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"Ms. Isabelle Wilkes!"
Rolling my eyes at the fake name Cara had given the announcer, I grabbed hold of the fluffy taffeta of my dress as I floated down the marvelous, marble staircase. All eyes were on me, and it took me about thirty seconds just to breathe.
Breathe, just breathe.
From the corner of my eye, I could see Cara clapping in approval of her creation. For six hours of blood, sweat, and tears, makeup artists and designers had dolled me up into a princess. The sequin bodice, which ended right below my bust line, had made me appear to be more pneumatic; the cauliflower-esque layers of baby pink taffeta concealed my buckling knees, and the glimmering masquerade mask hid my nervous glare.
As I neared the end of the staircase, my eyes scanned the room for any signs of Nicholas Monroe. Had he made his entrance yet? There was an orchestra playing at the upper-left corner, hundreds of cream-colored tables with pink roses, a glistening chandelier, and waiters dressed in fancy bowties, but there were no signs of the boy.
"Mr. Nicholas Monroe and his escort, Missy Bufont!"
The whole room bursted out into a clapping frenzy as Nick and Missy inched their way into the ballroom. The girl shot her escort a dazzling smile before waving towards the room full of people. I had heard about this girl; apparently, her gown was a custom-made Oscar de la Renta, and it cost about forty thousand dollars. I clearly didn't know why though--it was just a simple dress with a beaded, cream bodice and layers of grey, ripped sheer fabric.
Once they made their way to their table overlooking the entire ball, the announcer flicked his hand over to the orchestra, ordering them to begin. A slow but harmonious song echoed throughout the room, and couples began maneuvering to the center.
Sighing, I plopped into the first chair I saw, and because of the position of my body, the ruffles of the dress enveloped me, making me into a human marshmallow. However, I had to admit, the texture of the fabric made it a great pillow.
"Why won't you go and dance?" Cara asked, as she gracefully bent down onto the seat across from mine. Crossing her legs, she lifted up a glass of water from the table, pinky up.
"I don't dance. Plus, no one has asked me yet."
"Well," she stated, "they will. You look absolutely gorgeous in that dress. I must say, I did a good job. I transformed you from trash to treasure."
My forehead crinkled. "Uh...I will take that as a compliment."
Her head moved back and forth. She dropped her glass, shot me one last smile, and grabbed someone random guy's hand. He tried resisting her dance offer, but she was a strong girl, and he was dragged off like some kind of chew toy.
Running a hand through my hair, I wondered where my brown-haired pest was. It was hard enough to find a person through a crowd of people, but it became more difficult when everyone was wearing masks. Who the hell thought a masquerade theme was a good idea?
Stuttering, I ran to the first brown-haired fellow I found and asked, "N-N-Nick is that you?"
"No, I'm John."
My finger shakily tapped the next guy a few feet away from the first one. "Nick?"
"Sorry, that's not me."
I mumbled the same question to one last person. "Are you Nick?"
"No, but I wish I was. He's a lucky guy--you're stunning."
YOU ARE READING
Southern Belle
HumorBelle Wilkes is miserable living in her small town in the south. Unlike her family and friends, she actually wants to make something out of her self, and she isn't content with what her family considers 'normal life' after graduation. When an accept...
