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Chapter Two

Fresh, morning air. Away from my stupid cousin, Kamilla.

I flung my curtains opened and stared at the beautiful mid-morning sun. It was halfway up on the east, in between the very middle of the sky, and the horizon. It had a special glow to it from my window. At least I was blessed with something—a good view of the morning sun. Hey, it's not much, but you have to count your blessings.

For a moment there I think I even forgot the fact that I was, in fact, in the very same house that the Wicked Witch was. Then the thought was, again, hammered again into my head.

It's not fair. It really isn't. I mean, what had I done to the world that it had placed me in a family where good looks apparently were hereditary? Ok, so I never needed braces, but whatever. I don't see my hair naturally silky, the way Rebecca's was. I don't see my roots growing in titian-red. In fact, all I see is wiry hair, with a shade of red that, oh dear God, is repulsive.

I closed my windows, trying to make up my mind about what I'd wear that day. Just because it was summer didn't mean that I would go out in the street looking like the loser/geek/dork I was. Nuh-uh. So not happening.

But, see, I don't have a lot to work with. I mean, my closet is filled with black stuff. You see, I'm mourning at the fact that my lame school doesn't fund the Arts Department enough. Is it that hard to spare us a couple of thousand more a year when they fund the stupid sports so much more? I mean, spare us a cent, will you?

I didn't even glance at my closet. It was bad enough that, at nine o'clock, I was already mad, but the fact that my mom seemed to think I want to actually eat in the same table with Kamilla is out-of-this-world crazy.

"Kids, come down!" Mom called from downstairs. I rolled my eyes and started pacing slowly towards the stairs.

When I got downstairs, I jumped back. My table had transformed from normal, average family dinner table to oh-my-god-so-fancy. It had some kind of royal red velvet tablecloth on it, and served on those hot-food supports were all kinds of brunch-related stuff. Gigantic red apples that I bet were the same kind that the wicked stepmother used to poison Snow White were the main attraction in the fruit basket and filling up the "bald-spots" were grapes, looking all firm and juicy in their deep purple outer coat.

"Mom, who died and made you maid for the king?" I asked, still stunned to see so much food.

Mom grinned and wiped her hands in her black-and-white checkered apron. "I'm so glad you like it. I hope I didn't go a little too extravagant. It'd just that, honey, your cousin deserves this. She's such a sweetheart."

There she goes again. Sweet-talking about Kamilla is what adults found most appealing. I guess that's the scent you rub off on adults when you're Kamilla—the scent of I'm-so-pretty-smart-and-perfect-but-I-act-modest. Yeah, as if. She did not totally deserve the banquet—if anyone deserved it, that person would be me. I'm the one that has to deal with the face that's attached to my neck every time I looked in the mirror. I think that Kamilla can handle being perfect.

I gave her a wry smile. "Yeah, Mom, she totally deserves it,"—I gave her two thumbs-up—"I mean, after all she's been through."

Mom didn't notice the sarcasm in my voice, but gave me a once-over. "Sam, do you think that's appropriate clothing for breakfast?"

I frowned. "Well, Mom, I could go get a ball-gown if you wish."

As soon as those words left my mouth, in came Miss B.itch and Miss Lucy. And their little posse of one person—Rebecca—followed, having eyeliner in her eyes, and looking completely disgusting and dirty for an eleven-year-old.

Oh, yeah. They looked like supermodels. Well, Lucy and Kamilla did, anyway. Rebecca looked like a tramp.

Lucy's hair was expertly done in a French braid, hanging off to the side of her shoulder, on top of her pink see-through shirt, bought at Banana Republic for, my guess seventy five dollars. Layered under her pink shirt was a lace camisole. She was wearing skin-tight Hollister light-blue jeans that had holes on the knees. Her natural looking, spring-fresh make-up was barely noticeable, although it did make her look like an angel.

Kamilla's hair was in a wild, artfully messy bun. She was wearing black cotton leggings under a light-blue jeans mini-skirt with frayed ends, a black tank top that said with sparkles on it, and a sequined half-sweater on top. Her shoes were ballet-flats, giving her the casual look, which did do her justice. Her makeup, like Lucy's, was subtle, yet perfectly applied.

Uh, no one gave me the memo that we were going to a professional fashion shoot for Vogue or anything.

I stared at them. "What's with the Charlie's Angels look?"

Kamilla laughed. "We're dressed for the spa." She said it like it was obvious. Well, excuse me for not knowing that Mondays are official spa days.

"We're going to a spa?" I asked. That did not—and would not—fit in my day's schedule. I had no intentions whatsoever of being soaked down from head-to-toe with mud or whatever they did to renovate old ladies skin. That was, partly, because I was not old.

