Platinum: Chapter Two
Sylvia Yang
December 10, 2011
Filed under Writers' Bloc
Brisk honks and roaring engines rang outside as limousines and expensive vehicles pulled into the residence. I lifted the curtains and peered at the rays of paired head lights illuminating our driveway, shuffling along from the distant steel gates to the yew-carved door below. Guests continued to step out of their cars and proceeded toward the entrance in a controlled manner. The men were all conformed to black tuxedos and the women to dresses glazed with sparkles. They smiled with their heads high and shouldersthrown back. My mind drifted to the thought of leaving the security of my bedroom, and a knot began to strain my stomach.
“Miss Taque, it’s time to do your hair now,” a voice behind me said. I whirled around to see my regular hairstylist, Teresa. I’d forgotten she was in the room.
“I’m coming,” I said, sliding the curtain back into place and leaving the window. I sat on a footstool in front of my maple-framed vanity dresser, looking into the clear, dustless mirror before me. The heat of the curling iron breathed on the back of my neck as Teresa began to twist my hair into curls. I averted my eyes from the reflection to the ground and sighed away the tension that weighed on my chest. Except for the shuffling of my hair around the curing iron, the room remained silent and the minutes stole away.
“It’s finished, Miss Tacque,” said Teresa, breaking the silence after awhile. She unplugged the curling iron from the outlet and took a step back to give me room. I glanced into the mirror to see her lips unfold into a warm smile as she motioned her head to the full-length mirror across the bedroom. I rose from my seat and walked to the mirror, feeling the exhaled weight and tension seeping back into my body. I gazed at my reflection. “Oh, Miss. You look beautiful!” Teresa gasped, a delicate hand waving over her mouth, as if she was trying to hold back her shock.
A beige formal dress that clung to the surface of my figure, was fixed upon my body. A burgundy girdle was fastened around my waist, securing the threat of the heavy, flowing train dragging the dress across the floor as I walked. From my ears dangled a pair of gleaming, diamond earrings that shone through my curled, ebony hair, that draped down my shoulders. A single white flower ornament, crystallized with specks of rubies, sat above my right ear to tie my entire, elegant outfit together perfectly.
I scrutinized my reflection for a moment, and with a steady breath, turned back to Teresa. “It looks amazing. Thank you,” I said, forcing a smile. I wondered if Teresa could see past the fake smile, but my brief slither of worry disappeared when she returned it with an even wider and more genuine one. It warmed my heart, but pricked my sides. She packed her equipment into her bags and left my bedroom with a quick but sincere whispered “Goodbye.”
As the door closed behind her, I looked at my figure once again, my eyes resting on my bangs. The platinum streaks, the ones that I had finally brought myself to get, had been colored over with black dye. I reached my hand up and stroked them, as if to see if they were really black again. I groaned and walked over to my bed, falling back into it with closed eyes. The world seemed to collapse along with my body the moment I hit the bed, and I settled there in broken silence. I could still hear the tremble of engines that rattled outside my windows, stunning me back to reality.
In the back of my mind, I could hear my conscience nagging me in the form of my mother’s voice to not be late for the party. I was only able to ignore it for a brief minute before sitting up on the edge of my bed.
“If only I can deny my invitation,” I mumbled to myself. It’s more like I am being summoned than invited, I thought with a heavy sigh.
I stood up and the uncomfortable fabric of my dress clung to my skin, as if desperate in its struggle to resist being dragged on the ground. I tossed my hair back and nipped at the outfit with freshly-manicured, but irritating, fake cuticles. The fabric of the dress slipped through the plastic fingernails and continued to stick to every crevice of my body. I groaned again and ran my fingers through my hair, only to be stopped mid-way by crispy, dried hairspray.
“Ahh!” I threw my hands up in frustration and plopped myself back onto the edge of my bed. Resting my head in my hands, I took a deep breath to calm my rage. I stood up once again and straightened my shoulders before walking over to the door. As my hand fell on the door knob, I jiggled in my dress to losen its tight, uncomfortable grip one last try, but my dress ceased to give in. I let out a surrenedered “tsk,” cleared my throat, and proceeded out of my room with a high posture, but slummed attitude.
The party was taking place downstairs in the great, formal ballroom, and although ballroom dancing seemed to be a lost art in modern New York, Mother and Father still insisted that such a room should exist in our house. However, to their surprise, ballroom dancing was still popular among the wealthy class. Since then, the celebrations have been filled with ramblings of classical orchestras overriding soft sounds of pricey, designer shoes tapping in time to the rhythm of the music.
