Rapheal

Jane visits her friend Anna, who tells her of her friend Raphael's visit.

I look at the poem I have written.

Wide webs spinning a complicated pattern.

Gentle leaves swaying a choreography in the air.

Rivers humming a loud lullaby

Wide webs spinning a complicated pattern.

The suns rays dancing against the sky.

Storm clouds looming overhead.

Wide webs spinning a complicated pattern.

It does not make sense, but I feel it. I can imagine and appreciate the leaves dancing, the rivers humming, the suns rays against the evening sky, the storms clouds moving in, all part of a web of beauty. And I know that if I show it to anyone, anyone who does not understand the beauty of the things we take for granted ever day, like the oxygen from the trees, or the water of the river, or the sun’s heat and warmth, the water of the rain that grows plants, that the web will be unraveled. The meaning will be lost, forever washed away with the tide of the river.

I am sitting on my bed in my bedroom of our mansion, of course of the one we don’t need. And I know once again that my sister Caroline will probably come inside my room and fuss of my clothes. It is routine, for she has made a habit of looking at my clothes and sighing, shaking her head in disapproval. She likes to wear a dress every day, as if we are going to a party, which we almost never do.

But my clothes do not matter. They do not create my style, or my essence. Sure, they are fun to design, such as the outfit I wear now. I wear a purple tank-top, a double layer necklace of brown beads, and white shorts that look great against my two toned skin that is pale and creamy in some places and a nice tan honey in places such as my inner elbows and knees. My normally loose black hair is pinned into a bun, and my shiny, light green eyes are coated with mascara. My lips need no lipstick (unless it’s purple) because they are already a deep pink, almost red. My face is heart shaped, like my mothers. My sister says she would die for a face and figure like mine (which is slender and tall with perfect curves, not too small, not too full), though I think she is very beautiful, as do most children that have seen and met her. She has long, golden ringlets (my mother believes that she inherited them from her grandmother, who has gold hair) and dark brown eyes (like my fathers) and tan skin, like a french girl should have. Her lips are perfect and full, , and her figure is  a perfect hourglass. So, as I said, she has no reason to envy me. My mother and father (as well as Caroline) say that my beauty is subtle, not as immediate and pronounced as Caroline’s, but definitely recognizable.

The mansion we lived in was huge, but my father and mother and sister seemed to think nothing of it. The mansion is for me, actually. They say that since I have gone through the most in adjusting, since I have struggled the most and not given up, then I deserve a whole mansion dedicated to me.

The first thing I struggled with was moving. I had been stubborn as a mule, refusing to pack. Why should I, I who had been born in my land of France, have to go to barbaric America, I thought. Why should I have to give up everything? Why should I have to suffer? The answer soon came. My mother and father had to move because my grandmother had fallen ill with leukemia, and her case was incurable. So they wanted to have time to spend with their parents before their mother passed. Of course, I thought, guilt my strongest emotion then. Who was I to be so selfish as to deprive them time with their beloved? Who was I not to consider them? So I had begun packing at once and we had left the very same week, taking our servants with us because we had grown so attached to their personalities.

The next thing was learning English. The common language of our household was English, because my grandmother and mother didn’t know enough french to allow conversation. So I had to learn, whether I liked it or not. I spent nights practicing conversation with myself, reading aloud, writing words in English, trying. It had been hard to give up the words of my french that I so loved, but most books we purchased in America had only English versions, and how  I so longed to have a good conversation with my Grandmother and mother! So I worked, and worked, until I could write messages to my parents and read American books, but my speaking was a bit sharp and slurred with my accent. They came to learn this and listened carefully to what I spoke until they could fully understand what I wished to say.

And, there was making friends. Most American children did not wish to see me, because of my “strange voice” and how I was the “new kid,” and I was teased by everyone we passed in town, regardless of who was with me or what I said. How fortunate it is to have a at home teacher, for I surely would not survive in school! I suffered teasing until age 14, when a girl Anna (one of my best friends now), one I had seen before; she had long brown hair braided into pigtails with bows and chocolate brown eyes and her figure was small and delicate, stood up for me. She was the first to say anything to the teasers. They called her a bad name and left, disappointed. After that we made leaping progress as friends, and I found out that she was also not American, (she was, in fact, English, but had lost her accent) which is why she understood my perspective. We were both teased for quite a time, but we stuck together and showed the bullies that we could not be squashed until they gave up, sullen.

Next came Courtney, an American full-on. She was blonde, and liked to wear trendy clothes and wear make up and chew bubble gum. I had not liked her at first sight, but her first words to me amazed me. “Hey, I know you’re not from here, and I know that my kind teased you a lot. But I don’t think you’re strange, or stupid, because you came from another country. I can tell you don’t like or believe me, but we’ll be friends, you wait and see.” And we were. We spent loads of time together, because it turns out she was actually a friend of Anna. We talked and talked, and she made our trio.

Last came Victoria, a girl with shock orange hair and blue eyes who had taken interest in me one day while she saw all three of us (Courtney, Anna and I) walking, arms linked. She had introduced herself and listened to our descriptions, and then had left. We had met again at a party in which she embarrassed herself by spilling juice on her dress. We had all helped her in the bathroom, wiping her dress off and helping fight off her embarrassment, also fending off teasers should they dare talk to her wrong, and we hadn’t looked back since then. And so she completed the group.

