Chapter One(s) [COMPLETED]

Figuring Life Out (Teen Fiction)

Streamers of light and the tinkling of chimes like the melody of the stars popped Sutton's sleep bubble. She turned over in her silk sheets and dispersed the stars. Yawning, she pushed herself up and slumped forward, her arms dangling between her legs. She blinked dusting off the dreams from her mind.

Around her, the world was hazy, like a strange atmospheric anomaly had occurred in her room creating a cloud of white fog. All she could make out were mint green walls and the vague outlines of beige colored furniture pieces.

Twisting, she reached out and scrambled to locate her glasses. Once perched on her nose, the world came into clarity and the anomaly vanished. On one wall above the desk was a collage of photos that seemed to give the too perfect room a touch of personality. With another yawn, she tossed aside her covers and slipped from the plush bed. Through the cracks in the butter yellow curtains, the sweetness of summer sunlight peeked through.

Sutton bent down and grabbed the large Yale sweater off the ground, tugging it over her head. It drowned her thin frame but she didn't notice. It was stretched out, fraying at the edges and about twenty years old.

Tucking her feet into a pair of moccasin slippers, she headed for the door. As she crossed a living room that was cut out of architectural digest with its pristine cream couches, tasteful collect of throw pillows, mahogany coffee, and end tables, she tied her cinnamon colored hair up into a lopsided bun, not bothering to deal with the stray wisps she missed.

Passing by the Yellow Oval room, Sutton glanced someone in the throes of cleaning. Beyond the curve of the floor to ceiling windows and the Truman balcony lay Washington D.C. basking in a cloudless day. When Sutton descended the stairs, leaving The Residence behind, the world took on a different tone from the peaceful one from above. The thrum of footsteps could be heard from a distance, a sound even the thick carpets couldn't hide.

The true tumult came as Sutton wandered into the kitchens. The sizzle of butter on a hot pan, the clang of china dishes on a metal counter collided with commands and conversations. With sleepy steps, Sutton wound her way through the chaos to a side table. On it sat two mugs of coffee. In the foam were drawn two milk leaves. Collecting them both, she gave a half yawned 'thank you' to a round figured woman in a white apron.

"Of course, Sutton," the cook said with a happy wave of her plump hand.

Sutton took a sip of her coffee, the creamy, sugary taste with a pinch of bitter rousing her slumbering mind. Even when she was free of the kitchen the mayhem didn't stop. The closer she got to the West Wing the more manic the world became.

Around her was a blur of black, gray and dark blue suits. People moved like they were being chased with a hot poker, they dressed like their were stepping into a business meeting and wore the expressions of those who didn't know what a good nights sleep was anymore.

In their midst, Sutton stood out like an orange poppy in a coal mine. Though this was the truth, she seemed to belong there as much as they did, having been a part of that world for the last four years. Despite there harried lives, they still called out greetings to the seventeen-year-old slip of a girl and received cheery hellos with the correct names attached to the end.

At a desk outside the Oval Office, Sutton paused. The older, ginger-haired female assistance with a face that gathered wrinkles like badges looked up.

"Is he busy?" Sutton asked.

With a smile, Margaret shook her head and rose, opening the door for Sutton. When the door closed behind her, the commotion from outside was muffled. It was if this room alone could quiet the world's problems. Behind the ornate desk - that spoke of history and power - sat her father. His head was bent over an open folder and his hand stroked his chin in thought.