The ballroom was lit by a gleaming chandelier hanging from a thick chain of gold, sparkled from light reflecting off its crystals. The floor was tiled with the finest dark, milky walnut and smoothed over with wax. Three glass windows, located across from the dance floor, displayed the outside garden and the navy blue evening sky. The ceiling that domed over the entire room was painted with a faded yellow and decorated with paintings of cherubs upon clouds, among swirls of pastel pink and blue designs.
Pairs of dancers, in whirls of colorful, expensive fabric, waltzed in time with one another on the polished dance floor, all equal in elegance, all different in style, and altogether too rehearsed. As I entered through the doors of the lavish gala, filled with chattering and laughter, I couldn’t help but feel my knees beginning to buckle. I looked around the massive room and saw Mister Hilmer, my mother’s trusty butler, near the refreshment table with a silver tray of sparkling champagne. Making my way around the center dance floor and the crowds of guests, I reached for Mister Hilmer by the tails of his formal top coat.
“Miss Tacque! What on earth are you doing?” he exclaimed in a restrained, harsh but surprised whisper. I grabbed a glass of champagne from his silver tray and gulped down the alcohol in a few quick swallows. He gasped, “Miss! You cannot drink champagne! You are still under-aged!” I looked at him with absent care and placed the empty glass back onto his tray, helping myself to one more.
“Why don’t you tell my mother, Mister Hilmer? I’m sure she would be delighted to hear,” I dared with a smirk before turning my back and walking into the crowd of chatting guests. The refreshing taste of the fine champagne tingled down my throat and calmed my nerves. With the glass in my hand, I felt more relaxed under the light of the chandelier, even if I was surrounded by vain guests who seemed to threaten to judge every one of my actions under their breath. I sucked in my cheeks and took another sip from the glass in between my fingers. I pivoted on my heels as I leaned against the nearest wall with aloofness. Looking around the room, I began to recognize the faces of many of the guests, most of them politicians, powerful entrepreneurs, or chairmen of major companies and organizations, such as the chairman of a rising cosmetic industry, the president of an incorporated beer-brewing company, and even members from old-money families who had established commercial businesses. I cast a glance to my right across the room, where I found my parents standing as they conversed with a circle of guests.
Mother, dressed in a rouge evening gown that hung from a strap fastened to her shoulder, upheld her superiority with even more distinction tonight. Her shoulders were set back in perfect alignment with her posture, and her height was increased by a pair of maroon high-heeled slippers. Though her visage was brightened with an elite smile, her pinned up, onyx hair – even in a flowing, romantic style- revealed the stern features that were carved into her face.
Father, standing beside Mother, was adorned in a jet-black tuxedo which seemed to be worth a fortune just from the obvious quality of its material and hemming. His cheekbones were less projecting than Mother’s, but his eyebrows grew steeper toward the bridge of his nose, giving him a naturally angry and strict facial expression. His casual, tanned-blond hairstyle, rooted with a caramel brown, was gelled up in the front, and accompanied by light whiskers jutting out from underneath his chin, giving him a rugged appearance. Although Father wore his unshaven style commonly, how he stood next to Mother in his overwhelming dignity and pride made clear his importance.
There was a sense of equality between my parents, refreshing but intimidating all at once: They seemed poised with their erect statures, gentle and hospitable in their actions, yet their eyes burned with a quiet, smoldering flame fueled by a mixture of ambition and power. They were made for each other in their unrelenting struggle for power and respect.
In the midst of their greetings, my parents cast hard glimpses at me, maintaining solid eye contact briefly before resuming their conversations. Even from across the room, I could feel the strain of their stares and their pressing disapproval. I knew from their silent, heavy glances they were scolding me for my slouched posture and reluctance to immediately converse with the guests. I pushed the idea out of my mind for the time being; as long as my parents weren’t within an ear shot or lecturing distance, I retained a minor degree of freedom.
Yet I understood that, at the very least, I was obliged to humor my parents, so I pushed myself into the broken crowd before catching a glimpse of the back of a familiar bundle of dirty-gold locks. A chill of excitement and hope sprang through me as I leaned back and forth to see the face behind the hair, and sure enough, it was she – Barbara Ryno, the heiress of a chain of luxury hotels along the eastern seaboard, the daughter of my mother’s old colleague, and more than anything, my closest friend since childhood.
“Barbara!” I called, as I made my way to her. A sliver of anxiety passed through me, half hopeful that it was truly she, and half doubtful that I was mistaken. It all passed in an instance. At the sound of her name, the young lady turned her head in my direction, her wavy hair twirling around her neck from the motion, and revealed the face for which that I had been hopeful. A look of joyful shock shone in Barbara’s face.
