You know when Gemma has Simon dance with her at Fee's ball in Sweet Far Thing and offends Lucy to the point of no return? I just decided it'd be kind of fun to have a little Gemma-on-Gemma conversation right before she goes to apologize. It's purely dialogue and thoughts. So.
Gemma Doyle, you are such a girl.
Admittedly, it feels strange to think of myself in such a way for once. I've become accustomed to being a self-described loner, or oddity, or even a lost cause. Yet, I have trouble grasping the fact that right now, I am actually acting like something I should be—a seventeen-year-old-girl.
You see, I have a new problem.
For once, its name is not magic, the realms, or uncertainty.
Her name is Lucy.
Funny how these situations play out. When I rejected Simon's affections earlier this year, I was completely set in my decision. In fact, even now, I know I would not take him back. So why is it, then, that I spend all of my spare time, and even some of my active time, with the vision of this girl burned into my memory? It's the strangest phenomenon; every time I see her walk by, I either look away involuntarily, or I force myself not to and am filled with the oddest sense of sadness mixed with rage. It's almost as though I couldn't stand her, yet I hardly know the girl. And now, I'm on my way to her garden party, and I am certain I shall grow to dislike her even more as it progresses.
But it isn't at though there's anything wrong with her.
No, of course not. Under different circumstances, I'm certain she is someone I'd gladly wish to befriend. From what I've met of her, she appears a right lady, and she is genuine about it. She has never spoken to me in any other way than cordially, and her manners are flawless.
Don't forget how pretty she is.
Yes, I was getting to that, thank you.
I just thought you might need a reminder. Though, now that I think about it, why would you? She's definitely not the kind of face you could forget. Not like yours—remember? "You're no beauty, but you'll do".
…You make a good point, as much as I hate to admit it. It is true, she is just about my polar opposite. Small, brunette, a proper rose, compared to me, the overly tall, redheaded Titian. It makes sense that next to her, I'd be like a dead weed. But it isn't as though that should make any difference—after all, I'm sure she'd have nothing on Pippa. And it isn't as though I went around spending my time feeling this way about Pippa.
Pippa wasn't
engaged to Simon.
Yes, unfortunately, she was saddled with someone much less desirable. But still, she was beautiful, and everyone noted it, even me. I had no problem with it. Why, then, am I consumed by these perturbing thoughts?
Jealousy is the strongest form of flattery.
I am not jealous! Why would I be jealous of Lucy Fairchild?
Because if you weren't, you wouldn't be having this conversation with yourself.
Perhaps a
little, then, but how can you blame me? Just look at her! She's
flawless. The more I try and find something wrong with her, the more
beautiful she becomes. Add that to the fact that she's a renowned
equestrienne in training, Lady Denby's dream daughter-in-law, and
the most refined lady this side of London, and you'll see that I'm
perfectly justified. Look at her, and then look at me. I, the
half-sane, curly-headed tempest trapped in a corset who can't seem
to stay out of trouble long enough to attend a simple garden party. I, the temple of wild magic, disguised as a young woman. I, the girl
people whisper about and are glad to not be related to, yet delight
in having around because I give them something to gossip about.
You're not as bad as all that…
Oh, come off it, you know as well as I do that that's not true. I've practically become an omen—any tea party I show up at is doomed to crash and burn. Do you know that the worst part is that I still don't want Simon? I don't suppose I ever really did. Yet, every time we're all in the same place at once, I get this overpowering urge to be irresistible to him. Sometimes I feel like nothing would please me more than to have him reject her in favor of me. Oh, that's awful! I already said I didn't want him, and I do not. So why do I wish so badly for him to, of his own free will, mind you, look at me the way he did at the ball under my spell?
Maybe you simply
wish others, yourself included, could see yourself as they see her?
You mean perfect? Blessed with gorgeous hair, and naturally pink cheeks, and the ability to ride a horse will still looking ladylike, and just the right kind of body, and a demure disposition, and no secrets to ruin the effect?
It's all relative, really. Maybe to you, she appears faultless, but there's more to her than that. No one is perfect, including her. In fact, other people might not even see why you consider her to be so idyllic.
Everyone loves Lucy Fairchild. Except me, I suppose. Oh, this is terrible, I feel like a right fool. Who detests someone for no reason? It isn't as though she can help being the way she is—in fact, I doubt she even realizes it. She just is, and I simply am not. Bother! This is tiresome! Why can't I just be rid of this problem?
Welcome to the reality of girlhood. You just want to be wanted.
I like that. All I can really think to say about it is that it's true. I suppose being wanted, regardless of by who, is better than being put aside in favor of people like Lucy. And I know it's not her fault, but…I just wish I could be wanted without having to use magic. Like her. Though I expect it's no excuse for behaving the way I did at Fee's ball. Oh, this is awful…I feel terrible about that, too.
Well, then, you know there's only one thing left to do. It doesn't matter if you still can't stand her, and it doesn't matter if you still feel like compared to her you're invisible. It's time for you to be the lady, for once.
I suppose you're right.
As much as I hate to admit it, introspection can prove a worthy pastime.
I only wish it didn't give such good advice. I take a deep breath.
"Miss Fairchild, I was hoping I could speak to you."