And then Caroline had been born. I’d had to take care of her while my parents were on business, still attend to tutoring sessions, keep up a steady life with friends, direct the maids as to how to take care of her, put her to bed, stop her from crying, each and every day and night up until I was 16, when my parents could take care of her full time.

And so now Caroline was 5 and I was 17. The age difference had its disadvantages, for the most. We often fight over the TV, disagree on the dinner choice, disagree on fashion (in which she  calls me dumb as a dodo in that field and of which I  retaliate by making nasty rhymes until Father or Mother has to stop me), but deep down we loved each other, and so we were trying to resolve them by making routines.

Every Monday she would get to choose my clothes, and the next day I do hers. It goes on like this for a whole week, and the next Monday she starts the game. Every Sunday, she chooses dinner, and the next day I do, until Sunday comes again and she starts the game once more. And I get the remote for 30 minutes every hour so I can watch whatever I want and she has to wait.

I do not realize that I have zoned out, completely lost in memories, until Caroline storms in, with the look of smugness about her face that can only mean that she is going to dress me in the most formal clothes she can find. I groan loudly. She smiles, with a little self-satisfied flip of her curls.

“Come on Caro, go easy on me,” I beg. She ignores me, going to my closet (in which she restocks daily) and emerges again with a pale green camisole dress with a black bow at the waist line and matching black heels. I groan even louder. What hell did I take the slow road to in order to endure heels? I would much rather prefer some high tops or lace up boots, but of course this is not what Caroline thinks is stylish.

“Come on now, Jane. Today is mine. So you have to wear it, na na na!” she skips to my side and puts the dress in my arms. I sigh and go to the bathroom, thinking that I might as well get this over with. I adorn the dress and shoes, looking at myself in the mirror and having to admit, grudgingly, that I do not look so bad. She is holding a make-up compact when I come out. I roll my eyes. Time for Jane-the-barbie-doll.

She applies black eye-shadow and a bit of blush, not too much, not too little. Then she lines my outer eyes with pale green. Then comes lip liner, and all the rest of her make up, until she declares me perfect. I examine myself in the mirror of the make up compact. Not bad, though I would have gone for just eye shadow and blush, but she obviously knows that this is what I am thinking by the expression on my face, for she glares at me, a “don’t-even-think-about-wiping-any-off” look that is so scary, even for a five year old, that any thought of doing it is banished.

“There! Oh well, I am going to watch America’s Next Top Model, bye!” she waves and then skips off to the family room. I roll my eyes. Leave it to a fashion addict like her to watch fashion related shows, even though she is still considered a young child. I decide to go and chat with Anna.

I call my leave to my parents, and set off on the short walk to her house. She is dining on the rear veranda when I get there. She looks up and smiles when I walk up the stairs, motioning for me to join her. I nod and sit, and she calls for a maid to bring me some breakfast.

“Oh Jane! I have great news! My friend Raphael, whom you have met very briefly, I believe at a party, is coming to visit this very afternoon! I told him about you, how you like to write, and he is all the more interested than he was when you two first met! I do believe that he is most in love with you, for the look in his eyes when he or I speak of you is one of pure admiration!” she smiles, eyes bright, and I laugh at her assumption. I do however, remember who she speaks of. He has short, messy dark hair and sea green-gray eyes that seem to have their own light that shines when his face lights up. He is as tall as me with subtle muscles, but definitely strong, and from what I could tell of his personality when we met for that short time is that he is most agreeable, confident and smart, all in one. I actually did have a silly crush on him, which I had been crazy enough to tell my friends. They were now urging me to “make my move” or to catch his attentions, as they mean. I had laughed at them, sure that he would not be attracted by the idea.

“In love with me? Anna, be real. Lord knows I do not hold any real interest, for I am not more than and angst french girl who misses her home place, and I do not hold any beauty for him to be attracted by. And surely he would be interested in the flimsy writing I can come up with,” I scoff. She rolls her eyes at me, something I know she would have never done had her mother been here.

“Jane, do you not realize how interesting and beautiful you really are? Any model would die for your face and figure, I’m telling you.” I laugh at the absurdity of her words. A model? Die for my body? What strange dream that would definitely have to be!

“When is he coming?” I ask to change the subject, hoping that this will not lead to her giving me advice on dealing with men. She smiles, completely diverted, and answers me with her usual cheerfulness. “Oh, about ten minutes, actually, maybe sooner!”

“What?!” I can feel my jaw drop and my eyes bulge out of my head. “Mary, I-I am not at all acceptable! Look at this hair! It is barely tidy. And these heels! I will not possibly be able to�"“

“Oh please, Jane. You look gorgeous. Don’t worry, Raphael won’t care about it.”

“Care about what?” A male voice answers, and I spin around to face the smiling eyes of him. I am not even prepared for this visit, my appearance is horrible.

Oh dear lord please let me get through this without making a fool of myself. Is that even possible?

Let’s hope so.