“Airen Tacque! Could that possibly be you?” she exclaimed with widened eyes. She grasped my hand before leaning in for a tight but gentle embrace. “Oh, dear. It has been too long. Four years, correct?”
“Yes, around four years. I see you are back from England,” I said. “How was it there?”
“England was fantastic, but honestly, I miss it here in New York much too much. It is good to finally be back,” Barbara said with a wide smile. With the light from the crystal chandelier, her eyes did seem to sparkle just from a simple, but genuine smile.
“What about Cambridge, though?” I asked. Her hand was still grasping mine, bringing back the warm, loving feeling from our childhood days. “You did say it was your dream to study there.”
“I have lived that dream already. Though it was only four short years, even a fraction of such a dream is satisfying to me. Either way, Daddy has been awfully sick recently. It really is for the best that I come back to care for him and overlook the business,” she said. She tugged at my hand, leading me to the refreshment table with her. Even though she had said she was satisfied with returning to New York, the ends of her lips drooped slightly. I squeezed her hand a bit tighter. She might have felt it for she turned her head to give an appreciative, soft grin.
“Would you like some, Airen darling?” she asked, using a tong to pick up a finger hors d’oeuvre and gesturing it toward me with natural gentleness.
“No, thank you. I have champagne,” I answered, lifting my glass.
“My my, I don’t remember setting such a bad example when we were together as children,” she said, with mock authority and disappointment. “If anything, I told you to stay away from under-age drinking.” I knew she was smiling even though her blond hair shielded her face from sight as she resumed stacking snacks onto her plate. “Anyway, I am starving. I just got off the plane from Virginia not two hours ago. It is always a drag to get ready for parties- you never get the chance to grab a bite to eat when it takes all the time in the world just to simply get into an over-decorated dress.”
I smiled and watched Barbara shove hors d’oeuvres into her mouth. I admired her, and I envied her. Barbara was born to be a lady – she carried herself with grace and had come to accept her place in society. But she also managed to retain her own sense of individual dignity. Only Barbara would be brave enough to stuff her face amongst a sea of rich, important people, and only she would still look dazzling with chipmunk-bloated cheeks.
“This is delicious, Airen. But honestly, would it kill us rich people to have larger food at such a gathering?” Barbara said in between chews, with a poised hand over her mouth. “What I would do for a hamburger right now, my dear.”
I smirked. “Barbara, you may have spent four years at one of the most prestigious schools in England, and you may come from a wealthy family, but you are still an American commoner at heart.”
“They do not know how fortunate they are, Airen,” she said, putting another piece of food into her mouth. “The price I pay to fit into such dresses. ” Barbara gestured to her outfit and dainty figure.
I nodded and sipped my champagne. I knew that she had always been a food fanatic. Barbara turned her head to the left and glanced across the dance floor. “Where are your parents, Airen?” She turned back to me.
“Mingling, as always.”
“Perhaps you should mingle as well.” She peered over her shoulder again.
“I am mingling… with you, Barbara.” I rocked the champagne glass in my hand, keeping my sight on Barbara and her sudden turns. She leaned her head back, as if to get a better look at something without being noticed for her strange actions.
“I’m quite boring, my dear. Are you sure you want to stick with me?” asked Barbara. She moved another piece of food to her tilted head and smiled while she chewed away.
“Yes, of course,” I replied with hesitance. My curiosity was biting me, and my patience was wearing thin. “Alright, what are you looking at?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing, but uh… I’m just saying, I think it’s about time for you to begin mingling,” she giggled, “because there is a strapping young man over across the room that has had his eyes on you for quite awhile now.” Barbara’s eyes wandered to mine and then darted back across the room.
“I doubt it.” I sipped the rest of the champagne left in the glass and placed it on a tray passing by. “I think I need another drink.”
Barbara grabbed my hand again and flung me in the direction of the dance floor. “Oh, no you don’t, Airen. It’s time to dance off that alcohol.” She pointed across the room at a young man of chestnut colored hair with his hands tucked behind his back and a charming smile across his face. “He’s smiling at you. Dance with him.” I clung to Barbara’s arms that were pushing me forward.
“No! I don’t know him, Barbara! I’ve never even seen him before in my life or any of my parents’ other parties!”
“Oh, he must be new money then! That makes it even better. I could never stand those snobby old money people anyway. Besides, this is a terrific way to meet new people, Darling.” She grinned with mischief.
“But I don’t know what to say!”
“Better think fast- he’s coming this way right now,” she replied without mercy, pushing me onto the dance floor. I stumbled forward from her push, holding my hands out to keep my balance. When I turned my head back, Barbara had returned back to the refreshment table, her eyes on me and eyebrows raised, encouraging me to approach the stranger she has just set me up with.
