The Cinderella Agreement (Completed) [Featured Story]

15: The Becky

Visual aid for Paris' house up there^^

The Holland residence stood in front of Mit in all its grandeur and elegance, just as intimidating as its owner. The beauty of it took her by surprise, even though she wasn't really sure why. It looked like a sort of revamped, subdued Cinderella's castle, with its conical roofs, the wide obsidian pathway that wound around a centerpiece before rolling itself forwards and unto the driveway like a luxury carpet, and the regal fountain in front of it all, so twinkling and magical that Mit half-expected a real-life mermaid to stick her head out of the water.

It managed to effectively blend elements of modernism and Victorianism into a pleasing mixture, and Mit was still battling the hangover induced by it all, as she followed Paris up the obsidian carpet, her gaze roving wildly and drinking up on any detail that willed itself to her sight.

Paris looked fleetingly over her shoulder, and then her lips were pulling into a smirk. "Like it?"

"You have a nice house," Mit replied simply, too riled to even consider being embarrassed over staring shamelessly at everything. "It looks bigger than my future."

"Thank you?" Paris said, the remark coming out more like a question, with her inflection tampered by the chuckles that had accompanied her voice. She stuck her key into the keyhole and had to push the tall, heavy-looking front door with her shoulder before she got it open, and like the unwrapping of a shiny birthday package, the inside was even better.

Polished marble underfoot later gave way to sturdy mahogany floorboards as they exited the foyer into the parlor. Two twin staircases curved away from each other and then back, leading to a sort of balcony that overlooked the space, where Mit could almost envision a dainty noblewoman in black silk resting her hands on the white banister as she monitored an invisible ball commencing below her.

They passed the hall that led underneath the balcony and into the kitchen, and answering the unspoken question in Mit's head, Paris explained, "I like to stay in the kitchen best. The rest of the house can get overbearing at times."

There were two maids engaged in a conversation at the far wall beside the matte black counters, and Paris called to one of them saying, "Becky, please could you get us some lemonade?"

"You have really good hair, Becky," Mit couldn't stop herself from quipping, the crinkles forming by her eyes betraying her urge to laugh.

Becky nodded tightly, mumbling something under her breath, a saccharine smile plastered on her face.

"Do you like Beyoncé?" Paris queried, loud enough for Mit to hear and low enough for Becky not to.

"Not that much, but I do like puns."

"I can agree on that," the blonde girl said, sliding unto an isle stool.

Mit gingerly followed suit, expertly careful, as if to make sure she didn't soil any part of the immaculate setting in any way. Despite the kitchen being the least intimidating room in the house, according to Paris, it was still very regal, and Mit was far from getting used to it all. It wasn't everyday when you get surrounded by over a million dollars' worth or thereabout, and it was a bit hard to believe that the eleven year old neighborhood girl from six years ago had transcended to this ice queen in her equally befitting palace.

Mit remembered Paris and her small family living in a homey house in the neighborhood next from hers years ago, and when she had come to hers after school, she had always met Paris' mom in the kitchen with flour sticking to her cheeks and her apron and her hair that was the color of a rye field in the sun, a half lunar grin stretching across her face. There was something special about kitchens, nonexclusive of its lack of intimidation, its constant warmth, and the love interwoven within various pots of food. It was the very heart of the home.

And, on occasion, when her dad would arrive early from work, he'd kiss his wife on both her cheeks, nevertheless that they had been covered with paint or flour or sweat, depending on how she had spent her day.

But neither of her parents were to be seen, presently, in this gargantuan castle of a house.

Becky decanted two cupfuls of iced lemonade into two separate glasses in front of them, and as Mit muttered a quiet "Thank you," Paris was already one-forth her way through the drink.

"Paris, how about your parents? Are they doing fine?" Mit asked impulsively after a moment, and regretted it just as quickly upon seeing the stony visage that settled on the blonde's face.

Paris didn't answer, instead she set her cup down and twisted in her seat, so that she could poke Mit right in the middle of her glasses, at the hard plastic that rested on the bridge of her nose. "Don't you ever get tired of these?" said she in a condescending tone, as if to return one wrong for another. "They're so ugly."

"Well I need them to see—"

Paris' laugh cut her off, and Mit almost cringed at the over-bubbliness and falseness of it all, like the auditory representation of pink cotton candy. "Honey, that's what contacts are for, or even eye surgery."

"I'm just short sighted, I don't need surgery." Mit sighed, her tongue dry and uncomfortable in the aftermath of the lemonade's cloying saturation. "Look, I'm sorry if I offended you in anyway by my question."

"Offended? Oh, Mickey you can get so silly sometimes," Paris tutted, bopping a manicured finger against the tip of Mit's nose. "We're not here to dilly-dally, okay? We're here to improve. I'm not as petty as to take offense in a simple question." She tried to throw in another fake smile in order to justify her statement, but the muscles of her face refused the instruction from her brain, and she ended up wearing a sort of grimace in default. "Now let's do something about that ugly striped shirt."