What Happens In Mayrose: The Story Of Stacy Green

Stacy

- Monday, October 13 -

The atmosphere was a madhouse.

People were moving left and right, all at rapid speeds. Loud voices scattered across the room, nobody politely saying 'excuse me.' Nobody even bothered to notice the frenzied mess taking over the floor beneath their feet. Crumpled papers and torn pieces of fabric littered the glassy granite floor, the multiple sets of shoes stepping over or around them as if they weren't there.

This was the twister of the Davis family, and their clustering winds of assistants and employees. A twister Stacy was very familiar with, and one that she'd been caught up in for quite some time now.

She scanned past all the striding bodies in her path, to find one stationary one, sitting at a desk. She walked over to her, seeing their hands move all over at a frantic pace. First drawing, coloring in, erasing, then repeating the same cycle all over.

Stacy peered over Yara's shoulders, seeing her hand holding a pencil as she gently traced along the outlines of a design. She observed her techniques of shadowing certain corners to build depth within the sketch, and blending exotic colors she wouldn't imagine putting together, yet found quite appealing when Yara did them.

A tiny smile formed on her face as she clasped her hands behind her back. "That looks good."

Yara flinched, but soon relaxing, Stacy's familiar voice ringing in her ears. "'Good' isn't good enough," she answered, leaning her head against her arm and massaging the incoming wrinkles. "I've finally got a shot to separate my own name from my parents, and 'good' isn't going to lock my name in people's brains. I need something... enthralling. Something that'll make someone stop, inspect my work with interest, and leave with a new allure to the name Yara Davis. Just me, and not my wealthy parents."

"Well," Stacy said, piercing her lips and placing her palm on the sketch. "When I look at this, I don't see engraved initials of a self absorbed mayor, or the wine stains of an intoxicated designer. I see the work of an innovative artist, who has a lot to offer. And, correct me if I'm wrong-" She slid her hand down to the written signature in the corner of the paper. "But I think that that describes Yara Davis pretty well."

Yara turned her head to Stacy, reciprocating the same endearing beam plastered on Stacy's face. She leaned into Stacy's body, let her arm wrap around her shoulders. "Thanks, Stace," she giggled, enveloping Stacy's waist in her arms.

Stacy rubbed Yara's back with a chuckle in response. "No problem. Now, what's with all the minions running all over the place in chaos? I almost got trampled by four of them on the six foot walk over here."

Yara snickered. "Yeah, it's a lot like traffic. You have to move when you can or you're done for. And for your information it's organized chaos. Everyone knows their job and is proceeding to do so in the best way they can. It just requires a bit of shoving."

"Yeah, tell me about it!"

Stacy and Yara turned their heads to the sound of the voice, and instantly Yara's whole face lit up.

Wearing a half finished leather jacket with fur lining the sides, Andrew strode through the multitude of colleagues, clinging himself to Yara's side.

"I had to use some of my football tactics just to get through," he snarled, then took a gander down at the design Yara was working on. "That looks a lot like the other five designs you've done. Don't you think, babe?"

Yara stayed silent, tilting her head and inspecting her drawing with new skepticism. "You think so? I thought it looked... original."

Andrew shrugged. "I mean... I guess, but," He took his finger and pointed to a particular part of the sketch. "Haven't you done this sort of detailing several times. It just seems repetitive."