Oooh, I mumbled in my mind. I’m going to get her later for this. I sighed and whirled my head back around, right into someone’s chest. A groan seeped out of my victim, as if the impact had taken the wind out of him.
“Ouch! Oh, I am truly sorry about that, sir,” I apologized, rubbing the bridge of my nose. I glanced up at the face of the person I had intercepted, only to find it was the young man from across the room. He sure walks fast, I thought.
“It’s alright,” he replied with a smile. “It’s actually my fault. But I really don’t think I’m quite old enough yet for you to call me ‘sir’.”
“I’m quite certain you’re right,” I said, forcing my best grin. “I do apologize though, both for the accident of running into you and calling you ‘sir’.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “You can cut that out. I won’t judge you.”
My eyes widened, and I was taken back by his frankness. He was not speaking with formality, but rather as if we were standing in the midst of a city street- casual and direct. I stared at his face, examining him. He was clean-shaven, with a rather sharp chin and high nose structure. When he smiled, dimples formed around his lips and his eyes gleamed of dark emerald. He didn’t look harmful or judgmental at all, even though he towered at least a foot over me. If anything, he felt relaxed and was less rigid than everyone else in the room. But was I that easy to see through?
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean by that,” I said with caution. I steadied my eye contact with him.
A servant carrying a tray of champagne passed by and the young man leaned over to grab two glasses. “Look,” he began with a smile, handing me a glass of champagne, “from far away, you seemed like a pretty down-to-earth girl. My instincts are never wrong. These parties are always filled with fake people, boring music and small pieces of food. I just thought I might approach someone with whom I can actually have a decent conversation.” He placed the rim of the glass to his lips and drank.
“Whatever makes you think I am a down-to-earth girl? If anything, I could be the complete opposite,” I challenged, with my arms crossed. Who was he to imply all these things as if he could really see through me? I thought.
“Oh, but you’re not,” he smiled. “You think these parties are boring, too, and even from across the room, I could tell you would rather be anywhere else but here. So you can drop the act now. I’m not trying to come off as a high-class or anything, but instead, just another person.”
I bit my lips and fumbled with the thought in my head. His smile seemed so annoying and arrogant that I couldn’t look away. I sighed. “What’s your name?”‘
“Christopher Erickson,” he said, reaching out his hand to initiate a handshake, “but you can call me Chris. What’s yours?”
“Airen Tacque,” I replied, shaking his hand with hesitance. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t insult my parents’ party, Chris.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he chuckled. “It looks really well-put together, but it’s just older people talking about business and who has more money. We’re far too young for this.”
“Perhaps. How old are you?” I asked.
“Twenty-one, my dear,” he replied. “And you?”
“Nineteen. You don’t look twenty-one.” I twirled the glass in my hand to keep my attention away from his smile.
“And you don’t look nineteen, either. You look older and more mature.”
“I thought you were younger than I,” I said sharply and drank from my glass.
“A bit blunt, aren’t you?” He shook his head and smiled to himself.
“Well, you’re the one who told me to cut the act. If you would have let me continue the act, I would not be so blunt,” I said.
“Then you would be fake. I’d rather have you be truthful and blunt any day over that. It’s very nice to meet you, Miss Airen.”
“Don’t be a hypocrite, Chris. No formalities,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”
His face beamed with satisfaction as he tilted the champagne into his mouth. I took a careful sip from my glass, my eyes still on his face. He was not like the people who inhabit my world. Chris was direct, too direct, and his smiles were genuine. It frightened me but it also drew me in. He was a break from the norm; he was casual and real. Yet, a voice nagged in the back of my head.
“Why are you here?” I asked, putting my guard back up. “Why have I never seen you before?” If Chris was wealthy, my parents would know about him, meaning I would as well, but he was unfamiliar and new.
“You could say my family has recently gotten rich and acquired more influence over New York. They are, let’s say, in the business field,” he said. His smile faded a bit as he finished.
“New money?” I questioned.
“I guess you could say that,” he nodded his head, as if pondering to himself.
“Where are your parents?” I leaned my weight onto my right leg and crossed my arms again.
“My father had a last minute engagement to attend, so I offered to come in his place,” Chris replied. His smile was still engraved on his face, but it had dropped since the beginning of our conversation.
“Uh-huh…” I said. I lowered my gaze, trying to figure him out. The quiet voice continued to nag in the back of my mind as Chris threw his head back in sudden laughter.
“It feels like you’re interrogating me! You are truly one intimidating girl, Airen.”
