Caged

Worst Plan Ever

RIIING

RIIING

"Tom and Sabine Boulangerie Patisserie, how may I help you?" Tom Dupain answered in a cheery mood. A mood that was quickly replaced with a slight frown. "As I have said before, Marinette is not up for any interviews. And she won't be for a while. Have a good day, monsieur," and just like that, he almost slammed the phone back to its place. "The nerve..."

It was Monday morning, and already the phone calls had resumed from Saturday. Television channels, radio stations, newspapers and Internet media started calling at seven in the morning. More so, Alya had been there to witness the constant rings.

"How many times have they called?" she asked Marinette, leaning against the counter near the cash register, holding a piece of baguette with jam.

"I've lost track already," the blue-haired girl responded with a sigh, focused on a notebook in front of her, marking the orders that had already been finished while her mom brought fresh pastries to display. "This is getting ridiculous."

"Yeah, you're doomed," the redhead took a large bite off of her breakfast. "Haf you tol' 'em you're 'ot in'hersted?" A few crumbs flew out of her mouth.

"All the time," Marinette mindlessly grabbed a cloth and wiped the counter clean from the bread. "But it's like they don't take 'no' for an answer. I think they're hoping I answer the phone one of these days, instead of my parents. It's getting beyond annoying."

"Why don't you just do the stupid interview?" Alya said it almost lazily, and then stuffing her face with the baguette again. Marinette stared at her friend with bulging eyes.

"Are you insane?! Don't you remember the last time you tried to interview me?"

"Girl, how could I forget," the bespectacled girl chuckled at the memory of it. "The only coherent word I got out of you was 'instinct'."

"Exactly!" Marinette's arms flailed. "I'm a disaster at that. Class president is one thing, but public figure for the entirety of Paris? I can't do that!"

Alya popped the last piece of bread into her mouth and walked behind the counter. "My dear, sweet Mari," she placed an arm around her best friend's shoulders. "If you plan on continuing with your design stuff, you gotta get used to it. It's good practice for when you're 'famous designer Marinette Dupain-Cheng'," she extended her arm, as if showing off a magnificent view. Marinette gave her an unimpressed look.

"I don't intend on getting famous yet," she retorted. Just then, Sabine Cheng came back to the register and thanked her daughter for manning it while she was busy.

"You girls should head to school. It's almost eight thirty." The teens gasped, before quickly scrambling to get their bags and run through the door, off to school. Unfortunately, they didn't get very far.

"Marinette!" a woman's voice called before they could cross the street. They whirled on their heels and saw Nadja Chamack standing in front of the bakery.

"Oh, hi Nadja!" Marinette waved cheerfully at the woman who's kid she constantly babysat. "Are you going to see my parents?"

"Oh no, actually, I came here to see you," she pleasantly responded, hands locked together.

"You need me to babysit later?" Marinette cocked her head to the side, a quizzical look beginning to form on her features.

"No, no. I was hoping you could grant me an interview," she finished with a sense of professionalism.

Of course. Of course she wanted an interview. Every journalist in Paris wanted an interview.

"I-uh... I'm sorry, I-I'm late for class," Marinette fumbled backwards towards the road. A car honked and Alya grabbed her friend by the arm, just in time to avoid an accident. With a nervous laugh, the pig-tailed girl turned, looked both ways and crossed towards the school, dragging the redhead with her. It wasn't until they reached the bottom of the stairs of Collège Françoise Dupont that Alya spoke up.