❂ CHAPTER TWELVE ❂
On Fridays, I would normally hang out with friends, but Peter had to be at my house at 3:09, an exact hour when school ended, giving him enough time to get ready, and yet he still showed up late.
"I'm outside," he said through the phone, then hung up.
When I was younger, I read The Little Prince. I remember there was a part where the Aviator critically discussed how adults weren't concerned with flowery descriptions as much as numbers. I use to think that he was just poor and bitter or didn't have enough money— like when ugly people say "looks don't matter" with convenient conviction— but I had to admit there was some truth to his words.
When I brought people to my house, even before they entered, they stared in awe at the size and the large glass windows. The first question they all asked (excluding their incredulous exclaim of the obvious: "you live here?") was how much money it costs. I'd tell them, they'd whistle (if they could) and say something along the lines of "nice" or "lucky" or "I wished I lived here!"
Their wide eyes would travel, admiring the contemporary architecture. To me, it felt bland and boring. Sure, my house was massive but it had no distinctive features besides that. The walls were ivory and bare, no photos nor art. Our decor lacked flair; our furniture was basic and the floors were Italian white marble. Everything was noticeably expensive but bland— like a white tee that cost 400 bucks just because there was a luxury brand's name on it.
That's modern art for you.
Still, I liked my friends' awed expressions when they saw my house, and still, when I did buy tees, I bought them with those fancy name brands. I was a rich snob and unashamed.
Peter was the first to stare with distaste, as if this bland grandeur offended him. It had irked me for no good reason.
"Let's just get this over with," he said when I let him in.
He wasn't even fashionably late. He wore a gray beanie, a dark blue hoodie, dark jeans, and dirty black converses. His blue backpack hung on one shoulder because the other strap was ripped.
"In a hurry or something?" I said with a slight upturn on my lips, which he responded by scowling.
I turned my heel and lead him through our entry foyer and into the living room. His neck was craned as he gazed at the interior of my house. Both his eyebrows were raised while the rest of his face stayed impassive and unimpressed.
"How many people live here?"
"My father is always working, usually out of the state or country, so it's mostly just me and my mother," I said as I lead Peter up our set of stairs that gradually curved as it ascended. "Oh, and our au pair too. Rosie has lived with us for almost a year now, I think... A year-ish."
It was a three stories house. We had an empty basement underneath and six rooms in total, three with their own bathrooms. The house was usually vacant and most rooms were left undisturbed. Fortunately, we had Rosie living with us or else the house would've been layered with dust.
Rosie stayed in a guest room downstairs. My mother lived in the master bedroom, while my father occasionally resided in a guest room— for whenever he was home.
YOU ARE READING
If I Fell
Teen FictionI had it all: the brains, the beauty, the fortune, and the popularity. I was queenbee and valedictorian-- the Golden Girl of Jackson Woods High, but I was also known as a 'mean girl' to a selective some, mainly known as the losers. I was problematic...