“Well, I had to learn from the best,” I mumbled, tossing my eyes to my parents in the far corner of the room. “Besides, why is it that I feel like you’re being awfully vague? Are you hiding something?” I turned my head back around to Chris, who lowered his head for a moment before raising it back up. His irritating, charming smile had returned.
“I think you just want to believe that I am hiding something. If you fret anymore about me having ulterior motives, you will only ruin the rest of tonight which we are trying to save.” Chris took the glass out of my hand and placed it, together with his, onto a wandering servant’s tray. “Dance with me,” he said, taking my hand and dragging me to the dance floor.
“Wait!” I started. “You didn’t even answer all of my questions!”
“Lighten up, my dear,” Chris said. He stopped in the middle of the dance floor and pulled me close by my waist. He placed my left hand on his shoulder and began to lead me in dance by my right hand. His eyes glimmered under the light, and I could feel my cheeks burn from his stare. I needed to look away, but the sway of the dance and his touch lulled me as his eyes beckoned mine to linger. “Having fun?” Chris smiled.
“I’m impressed you know how to dance,” I teased. “And well at that.”
“My deceiving youth allows me to be full of surprises.” He spun me around and pulled me back. His face was a few inches from mine. My head felt light and my cheeks continued to burn, leading me to wonder if I had too much champagne. The music flooded around us and everything began blending together as we danced. I started to let go of the situation I was in and melted into the excitement of the dance. Chris twirled me around again. “You’re finally smiling.”
“What?” I asked.
“You’re smiling,” he repeated. There was a tiring, but subtle soreness nudging the corners of my lips, and I realized he was right – I had been smiling; and like a fool, too. I was enjoying myself, though I thought it impossible in the environment I was stranded in. Yet, it felt uplifting to smile without care, to feel free despite the pressure hovering over my head. I laughed as Chris spun me around, his brilliant smile blurred by the rotation. The twirls rocked my mind and I felt my knees give away to the dizziness, my body falling backward.
“Whoa!” exclaimed Chris, as he caught me in a dip. One of his hands grasped mine and the other held me by my waist. “Are you okay?” His smiling face rearranged into a worried expression. I decided that I liked his smile better.
“I’m alright,” I giggled. “Just a little dizzy.”
“Okay, let’s get you to a seat,” he said, supporting me off the dance floor. “I think you had too much champagne.”
“Nonsense, silly,” I said, putting an arm around his neck. “I’m just having fun.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” Chris replied.
I tilted my head back to look up at him. His gentle, calm smile had returned. He sat me down on a chair alongside the wall with fragile care, as if he truly believed that I could be broken that easily. “I’ll get you some water,” Chris said, walking toward the refreshment table.
I sat on the chair, my head still spinning from the excitement and laughter. I had tossed my guard away and lost myself to the fun that Chris offered. Leaning back against the chair, I closed my eyes and drowned in a smile.
The high-pitched clinking of a glass struck my attention back. “Ladies and gentlemen,” began a loud, familiar voice. I looked around the room to the center of the dance floor, where I saw my father standing with a glass raised in his hand and a spoon in the other. My mother was close behind him, holding a glass of champagne as well. “May I have your attention, please. Friends, I hope you are enjoying yourselves. It is our honor to host parties with such dignified people attending. It is truly a pleasure to see every one of you once again. But this party is beyond simply strengthening acquaintances and pure enjoyment. My wife and I have hosted this party with the purpose of formally introducing our official candidate to inherit Tacque Company- someone whom we believe has the potential to carry on the greatness of our industry and build it forward in the future. Ladies and gentlemen, colleagues and friends, I would like to introduce to you Tacque’s inheriting candidate…” My father paused for a moment and turned his eyes toward me. He raised his hand and gestured in my direction. “…Our daughter, Airen Tacque.”
A flood of eyes rushed at me and a drowning applause filled the room. Within the sea of guests and claps, I was recognized but I was isolated. I finally understood the true meaning of feeling alone amongst a multitude of people. The pressure of being fully acknowledged as the heiress was awakened by the claps and murmurs throughout the crowd, but all I could find myself to know was that I wanted to dash out and erase the scene before me. I understood that in this world, my future is already decided, and I had no say in the matter. I would be forever stuck behind others’ expectations. My heartbeat drummed in my ears and its beat overpowered the subsiding applause. From the side, I saw a single, dark figure moving toward me.
“Hey, I brought you your water,” said Chris. He bent over, touched my shoulder and held the glass in front of me. “Congratulations, by the way, Airen. What? Hey, what’s wrong?” His voice sounded distant and insignificant, and I bet his smile had just faded. I reached my fingers up to my face, my mind lost of feeling and emotion, and felt a single stream of moisture brush down my cheek.
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