"Well, we are. You aren't," Lucy said and she and Kamilla laughed. How nice; my own sister turning against me.

I eyed Rebecca. "She's going?"

Rebecca nodded eagerly. "Yep!"

Maybe I should add that Rebecca is a lot like me—she doesn't do girly stuff. Especially not spas.

I shook my head in disbelief. "Since when do you go to spas?"

Kamilla said in her usual it's-so-obvious-you-should-already-know-it voice, "I told Rebecca they could really work on her. I mean, she's gorgeous for a eleven-year-old," notice the emphasis on the word gorgeous. Then that tramp muttered, "Unlike some people I know."

I made sure to give her my evilest glare, but all she could return was a sweet—and fake, might I add—smile.

I looked down at my flowered shorts (yes, I do have flowered shorts) and my old, frayed around the sleeves SAVE THE ARTS T-shirt. (Don't ask.) I looked like a homeless person compared to them. Well, except Rebecca. I hoped they gave know-evil-cousins-from-nice-cousins lessons at the useless spa they were going to.

"Sam, I suggest you come down to breakfast better dressed from now on," Lucy said with a sneer. I, at that exact time, was scratching the back of my leg with my other leg, and fell over with that comment, blushing like mad.

I stormed into the kitchen where there were normal people. Okay, so there was no one there, because everyone in the family was bewitched by Kamilla's charm. Psh, charm my ass. The girl's evil.

"Sam, where are you?" Mom asked, sounding vague, probably from talking to ever-so-interesting Kamilla. She made me sick.

"Uh,"—I began moaning—"menstrual cramps. I'm going to go upstairs."

As if there was anyway I would sit with the face of evil on the table. Of course, I probably deeply embarrassed myself with David and Dad, but do I care? Nuh-uh. Anything is better than that of sitting with Kamilla.

"Okay, honey," Mom said. "That's great. We'll talk later."

See what I mean? See why I cannot stand that figure of evil? I just did something that the real, nice and funny, if I do say so myself, Samantha would never do. I mean, sure, Lucy might declare a near-death experience due to cramps, but I most certainly would not. And, in fact, if she had listened the way she pretended she did, which I know she didn't, she would have commented on that. But no. They were probably lost in one of Kamilla's fascinating getaway from some extremely hot guy. I bet she was probably shoving wallet-sized pictures of him up their noses.

With my eyes permanently glued to the floor and my shoulders shoved forward and out, I walked up the stairs ever so slowly. It wasn't even possible that my life could suck so much. It really wasn't.

I walked into my room and slammed the door shut, hoping some ruckus had aroused on the lower level of my house, preferably causing a the fan to magically fall onto Kamilla's head and make her disappear for, hopefully, all eternity. No such luck. I was burdened with having to having to hear her lively chatter even in my own haven—my own oasis—and not having anything I could do about it. Life is just a piece of cake, isn't it?

I plopped into my bed without a single thread of excitement within my system, and heaved a deep, long sigh. You're probably wondering why I hate my cousin so much. If I haven't expressed her inner snootiness in ways you can fathom yet, I should probably dig deeper in your soul.

Let's begin with grade one. I was standing in the playground of our school—we were actually neighbors back then, before her parents thankfully moved away—minding my own business, waiting for my turn on the swings, and she comes in and pushes me into the damp sand, not showing a bit of remorse for having done so. Now I ask you, why would someone do something like that? I hadn't done anything to her, except maybe steal her elephant animal cracker during snack time. But, so what? Is that really an acceptable reason to push someone and get their pink balloon dress all messed up and stained beyond washing? That was my favorite dress, too.

Then, we moved to Morocco. We came back when I was in fourth grade, Kris Parks had basically began to act as if I had big, bold, black letters saying Loser on my forehead and refused to converse with me in any way, shape, or form. Again, I ask you, is that a way to treat the girl who witnessed the disgusting event it'd been when you lost your first tooth? I should think not.

How would Kamilla fit into that? She was in Miss Parks' little posse, the one who seemed to live and breath to make my life miserable. Oh, yeah, that would be my cousin. The girl who supposedly has the same blood as I hold within my veins running through hers. Is it really that much to ask that she takes that fact into consideration when she comes up and tells me, making sure everyone can hear her, that Donald was taking her to the dance and not me? Donald, by the way, would be my second I-would-so-die-over-just-to-have-him-say-'sup-to-me, after Jack. That son of a cow moved away during eighth grade, after he'd publicly told me he thought I was the ugliest beast alive. Well, guess what Donald? You don't hold an ounce of respect of mine. And, furthermore, it's not me that was named after Donald Trump. That's right, ladies and gentlemen; he was named after Donald Trump.

