Pearl White ~A One Direction FairyTale~

You think you know how the story goes. Snow White meets some dwarves, eats an apple, falls asleep, gets kissed by a prince and lives happily ever after.

If only my life were that simple. My name's Pearl. Pearl White. And unfortunately for me, I'm never even going to get to meet my prince. Because his name is Liam Payne, and he's a member of the boy band One Direction.

Cover made by the amazing user NathanielStanley! Thank you so much!

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8. Laws

"I'm afraid that I'm going to have to postpone the trial." The lawyer peers at me from behind thick coke-bottle lenses.

"What?" I exclaim, outraged. "You told me a couple of days ago that you'd be ready to proceed immediately. I want this behind me! I want to go to a regular school again!"

I've spent the past week attending classes in management, language, business, and etcetera held by St. Mungos. It's pretty safe to say that I failed at most of them, except for cooking. After giving it another shot, I managed to bake an apple pie with a perfectly golden crust. It was delicious, and I shared it with the Hopeful Seven, as I've taken to calling them. And yet I still didn't have the motivation to attend the sewing class, staying and moping in my room until it had ended and then feeling guilty over my laziness.

The lawyer, a Mr. Sedgewick, sweats nervously, and my eyes trace a small bead of perspiration as it trickles down his face, past his glasses. But when he speaks, his voice is cold. Confident. 

"I assure you, I am doing everything I can to make this case my priority. However, I am taking your case on as charity, and unfortunately, there are certain cases that take precedent before yours. I already had a busy schedule before I agreed to take on your case, and as it turns out, I need to be in court on that date for a different reason. Your case can be postponed; this case cannot be."

His teeth glint as he bares them like a shark, speaking down to me like a child who's stolen sweets, and I bite back my retort, face flushed in anger.

"I understand," I mutter through gritted teeth. I hate dealing with lawyers. I hated dealing with them and Celia after my father's death, and I certainly hate dealing with Mr. Sedgewick. Initially, he was very enthusiastic about my case, especially the lack of solid evidence, telling me that he expected the judge would simply toss the restraining order in the bin after a verbal he-said-she-said spar in court. "How long of a delay are we talking about?"

"Oh, I was hoping to postpone it until at least your spring break," he mentions casually, mopping at the sweat on his forehead.

"What?! It's almost December though! You mean I have to wait a full four months until your so-called-busy schedule clears up? You must be joking."

"No, I am not, as you so eloquently put it, joking." The lawyer packs away his briefcase and leaves, mentioning that I shouldn't correspond by email with him for at least two months or I'll receive a surcharge for his "charity services". 

I stare at the sleet outside the window. Spring seems far away. I was set to graduate from the academy this year. Apply to Universities. Now what am I doing? Wasting my time here. I make a mental note to speak to someone about finishing my education and my UCAS Tariffs. 

Suddenly it's as though I'm a bug on a lily pad set adrift on a rapid river that could tumble me over at any second. I can barely breathe with the instability. I take a deep breath. One day at a time. My stomach twists in knots and convulses. I don't want to think about anything worrying. Suddenly I've lost my drive to do anything today, so I grab a gossip magazine and lie down on my bunk bed, unwilling to move.

Where is Pearl White?

Heiress Runs Away

StepMother Devastated!! Read more in Tell-All Article!

Hooray. Celia's capitalizing on my absence. I force myself to read the dreaded article. 

"Pearl White, the famous bare-faced model for Vogue went to school on her eighteenth birthday last week, and never came home. Her stepmother Celia, also known as the Beauty Queen of Britain, is devastated. 'I raised her myself practically, after her death...'"

Yeah right, Celia. If you call hiring maids to raise me, then you sure raised me. I look at the picture of Celia lounging on the love seat and wince. She looks positively skeletal and the thick makeup and photoshop can't hide the tiredness in her eyes. Is she eating? I remember the retching noises every night. Eating no more than 400 calories a day, and talking non-stop about exercise. I remember the collarbones jutting out from her skin, and her eyes, so wide and child-like in her face.

She tried to indoctrinate me as well, telling me I was beautiful one day and then too fat the next. She tried to make me crash diet and detox alongside her, but I was already so skinny in my mind and secure in my identity that I didn't take stock in her criticism, although it certainly wore down my shell. So I began to avoid her, hiding in my room because if I hid away, she couldn't mention the thin rim of fat around my belly that the maid told me was natural when I mentioned it. I never spoke to her about it, I was too scared to, but my heart clenches. Celia definitely has a problem. I can't blame her for this mess. It's not her.

I don't know what is her. I don't know why she can't see the person in the mirror looking back at her, begging her to stop doing this to her body. Maybe, what she sees in the mirror is her worst nightmare, bringing her closer and closer to the brink of self destruction. Egging her on, telling her, like Kate Moss in the magazines, "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels".

I close the magazine and sleep. It's only one in the afternoon, but I have no strength. Smithy wakes me up at eight for dinner, and I cry on his shoulder for a good ten minutes, utterly exhausted. He pats my back in a way that reminds me of my own father after I fell down from climbing the apple tree and scraped my knee.

"There, there...It's ok," he mutters, somewhat awkwardly. I can tell he's not used to having distressed females flinging themselves at him. I've been crying a lot lately, and it's rather exhausting to suddenly be forced to depend on others for support.

"Thanks Smithy," I say, smiling through my tears. Suddenly, I begin laughing, wiping away my tears. How ridiculous I must look, like a child crying over and over again. I'm tired of crying. "Do you think that they have a good pair of running sneakers downstairs in my size?" 

 

 

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