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him again. I wondered what strange but curiously intriguing things he would say when I spoke to him. Should I really work with him in the art room today? I always worked alone but his company would certainly be interesting. I decided I would just sit near him and see what happened, after all, what harm could it do?
    I began humming as I brushed out my hair, quite absorbed in my thoughts. I noticed my reflection in the mirror and froze, the brush stopping halfway through my long, chestnut locks, my blue eyes widening, my small mouth forming a little “o” in surprise.
    For a moment, I didn’t recognize my own face in the mirror. I knew I was physically attractive – everyone told me so. I had all the right features to be considered beautiful; I wore all the right clothes that complimented me in all the right places. I’d never been particularly proud of my good looks though; my beauty was expected, conventional. I generally avoided examining my reflection too closely as it was just another reminder of the rigid, confining perfection that ruled my life. But today when I glanced into the mirror, I found myself staring. Today I was not perfect, and beautiful, and boring – today I looked uncharacteristically disheveled and surprisingly... beautiful! My hair cascaded in untamed, almost messy waves over my shoulders. My skin glowed, my cheeks a little splotchy from the natural flush. My blue eyes were open a little too wide and were bright with sparkling excitement. My pink lips were pulled back in a happy yet uneven smile. It was then that I realized what the real difference was; it was the first genuine and natural smile that I’d seen on my face in… I didn’t know how long.
    Choice and change; I’d thought they were incompatible for me. But I’d made a small choice and already seen a small change. Could it really be that simple? Today, I decided, I would find out.

Chapter Three - Weird
    I sat alone at our long, dining room table, pushing my breakfast (a half grapefruit) around my plate. I was having a hard time sitting still and waiting for Clarke to arrive to drive me to school. I shifted in my chair, feeling antsy and over-eager to get going, to start my day, and (if I was being honest with myself) to see him . I gave up on breakfast and instead went to the formal sitting room at the front of our house. I sat down in a plush armchair by one of the large, bay windows that looked out over our perfectly-manicured property and up towards the road to watch and wait for Clarke.
    When Clarke’s black Bentley finally pulled into the top of our driveway just outside the gates, I felt an uncharacteristic flash of irritation. I had to walk down the whole length of the driveway through the steadily falling rain to Clarke’s car. Icy droplets ran down my neck and flattened my hair as I dashed through the puddles that soaked into my shoes. Clarke didn’t like having to turn around in front of our house; he constantly complained about how we should have a circular driveway like his. Today he didn’t even open the car door for me – he obviously didn’t want to get wet. I resisted the urge to grind my teeth, instead arranging a forced smile on my face as I pulled open the passenger side door and hopped in.
    “Oh, babe! You’re soaked!” he exclaimed as I sat down. Was he really so self-absorbed that he hadn’t noticed it was raining? No, that wasn’t nice, I scolded myself. He had many things preoccupying him; it wasn’t fair to expect him to always be thinking of me.
    “It’s okay. It must have just started down-pouring as I came outside,” I reassured him. “I don’t mind though – a little water never hurt anyone.”
    “Ugh! You’re going to ruin the leather,” he complained, grimacing as my drenched jacket pressed up against the leather seat. My eyes tried to narrow into a glare. I fought the urge. What was wrong with me this morning?
    “Sorry, do you want me to take my jacket off,” I graciously