Then she moved away in sixth grade, off to somewhere not over the rainbow, somewhere in Maryland. I never really bothered to learn her address, cell phone number, or even home number, because her Mom, not being a Madison, is just as much of a b.itch as Kamilla, if not more, and I wouldn't even ever call her, so why would I waste three precious killer-bytes on remembering her useless digits? As if. The only time I'd ever try to get in contact with Kamilla Madison would be when I had a big, fancy, and very expensive wedding invite to shove down her throat.

Not that any guy in his right mind would ever propose to me. Nuh-uh, girlfriend. So totally not happening. Because no guy ever fell—or ever will, for that matter—deeply, longingly in love with Samantha Madison.

I stared at my ghostly white ceiling. It didn't fit my personality. Well, no, scratch that; I'm pretty much as boring as you can get, so white, the most boring color there is, fits me like a size seven-and-a-half shoe—perfectly.

I guess I got lost deep in my thoughts, because the next thing I knew, Kamilla's laugh disappeared. I'm not kidding, she'd been laughing the whole time. Laughing that perfect-sounding laugh that you got goose bumps when you heard, it was so flawless.

Okay, so she stopped laughing, big whoop, right? Wrong. I mean, when a girl talking nonstop about her many exploits and she suddenly stops, you just know something is happening and, in my case, no one even bothered telling me about it. I swear, it's like my family is awkwardly blind when she was around. She had that supermodel act down, I observed. When she was around, all eyes were on her. Period. End of story.

I ran out of my room in a sudden rush, not wanting to be left out on whatever they were doing. If mom had pulled out my photo album of my birth in front of David, I'd kill myself. Seriously, she'd totally do that. And then I'd be all like, completely gross him out, why don't you, Mom, and she'd be all, David loved them. Mothers sometimes…completely repulsive and revolting.

I was half-way down the stairs when Kamilla led the group that consisted of Rebecca, Lucy, and Mom to the front door, all chit-chatting with each other, sometimes giggling. Does anyone include me in? I think not.

Rebecca caught sight of me, being the observant almost-sweetheart she is. "Sam, we're going to the spa."

Really? I thought they were just joking. I mean, Lucy and, I'm guessing, Kamilla dress like a couple of up-to-date, out-of-a-fashion-magazine chicks twenty four-seven.

Not letting them aware of my disbelief, I simply asked, "What about Dad and David? Kamilla, is it right to leave your uncle with David?"

"Of course not. First of, David's not even up yet," she said, running her fingers through her hair, purposely, making me notice its silky faultlessness. "And, Uncle Ricky's at work."

She gave me that same, famous trademark-of-Kamilla sweet smile and added, "It's only you and David. No biggie."

Well, excuse me. She isn't even concerned that my inner sexiness might attract David and get him out-of-his-wits in love with me. She isn't even concerned that I might seduce him over to my side.

Oh, who am I kidding? I couldn't even convince a middle-aged guy to let me give him a lap dance. Yeah, a guy like David is so gonna fall for me when he could father the babies of sex goddess Kamilla. Sure he will. In my dreams, he will. In reality, that's a bit…farfetched.

"You'll leave David and me here?" I asked, all at once, in a squeaky voice. Being left alone with that piece of fiery hotness was not in my plans for the first Monday of my summer. I mean, I was planning on maintaining my dignity for, say, at least two weekdays.

"Yeah, so?" she asked, touching her perfect nose as if there was some fault to it she had never noticed. "You'll be good, won't you?"

By that she didn't mean, You will not bat yourself to second base, or further, with him. She meant, You will be a good host.

"Sure," I said, sighing. What could I do? Mom was right there. I couldn't b.itch slap Kamilla.

"Okay," she said, finalizing the conversation, and blew me an air kiss. "Tootles."

With that, she placed her probably very much overpriced sunglasses on and opened the door, stepping outside as if the entryway to my house was a runway. Lucy, failing miserably, tried having the same model-quality to her exit of the house. She stepped outside, nevertheless, looking much like a &#$ duck. Rebecca must've eaten some smart-pills and had limited her level of stupidity to a modest, regular walk out. Mom, well, she walked out like a mom, blowing me a kiss—although, not like Kamilla's little you-know-you-love-me kiss—and locked the door.

I was left exactly where I'd stopped dead on my tracks, still in skeptical about how rude Kamilla had been and how Mom hadn't even bothered to stop her. Stupid Kamilla and her damn charm that made everyone lost in her smile, and made me stand around and take her insults, one after another.

I strolled back up the stairs, slouching down much of the way up. I got up there and just stood there, as if confused as to what my next stop would be. I decided to steal some of Lucy's makeup, test it on, and maybe intimidate Kamilla a bit when she got back from being drenched in only-God-knows-what. Again, farfetched, but it was better than that of standing around and smelling the fresh—yet contaminated with Kamilla's sickening perfume—air.

