#precocious

Cheep, cheep, cheep-cheep-cheep. The melodic tweeting of birds sounds from your single airpod. You sigh and steady the gun. You press down on the earbud to dismiss the incoming call. You reset your shot and follow the unwitting target as they twist and turn, searching for their adversary. For you. 

You take the shot. Right between their shoulder blades. You smile at the splatter of yellow paint across their vest. They stagger and twirl around in disappointment. They harrumph and toss down their gun.  

“Ah damn it!” Mackenzie stomps his foot. “Bull shit.” 

You point the barrel in the sky as you emerge from your perch, “don’t be a sore loser, Mack.” 

“Whatever,” he pouts. 

The tweeting starts again. You reach to tap the bud, this time answering the call. You kick through the dirt as the other players disburse. Game’s over. Back to reality.

“Howdy,” you trill as check the canister on your gun. Almost a full round left. It’s not how much you shoot, it’s where. 

“Where are you?” Your mother snips.  

“Hm,” you raise your wrist as you sling the strap of your gun around your shoulder. You tug back your sleeve to check your fitbit. “I’m not late.” 

“What do you mean you’re not late? Where did you go?” 

“Mom, I’ll be there,” you huff. “With bells on.” 

“Oh, trust me. I will hunt you down,” she sneers. “You will be here in one hour. Dressed. Acceptably.” 

You roll your eyes. You prefer it when she can’t see it. You love her, you know she means best, but you’re an adult. You agreed to her demands so why is she so rude? 

“I will, mom. I’ll even put a bow on,” you giggle. “Anywho, time to claim my prize. Ta.” 

You hang up without waiting for her no doubt scathing retort. You stride up to turn in the gun and your helmet. The gloves and boots are your own and your trademark hot pink outfit is custom-made. You get a voucher for free round of play and another medallion claiming you as champion.  

Your mom chides you often, says it’s a child’s game. Well, if she insists on treating you as one, you may as well be one. You stop and chat with a few of your competitors, some of them regulars, others just out for a day of fun. The older men aren’t very talkative. Not even a congrats on your win. 

Oh well. You try not to let the unhappiness of men rule your world. If you did, you would never do anything at all. Besides, you’ve sacrificed enough. You promised your father you’d behave and that you would show up for dinner. Well, that’s just the beginning of the agreement. 

You strip off your canvas and jacket and change out of your dirty pink jeans. You pull on a pair of lululemon flares and a loose white tee, sheltered only by your car door. Your mother would be scandalised to see it. You cackle and shove everything in your trunk. 

You blast some 90s pop for the drive. It amps you up and wards off the dread of what awaits you at home. As you drive up to the gate of your family estate, you turn down the music. You stop your out-of-tune singing and push your shoulders back. This is the real battleground. 

You pull into the garage, parking in the empty spot between your father’s lexus and your mother’ cadillac. You keep your head down as you get out. You near the interior door and ease it open. You listen to the house. You hear the flurry of the kitchen staff and all those others brought in to prepare for dinner. 

Sigh, your whole life has been parading around for company. 

You peek through the east doorway of the kitchen. Your mother screeches as she demands that the dessert be redone. You duck across and hurry upstairs. 

You swing yourself into your room and sigh. You take out the dress hand-picked by your mother. She gave you options and you bartered something cute. She wasn’t happy about the length but the faux petals around the neckline convinced her. You just love that it’s pink! 

You drape the hanger from the handle of the drawer on your vanity and look in the mirror. You take out a face wipe and clean your face of the residue of sweat and dust. You wish you could have stayed for the afternoon matches but responsibility calls. 

You begin your usual process. Primer, concealer, foundation. As you blend, there’s a tapping at the door. You recognise the melodic rhythm. You whistle back and your eldest sister enters. She’s already done up, all but her lips. She wears a burgundy robe and matching slippers with pearls. 

“There you are,” Kestral says. “Mother’s been squawking all day.” 

You look at her in the mirror and shrug. She looks down her nose at you. She has the same imperious expression as your father. If you didn’t know better, you’d be scared. 

She laughs and puts her hands on her hips. “Please, let me do your hair so she doesn’t tear it out.” 

“If you want,” you shrug, not very bothered by the task. You’ll make do. 

“Oh,” Kestral nears, “that dress is so you.” 

She touches the fluttery portrait neckline. She’s a bit more sophisticated, a lot less flowery. You dab on some blush and smear it with your fingers until it looks natural. 

“What about Wren? She’s usually much more elusive than me?” You ask. 

