Spellbound

10

Hailey

I stare at the reflection looking back at me; blond hair, big blue eyes, clear pale skin. I look good. That's always been the complement bestowed on me since I was a child.

"What a pretty little girl."

"What lovely hair."

"You have beautiful eyes, Hailey."

Most of the people paying homage to my looks don't get to know me past the veneer. But he does – Brice. He sees me. He's seen the ugly parts and he loves me. He gets me like no one does not even my girls. That's why I love him.

There's a knock on my door. I quickly tie up my hair in a ponytail.

"Hailey, you up yet," Jessica asks.

"Yeah, just gimme a minute."

I smooth down the ponytail that falls midway down my back and open the door. Jessica comes in and falls backward dramatically onto the bed I just made. I want to shout at her but bite my tongue. I hate conflict and I can't afford to lose the few friends I have. In a few weeks, our schooling career is over and the people I've called my friends I'm likely to never see again unless I'm on the socials. I'm ready to start afresh in France with Brice.

"I think your lying on my study notes," I say instead.

She sits up and reaches for the pages behind her, shuffling through them. "Mrs Jones is such a bitch."

"Ugh! I know." I'm rolling my eyes in agreement thinking back to the time she embarrassed me. 

**Flashback to 10th grade English Class**

"Does anyone have any questions from the previous passages we read through in our last lesson?" asked Mrs Jones.

Either no one had any or no one dared the arduous ask of why we were learning Elizabethan English in the 21st Century. The English crown isn't what it once was. I heard Mr Le Roux telling my dad that they held no political power or lucrative territories, but they did have money and that's why the world continued to flatter them with their sub-par language and even poorer culture. 

His description was quite funny and it pissed off my dad because we are Harpers and originally from the British Isles. It made me like him even more than the fact that he was Brice's dad and a proper gentlemen to me in passing.

"Alright then. Charlondra would you like  to read pages 10 through 12?" Mrs Jones quips moving along with the class.

"I wouldn't like to. But I guess I have to," she mumbles, standing up reluctantly.

The boys at the back snicker.

"Why do we have to study this play in archaic English. Surely we could have afforded class copies of Romeo and Juliet in New English translations?"

Some of the class hums in agreement. Some of the boys chuckle because they are annoying and everything is so damn funny.

"In order to navigate the world of today we have to understand the origin of language and how narrative is built around it. Take for example the term bimbo. Anyone care to give a definition?"

"A dumb blonde?" Tshepo offers, and the boys erupt in another round of laughter.

"Thank you Tshepo. That is the 21st Century understanding  - an unintelligent, attractive woman - the stereotypical blonde. However, it is interesting to note that the term is Italian and bimbo is the masculine term for a male baby or a young male child, the feminine form being bimba.