A/N: Here's Chapter 2! I figured I'd better get out fast, since nobody's going to read something with just one chapter up . . . I hope it's good . . . Here we go! It's longer than the first, but I don't know if there will be a constant length of my chapters.

Beauty is a Beast
Meeting Arty, Rising Actor

As soon as I get up, I head directly to the shower, and then proceed back to my room. I sit down at my vanity table near the window, blow dry my hair, and give it its daily one hundred ten strokes. When you're as beautiful as I am, it never hurts to go above and beyond – not that there's that much left to do so that I become more beautiful.

I head down to the kitchen, where Vella is already experimenting with apple pancakes.

We don't speak as I start the fresh orange juice. Vella is quiet when she cooks, except for occasional humming. I don't mind. I hardly ever speak the first hour I'm awake. It's too peaceful to ruin the morning with chatter.

I am actually surprised Vella is up now. She's the night owl, so she sleeps late.

I figure I have a few minutes before pancakes are ready, and set the juice aside to chill. I walk to the front door, where my burgundy winter jacket and black snow boots are in the closet. I open the door, stepping into the early-winter snow.

I walk to the hen house to collect eggs, passing Papa on the way. We're both early risers. Papa is milking our cow, Bluebell. We own a small farm; some of the chickens are also . . . er . . . harvested as well. We grow apples and vegetables, and also own a horse – Pepin.

Pepin loves me. Not a surprise, really – everyone does. Plants also love me. I'm excellent at growing plants. I grow all our fruit, vegetables, and flowers.

I wave at Papa as I pass, and smile as he waves back. There's no better way to start the morning with a smile.

I arrive at the hen house, quickly gather eggs, and get out. Quickly. I hate chickens. Well, live ones, anyway. It smells weird in the hen house, too. My family thinks I'm crazy, but if those hens fixed their beady eyes on you, I'd love to see if you didn't run.

I arrive back at our little white-painted red-shuddered house. It looks classy, personally. I go inside and shed my coat and boots, then put away the eggs and the milk Papa had given me when I passed on my way back.

As I sit down at the table, I see that Vella has already set the dishes and silverware, put the pancakes on the table, and has already given each of us (Papa, Estee, herself, and I) a glass half-full of my orange juice. Vella suddenly appears next to me, and she sits so that we can wait for Papa and Estee.

"How come you're up this early?" I ask, fingering my fork. I'm hungry.

"So you could get ready for Arty. You have to leave at eleven, right? And it takes you forever to get ready for Arty—" I cut my sister off with a huge hug. That's Vella for you. Always thinking – for everyone else. I have time management issues; Vella knows I never would have made it out on time today without her. I'd have been at least twenty minutes late. And it's already nine-thirty!

"Oh, thank you so much. I'll never be able to thank you enough, I would've been –" I start to say over her shoulder, but Vella interrupts and says,

"Really late, I know." She laughs and I release her. I am forever thankful, because today is Arty and my two-year anniversary. I tell Vella that to thank her, I'll set her up with one of Arty's friends. She's okay with it, which surprised me. Vella's not the famous-guy type; that's me. She said something about "Observing different behaviors" and "Science". Really, though, I think it's because we haven't double-dated in over a year, since Vella doesn't like Arty all that much. But she does love analyzing his friends' behaviors – towards each other, towards me, towards her. Vella loves studying "Human and animal behaviors". It's one of the few subjects she doesn't get bored of quickly. I personally don't get it.

I hear someone behind me, and turn to see Estee standing behind me. She sits down in the chair left of me, across from Vella.

I don't call her "Stepmother" or anything. I simply call her by her name: Estee. She has the same long, ebony curls that she passed on to Vella, but her eyes are gray. She has a heart-shaped face, and skin that might be even more clear and luminescent than my sister's.

"Good morning," Estee says to us, with a smile. She's beautiful, too. In an older, more mature way than I. I don't think it's possible for someone not to be beautiful; there's always something, whether inside or out, that strikes someone as beautiful. It's just a matter of finding that person.

We all look up as Papa comes in, Vella saying "Finally, Papa! We just about died waiting for you!" Vella called Papa "Papa", as I did. She didn't seem to mind two "Papa's". Maybe because she knew that her Papa and my Papa would probably never be near each other at the same time. Vella's biological father was in France still, too.

Papa chuckled and sat down. He prayed, and we began to eat.

"Slow down!" Estee laughed as I gulped down my last bit of orange juice, dumped all my dishes into the sink full of soapy water, and tossed my napkin in the trash.

"I can't!" I screech (screeching, while unattractive for most, works for me), "I've got to get ready, Arty will be here any minute!" Exaggeration, of course: I have precisely one hour and ten minutes to get ready. But it's not enough!

I run upstairs to my closet, staring wildly (which just makes my eyes look bigger, instead of crazed). I pull out a black pencil skirt, a pale pink half-sleeved sweater, and grab my heels. Dressing is the easy part. As soon as I finish, I rush to my vanity table and sit.

Deep breaths, take deep breaths. I tell myself. Rushing hair and make-up won't do any good. I look at my clock: I still have fifty-seven minutes. I plug in my crimper, and while it's heating I brush my teeth and apply mascara, eyeliner, and paint my nails a pale pink to match my top and eyeshadow.

I run back to my crimper. It's heated, and I have about forty minutes. I start crimping, and when I finish, pull my hair back. I left a few front locks straightened, and I pull those back with a pearly clip. I put in matching earrings and a necklace, and then rush over to my full-length mirror.

Perfect, as usual. I always get a rush of satisfaction, thinking that.

I wait by the door, coat in hand. It's ten fifty-nine. Arty's always right on time.

