices and when we want to, we can speak like a genuine Aussie.

“They’re to make a fool out of me,” I mutter and flex my hands. I look at Hunter tiredly. “These are rejection letters from all of the universities I called, mate.”

At least me brother had the decency to look abashed and angry and surprised at the same time. “Seriously? From all of your universities, man?”

I nod and cover my face with my hands.

Hunter squeezes my arm and leans his head on my shoulder. I can smell his shampoo and aftershave. They’re both cheap brands but on him, it smells good. “I’m sorry, sis. Is there any other…?” he lets his voice trail.

“No,” I say grimly.

Suddenly, a broad grin appears on his face. He pulls me up onto my feet and guides me over to the living room/kitchen. Two professionally and expensively dressed adults in suits sit at the table.

“Ah, Ms. James,” the man, a tanned man with gorgeous green-yellow eyes greets me with a handshake. I suddenly feel very self-conscious and embarrassed to have these people in our place.

“Uh, hello,” I say slowly. I glance at my brother. What’s happening and who are these people?

“I’m Dr.Reece,” the sophisticated woman with glowing straight blonde hair smiles and I shake her hand too. These two people must be from the city, they must be models.

They’re gorgeous, I find myself thinking

“And I’m Dr. Hall. It’s nice to meet you in person,” the man says. I slowly and suspiciously take a seat at the third chair. Hunter remains standing, grinning.

“We’re in charge of the top university for female models in training,” Dr. Reece informs me. She pulls something out from her hand case and hands me a brochure.

I briefly flip through it and see photos of famous models and their training. I look at the two strangers in my home. “You were anonymously recommended for our university,” she carries on. “We were sent a photo of you and some background information.”

“I don’t want to sound rude,” I start quietly, “but what kind of information?”

She smiles.

“Well, for starters,” the man answers. ‘You’re five foot eleven and beautiful. Of course, for this top university, we need grades. We know that you like helping others and did quite a bit of volunteer work on your own, even though you’re not in high school.”

“I’m not going to high school,” I tell them.

They nod.

“Your IQ doesn’t make it necessary to,” Reece says. “You’re an intelligent and sympathetic and caring young lady. You’ve baby-sat kids of young ages and volunteer at local shelters. You like to read and you’re a natural athlete. Is this all correct?’

I nod once. This is creepy.

“Upon seeing and knowing all of this,” Hall concludes, “It’s obvious that you’re a perfect candidate for the Modeling Academy for Girls in California.”