Young Writers Society

“Darling, stop,” she trimmed a branch off the large hedge with a precise snip, accentuating the last word. A polite smile was still painted perfectly on her full lips, but the crispness in her use of the shears did more than hint at agitation. In fact, any more of a hint, and they would’ve come to life and screamed ‘run while you still can’. Electricity crackled behind green eyes focused squarely on me, generating the sensation of a dagger against my throat. After five minutes and half the spiel I was supposed to get people to buy stuff with, I understood plainly why everyone in town was afraid of a young, thin, redhead living alone. She wanted people to be afraid.

I took a few steps back. “Thank you for your time,” I mumbled, looking at my aching feet. So much for being brave and showing up those assholes at school. I turned to walk away, almost tripping on the heels my mother coerced me into wearing. A hand came to rest on my arm and gently pulled me back around.

“How much do you need to sell?” she pulled a checkbook out of her canvas apron, scribbling a signature on one of the pages, and waited for a number.

“A-ab-bout 1000$ worth to pay for th-the whole trip.” I shifted my weight nervously, tripping on my words. Was she about to do what I thought she was?

“Why do you want to go to London?” Was this a trick? A test to see how bad I wanted it? In all honesty, I couldn’t care less about the senior trip. Two weeks with the morons and delinquents that tormented me every day for the last four years of my life? No thanks. I did however, want to go to London.

“Well,” I hesitated, “there’s a school there I want to attend.” I paused, trying not to let nerves get the best of me. “But I have to apply in person.”

“What kind of school? I need to know my money is going to a worthy cause.”

“It’s a finishing school, miss. An old-fashion finishing school.” Genuineness bloomed behind her smile. She tore the page out and placed it firmly in the palm of my hand.

“I do hope you are able to attend. Basic manners are lost on today’s youth, never mind the finer points of etiquette.” She shook my hand vigorously, then steered me towards the school with a soft shove. “Also, when that wretched cookie dough arrives, donate it to the poor. I loathe it so.”

Somehow, with my crazy desires to be a Victorian lady, I won over the richest person in town.