Estee comes from the kitchen, where she and Vella had been baking my "surprise". My family and I all knew that I was expecting an engagement proposal today. We were positive Arty would propose today. They were ready with a party.

Estee gives me a hug. She's just a few inches taller than me, even when I'm in heels.

"Don't expect too much, honey. He's not a mind reader, you know." She says, and I know she's referring to the way Arty may propose. It might not be the way I want. Papa proposed to her when Vella and I were two years old. They had just finished riding through the beautiful terrain of France when Papa "fell" off his horse – straight into the mud. So Estee stopped, helped him to his knees, and then he asked her if she'd be with him forever – to marry him. Of course she said yes. Papa says he fell on purpose, with class. Vella and I say he's klutzy and a hopeless romantic. Estee usually just laughs helplessly when the topic comes up.

"I won't," I whisper in her ear. "Well," I continue, "There's always hope. But Arty's not a romantic, like me. I'll try." I tell her as she releases me. And I will; but I won't stop hoping. Arty can surprise people sometimes. Maybe he'll surprise me.

"Have a good time, stay safe." She murmurs to me, before giving my arm a squeeze and retreating into the kitchen where Vella is. I hear the crunch of wheels on gravel.

He's here!

I hurriedly open the door, only to be disappointed.

It's only Derek.

Derek is my best friend. Besides Vella, of course. The three of us have been friends forever. Ever since the time Vella and I were new to the neighborhood, and Derek was the only kid our age willing to look past our funny French-toddler accents.

But there was a problem. Derek's infatuated with me. Well, how beautiful I am, and we both know it. But I, of course, am in love with and going to marry Arty. But I do feel bad; it's not like guys can help but be attracted to me.

Derek's walking up the stairs, all sandy-haired and brown-eyed, and I feel so guilty for being so beautiful, but it isn't my fault! I can't help being prettier than most! I hope he gets over this infatuation soon. Really soon. Maybe I'll find one of Arty's friends for him, too. I wonder if he'd like an actress or a singer better?

"Have you seen Arty? Did you pass him?" I ask him anxiously, shifting my feet and peering behind him. Peering behind Derek is hard, because he's tall.

"You mean he's not here?" Derek replies, surprised.

I shake my head slowly, so he can register the motion. "No. And he's always on time! It's our two year anniversary, where is he?" I wail.

Derek awkwardly pats my shoulder, tells me it'll be okay, and rushes into the kitchen, where his less dramatic best friend is baking angel food cake.

Ha, ha. Angel food cake. For the angel. I would have laughed at Vella's wit ten minutes ago, but now it just made me want to cry.

I glumly sat in the kitchen, watching Vella make icing and cut strawberries for my cake. I don't now where she got strawberries this time of year. I sigh heavily. Derek glances up from licking his finger free of icing, after having swiped it from the bowl and being playfully beaten by Vella. That should've made me laugh.

"Why don't you just call him?" Vella asks exasperatedly. I'm trying her patience: if there's anything Vella despises, it's useless sighing, which I've been doing every other minute since I cam in here, half an hour ago.

"I don't want to nag him!" I answer. What if I interrupted a scene? Arty hates that. Derek sighs too, and gets a warning glare from Vella. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it as we all stop moving. Someone's pulling in the driveway.

"Arty's here, bye!" I shout, and run to the door, slipping my heels back on and putting on another coat of lip gloss. I open the door, and there, indeed, is Arty. He's standing on our doorstep, blond hair neat as a pin and gray eyes looking down at me, as if nothing unusual has happened.

"Where were you? Are you okay? Did you car beak down?" I look over his shoulder (he's shorter than Derek) and see that his car's there, intact.

"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?" he replies. I tell him he was late, and that he's (until today) uncannily punctual. He just shrugs, telling me that his scene ran late.

"Oh. That's all?" I say, trying not to sound disappointed. My last resort had been that he'd been working on a surprise . . .

"Let's go." Arty says, locking arms with me and escorting me to his car, as usual. He told me I looked cute, which made me blush prettily, and then we went to lunch.

We got back at seven. We had lunch, took a drive (that got me excited, but still no special surprise), had dinner with his co-workers, saw a movie, and arrived back where this whole date started. My house. Huh.

Arty escorts me up the door, as usual (Uh, are you going to propose here? At my front door?), and I say,

"Arty, do you know what today is?"

"It's not your birthday, right?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"It's our anniversary. Our two year anniversary!" I almost yell. I can't believe he forgot. I've been prattling on about this for three. Whole. Weeks. And for what? Nothing! My eyes start tearing. I look gorgeous when I cry – big, bright, sparkling eyes and my skin doesn't even blotch. No runny nose, either.

I hope my sad sniffling and teary eyes get across through that thick skull.

"Aw, c'mon sweetheart!" he says, "It's not that important!"

"What? What do you mean, it's not –" I start to screech for the second time today, but Arty cuts me off.

He kisses me. Psh.

"Well, I guess –" I'm cut off again, because he kisses me again. I give in.

"It's not important." I say when I get the chance.

"That's right," Arty says.

"Goodnight," I say softly, and kiss the tip of his nose. I get a smudge of lipstick on it. I giggle. "Aries the red-nosed reindeer" I sing.

Arty does not find this amusing. He growls and rubs his nose, which of course only makes it worse. I laugh lightly, using my coat sleeve to get the remnants off.

"Thanks. G'night baby," he says, and saunters over to his car. I watch him leave, and head inside.

A/N 2: Wow. How 'bout Arty? I don't like him much - kind of sleazy. Much with Vella will be happening soon! Please Review!