Brat Princess

Welcome to My World

"No.  I'm not ready. Do I look like I'm ready?"

I was lying on the sun lounger by the pool at my mansion in Jeju Island, a private island, my cell phone in one hand and a chocolate milkshake in the other. Fluffy was lying on the lounger next to mine, also wearing sunglasses. She's my dog - a pink bichon frise. (Everyone in my school has a dog, but no one had theirs dyed the way I had. I had to do something - all the pooches looked the same, white and cute - but now Fluffy stands out in the crowd and matches my new nail color perfectly.)

I'd just been thinking how utterly cool life was here on this paradise island, when I was suddenly interrupted by a question as to whether I was ready to leave. Anyone with half a brain should've been able to see that I was in no way prepared to board a flight to California. Like, what kind of idiot would travel to San Francisco in a black sparkling swimsuit, even if it is from Blanc&Eclare's new collection and on everyone's must-have list for the season? We used to lived in San Francisco when I was younger, so I know how windy it is there.

"Sorry, Miss Jung, but . . ." whined Daniel. Daniel is my dad's chauffeur, personal assistant, and handyman, though you'd hardly noticed it. In his usual outfit of Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian top and his shoulder-length brown hair, he looks more of a professional surfer than a servant.

"What now, Daniel?" I was beginning to get annoyed and would've been more snappy if it wasn't for the fact that my friend Tiffany was on hold, waiting for me, on the other end of the phone.

"Just, um . . . the plane has been ready for some time, and the pilot has been waiting for you for more than an hour."

"So? Tell him that he may have to wait another hour because I'm not ready, and I want to catch some more rays before I leave."

"May I at least give him some idea of when you may be ready for takeoff?"

I gave Daniel my best withering look. Tiff and I's practiced it for ages in the mirror last year before I got expelled. One eyebrow up, nostrils breathing in, and lips tight. Tiffany said that I looked more constipated than angry when I did the "look," but, whatever, Daniel got the message, backed out of the patio, and closed the door. He's so pathetic when he does that droning-on thing. Like, schedules . . . airports . . . Like, it's my problem. Not.

At last I could finally resume my call. I lay back on the lounger, took a sip of my milkshake, and yuck . . . I spat it out. It was WARM!

"Lenda. LENDA!!" I yelled.

A few mintues later, Lenda, our Jeju housekeeper, came out of the house. She always does everything sooo slowly. Like it's all one mighty effort. Probably owing to the fact that she weighs around five million pounds. She's like a house on legs. Legs that are made of jelly - she doesn't so much walk as wobble her way along. I pointed the glass. "More ice. And a dab more chocolate."

"Ooh, you likes the chocolate. If you not careful, girl, you going to become one big melted chocolate in that sun," she said as she walked over, grabbing the glass, and walked away toward the kitchen.

"Oh, and can you get Henry to make me some fries before the flight takes off? Those big square ones he does. And bring a little pot of that yummy sour-cream-and-chive dip to dunk them in. And something for Fluffy." Henry is our cook and Lenda's husband. They're an odd couple; he's skinny and she's large.

Lenda paused for a moment. "Uh, I guess I could," she said, "but you ought to eat some greens one of these days, or else them pimples on your chin there are going to be breaking out all over your pretty little face. And don't you give that dog no chocolate neither. It ain't right." She muttered to herself loudly and then disappeared inside before I could say anything.