I just happened to know that Lucy, unlike what you may think of a ultra-popular sixteen-year-old, kept her makeup in the bathroom and not in some pink and fluffy bag on her desk, where she could show it off to every human being alive. No, that's not her. Truth to be told, Lucy doesn't even wear all that much makeup—unlike Kamilla—and is just naturally beautiful like that.

'Course, the stuff did cost a lot of money, but beauty does come with a price tag, doesn't it? Unless you're, I don't know, like, Giselle Bundchen, that supermodel from Brazil. And I bet that even she wears a lot of makeup, seeing as her pictures and covers of only the most exclusive magazines always turn out unfathomably perfect.

Lucy would never let me take her makeup, so that's why sneaky-peaky me had to do her job while the princess was away.

I walked on the tips of my toes to the bathroom. When I was about two steps away, I heard the water in the sink running. Oh, my God. David had awakened. And I, clad in some utterly ridiculous clothes, was standing there, looking pathetically stupid. I turned back around. No way was Mr. Perfect gonna see me in flowered shorts.

"Kamilla, is that you?" David asked. God, the guy has bionic hearing or something. I'm no professional, but I know I wasn't loud enough for him to clearly hear that someone was lurking out in the hall over the running water. Gosh.

I stopped. What was the point of trying to get into my room before he came out only to have him, five minutes later, come and ask me if it was me out in the hall, after he found out that I was the only one in the house. Either that or he'd flip out and in seven minutes flat the whole US army would be swarming our house, looking for a serial killer. I think choice A is more likely, though.

I heard him step out of the bathroom. "Oh, Sam, it's you."

Only, you know, he didn't say it like, It's only you. Gosh. He said it more like, Hey, there. Hi. You know, that kind of thing. Friendly. Now, I ask myself, what was a guy who seemed remotely interested in talking to me doing with my cousin? It just made no sense.

My cheeks began burning. The joy of being a redhead. I tell you, it's not as easy as it looks. I mean, most redheads you see out there in the streets are either uglier than crap or just too damn shy. They give us a bad name. Now, them being shy is probably better. Shy people are less likely to get in trouble, therefore not blushing as much. Anyway, I hate my blush attacks.

I turned around ever-so-slowly, only to see David in what resembled swim trunks, but were more casual looking, and no shirt on. And he wasn't embarrassed at all, seeing as I had caught him half-naked. Not that he needed to be, though. I mean, the guy's abs were washboard hard.

Okay, no, I did not touch them, but they just looked perfect—tanned and beefy, if you catch my drift. And then I ask myself where the hell he got so fine. I mean, Virginia wasn't very famous for its beaches, if you now what I mean.

While busy gawking at them, I lost sense of hospitality. You just don't leave your guest there, staring at thin air, while you enjoy yourself. It's simply not done.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat as, I'm guessing, a way to politely get my attention. Why aren't guys more like him? If you did what I was just doing to some jock at my school—and you had a certain level of hotness in you—they wouldn't stop you. And, they were definitely not polite.

I shook my head, getting away from what was now my favorite fairy-tale—David's abs. "Sorry."

He gave me an amused grin. I'm sure that if it were a Kamilla-look-alike staring at his open stomach like that, he'd give her a dazzling smile, but since it was just me, the ugly redhead, he found it amusing I had even the slightest notion he could possibly like me staring at him. But then, David didn't strike me as that kind of guy.

"So, where are the lasses?" he asked. Wow, he even knows what lass means. Major step-up from guys at my school, guys that Lucy dated, and guys every girl in America seems to dream of, let me tell you.

"Day spa," I said nonchalantly. It's not like I care where Kamilla could possibly be when I'd just found the guy that lit my fire.

He nodded, as if expecting something like that from Kamilla. "So, what is there to do?"

I shrugged. In my mind I was thinking, well, we could just stare at you all day. Of course, I didn't say that. I don't flirt and, besides, he was Taken. "I dunno."

He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Is there any breakfast?"

Well, if you count the hundred and one plates Mom made, then the answer would be yes. "Yes. I haven't eaten yet, but from what I saw when I went down, it looks like we have a wide variety."

Nice Sam. Score. You didn't say anything stupid.

"Cool," he said, bobbing his head forward. "I'll go throw on a shirt, and I'll meet you down there?"

No! Don't throw on a shirt. We're both fine like we are now. Well, you are. I probably look like a dead, wilted flower.

Before I could answer, he turned around and marched back into his room, one of the many spare rooms we have in the second floor.

Oh, whatever. At least I got to glance at that piece of meat.

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