“Oh, yes. She took her nose out of her book for five seconds to get the witch off her back,” she takes the wide toothed comb and starts from your ends. “Even after a lifetime, she can’t really accept that this is what we were born for. I worry for her but she locked her door.” 

“And probably climbed the window,” you snort. 

“Always the most clever of us,” Kestral agrees. She’s silent as she untangles your hair. “Are you nervous?” 

Her eyes meet yours in the mirror. You shrug and hold off on the eyeliner. You’ll let her figure out your hair before that. 

“Strangers, aren’t they? But mother and father were too.” 

“Mm, and look how well that turned out. I don’t think they’ve been alone together since right before you were born,” she scoffs. 

“Likely not. But... mother says the men are well-bred. Polite.” 

“Frigid,” Kestral grins. “You must read between the lines. That is how society talks. They never say the truth, the toe around it until it kicks you in the teeth.” She takes a pin and secures it in your hair. “I’ve asked around but people never talk about interesting things, do they?” 

“No, not really.” You make a face at her in the mirror, a clownish smile, “am I pretty, sister? Will mother approve of me?” 

She chortles and shakes her head, “oh, it will be quite the night, won’t it?” 

“Don’t act as if I will be the only menace. And I’m not so worried about mother, as she shouldn’t be of us. We have to impress these men, not her, right?” 

“Impress? Well, I shouldn’t need to try for that. He can win me over. Tradition and all,” she drones. 

The door clicks behind her and you both give a start. You turn as Wren stands against the door, her eyes wide and her hair as unwieldy as ever. So much as she tries to tame it, it has a will of its own. Despite her reticence, she is much the same. 

“I saw one,” she says. 

“Saw one?” You echo. 

She hushes you and comes forward. She’s in a plum sweater and linen pants. Her glasses are tangled in her hair and crooked. She has a book under her arm. 

“He’s tall. Blonde. Look,” she points to the window. You and Kestral share a look before you rise. You follow her to the window Wren remains by the vanity. 

“Oh, wow, isn’t that typical?” Kestral drawls, “an antique car. Well, Wren, you should hope he’s yours then. By the looks of it, he’ll spend more time with that beast than you.” 

She squeaks and flutters around behind you. She’s always been the softest spoken of you all. Reserved but willful. Most wouldn’t guess it, but she’s rather funny when she wants to be. 

“Mm, he has manners. He is chatting rather intently with Reginald.” 

“Yes, Reginald can be rather chatty,” Wren murmurs. Sometimes, she is too honest. 

“Well, Kes,” you turn away from the window and lean against the wall, “you said you asked around. What did you hear?” 

“Like I said, gossip is rarely useful,” she sighs and retreats. “Mine, Conrad... he’s not much history in ‘society’,” she emphasizes the last word with her fingers. “From what I’ve gathered, he comes from a well to do family. I heard more of his brother than him. Frustratingly mysterious.” 

She crosses her arms and sits on your bed, “then there’s Laufeyson, Wren’s match. He does have quite the reputation. A tricky man. I’m not entirely sure why mother and father chose him but no offense, Wrenny, you are a middle child.” 

“Mm, I’d say better than no one but no one sounds rather nice,” she mutters. 

You laugh. She really is so silly. 

“And me?” You prompt. 

“Pine. Proper gentleman by my measure. Never a toe out of line. No mystery, no scandal. He sounds like he was created in a factory.” 

“Boring?” You comment. 

“I wouldn’t expect any of them to be more than,” she examines the crimson tips of her manicure. “But we should try to pretend they are interesting.” 

“Forever,” you utter. 

“Forever...” she agrees dully. “So is our lot, yes? We must make the best of it. Get through tonight, then the wedding, and when all is said and done, we can still be us.” She leans back and crosses one leg over the other. “I’ll take Lottie with me. She’s a loyal stead and I’ll need something fun to ride.”  

She gives a wink and you giggle. Wren squeaks and rocks bashfully. 

“Wren, you can take all your books and add a thousand more to your shelves. You could build yourself a castle and lock yourself away to read forever,” she says, “and Chicky,” she looks at you, “you can just be you. Go out shooting or dancing or shopping. As long as our duty is met, we will be free. Truly. No more mother, no more father. We will laugh in their faces and say ‘no’.” 

“I hope you’re right,” you turn back to peer out the window. 

The blond man stands below. His brow suit is sleek and tailored. Even from there, you can tell it is cut of fine material. He looks up as you peer down and you think for a moment he sees you. You flinch and draw back behind the curtain, tugging it across the pane. 

“I do too,” Kestral agrees. “Think of it this way, we want out of this house. This is how we get out. Then we have our own titles, our own rights, and our husbands, well, they can have their own hobbies.”