She is Not Made of Roses

six: the man-eaters are out, and they're not messing around

SIX: THE MAN-EATERS ARE OUT, AND THEY'RE NOT MESSING AROUND

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ELLA HALL LIVES exactly where one might picture someone like Ella Hall living.

In the northeastern section of Gracewood, New York (which is approximately an hour north from Poughkeepsie, and about three hours from Manhattan) there is a neighborhood affectionately named the Pines, partially because it’s the woodsiest area of Gracewood, covered in acres and acres of tall pine trees, and partially because the longest street in Gracewood, Pine Terrace, cuts a clean crease straight across the neighborhood.

Ella Hall lives on Arlington Road, and it’s the quietest and most beautiful street her father, Don, could have dreamed of for his happy family. Their house is fit for someone like Ella, as it aptly looks as it’s sprung from a fairytale, or a fable, that she might have read about when she was a little girl. She’s grateful, too, because she knows that not most can live like her, in a three-story Tudor property overlooking the wispy mountaintops.

The first thing Ella does when she wakes up is stretch. The second thing she does is dismount off her bed, which is covered in throw pillows and is an absolute hassle to maneuver. The third thing she does is open a window, because as much as she loves baking, the house always smells of sweets in the morning.

She doesn’t know if it’s just because her parents love it or if it’s because they just can’t help it, but without fail, the Halls always seem to manage to make a breakfast fit for an army every morning.

Ella’s fourth step of the day often begins her morning routine. She heads to the bathroom, does her cleansing facial ritual, followed by her makeup and hair. She stares in the mirror for a bit, hurrying to decide what she’ll settle on for today. Ella’s face is a unique beauty, one that you have to look at twice to fully appreciate. Her face is soft and round, with heart shaped edges. She’s got a small, curved nose and wide set blue eyes that have always looked too big for her small head. Her lips are pointed and her mouth is wide, and when she smiles, it overpowers a room. And though her beauty might be uncommon, it’s one people have grown to appreciate nonetheless, because both boys and girls have been known to fall over themselves to get a chance to bask in Ella Hall’s sunlight.

And once she’s dressed, made up, and her hair’s all done, she marches down stairs and is instantly overwhelmed by the scent of breakfast food drenched in sugar – something the Halls specialize in.

Ella’s mother, Elise, looks almost shockingly like her daughter. Her blonde hair is slicked back into a ponytail, her pastel pink apron on as she glides across the tiled floor, hovering over the pans like a hawk. Don stands right beside her, mixing the frosting for the cinnamon buns that are currently cooling on the island counter.

“Ella! Come over here,” her mother beckons, her faint French accent weaving itself into her words.

Ella complies, and once she’s by the counter, her father sweeps in and feeds her a bit of the frosting off of the spoon. He doesn’t need to ask – she’s already mulling it over, letting the taste marinate on her tongue.

“Maybe a bit more butter?” She suggests.

Her father smiles, kissing her quickly on her forehead before dashing off to the fridge. “What would we do without you?”

She smirks, grabbing her backpack, resting on the stool. “Perish, obviously.”

“Headed off to school?” Her mother wonders aloud, testing one of the cinnamon buns, flinching away once it burns the skin of her finger.