`Lights, Camera, A c t i o n. [OPEN]

[bianca]

The warm weather baffled Bianca, since it was the middle of Fall, yet there wasn't a sign of the season in sight. The warm sun was now reaching it's peak, sailing high in the turquoise sky. Her golden bikini shimmered as she walked across the burning sun, in a pair of flats she'd picked up on the way to the beach. She carried a bottle of water in one hand, and a pink Dolce and Gabbana bag in the other.

The sound of the ocean and little kids playing soothed Bianca's nerves about her classes, studying and other shit she had to do for school. All that was on her mind right now, was deepening her sun kissed tan, and relaxing. She hadn't met any friends yet, that made her feel slightly out of it already, but she'd join a few clubs, socialize, and meet new people. Bianca was always the chairman or organizer of something in New York and Arezzo, and enjoyed making others happy. It was also something that kept her occupied for a length of time, mostly keeping her away from drugs and alchohol her parents would always say.

Bianca found a perfect spot on the golden sand, the sun right overhead of her. Pulling out a white towel, she lay it out on a flat space. She kneeled down on the towel, pulling out a bottle of sun lotion and smeering the liquid on her arms, legs, and torso. Afterwards, she tied her brown locks up in a high, messy, ponytail. She couldn't care less about her appearance just now, she didn't know anybody, and nobody knew her. That was one of the best things about being unknown; you were never bothered. Pulling her Dior sunglasses over her eyes, she lay back and soaked up the sun.

[Lydia Dupont]

Lydia stretched melodramatically as she removed her sleeping mask. She had gotten a surprisingly good night of sleep, though she would never admit it. Anyone who asked her how she slept was bound to get an ear full of complaints and antidotes about how the mattresses back in New York were firmer. She swished out of bed and spread the drapes of her window wide open. A small smile twisted upon her face as she basked in the heavy morning sun that illuminated the room she shared with her roommate. It was a nice day outside, and although she was sorely missing the crisp autumn weather of New York, she could see herself slowly getting used to the idea of waking up to a blockade of sun every morning.

She glided over to her dresser as she contemplated what she was going to choose to wear that day. It was the weekend, so she had free reign activity wise. She pushed her pin straight hair behind her ear as she picked up her Blackberry to check her schedule. She kept an incredibly organized schedule in color-coded half an hour increments. She saw that, sadly, she didn’t have much planned for the day. She then weighed her options, and decided to take advantage at her California disaster and spend her newly found free time at the beach. She had always enjoyed the beach, especially the one close by her family’s East Hampton house, and the one at the Four Seasons resort at Nevis. She hadn’t been to a California beach in almost ten years, and she was curious to analyze it.

It was almost noon by the time Lydia arrived at the beach, and the sun was in full gear. She was dressed in a classic, yet sexy, one-piece retro-style Chanel swimsuit, with a red Marc Jacobs button down cover-up. She was also wearing a large floppy hat and her favorite oversized tortoise-shell Oliver Peoples sunglasses, because she already had naturally tan skin thanks to her mother’s Moroccan ethnic background, and skin cancer was never cute on anyone. It wasn’t until after she laid her towel down that she realized who she was sitting next to. Bianca Marcello had attended her school back in New York for a little while, and then had disappeared right off the social map, something that Lydia wasn’t all too sad about. “Well,” she said curtly to Bianca, “look what the cat dragged in.”

[bianca]

"Well, look what the cat dragged in." She recognized that voice right away, and of course the rude tone along with it. Bianca could pick it out from anywhere, even if she hadn't really heard it in a long time. Bianca sat up adruptly, whipping her head to the right to find the source of the voice. Surprisingly enough, it was Lydia Dupont, one of her friends. Well, they used to be friends. It's fascinating how nice people all of a sudden turn to cocky elites. Bianca was sure that money was going to Lydia's head.

"Whatever it was, it sure made you look bad," Bianca retorted curtly, plastering the fakest smile on her face she could muster up. Lydia and Bianca had been friends with eachother, until her the Dupont's decided to sweep her family off their porch. This had caused some tension between the families, and Bianca was not one bit happy. She raised her eyebrows and cocked her head, smugness written all over her face. Bianca was never one to fight, but Lydia disgusted her, and wasn't about to be walked over by her snottyness.

"Why are you here?" She hissed. Hopefully she was attending Westfield Academy, so she wouldn't have to see that peppy little face everyday. She would seriously transfer if she had to, not that she'd say it to her face. Lydia was one of the reasons she'd gone to boarding school in the first place, to get away from her whiny voice and dirty looks. What a perfect way to have your day ruined.

[Lydia Dupont]

Lydia studied Bianca through her oversized lenses. They had been good friends, great friends even, until they’re last years of Middle School. Lydia had discovered that Bianca had been spending a lot of time sniffing around The Village, and it wasn’t because she was looking for a great deal on vintage shoes. She wasn’t the kind of person that tried to control her friends, not to an extreme extent anyway. However there was one rule that she had. If someone was going to be her friend they could have absolutely no contact with either Laurence or Clark Dupont. If there was one person that Lydia despised more than any other thing on the planet, it was her father. Her father was sloppy, lazy, disorganized, he had cheated, and gotten himself locked in prison—the ultimate social disgrace. She blamed him for her parents divorce, as well as many other childhood aliments that she hadn’t yet gotten over. Clark was almost as bad as her father. He was lazy, lacked ambition, and didn’t care about making himself presentable to the world. He was her opposite, and she loathed him. However, the real reason she hated him, though she would never admit it, even to herself, was that he had left to go live with her father. Clark, who had always been her comrade when it came to enduring tutoring or awful nannies, had chosen to abandon her. He had left Lydia with their inattentive mother to go live a life of slobbery in a different zip code, and for that she could never forgive him.

Most of her friends had understood this about her, and honestly didn’t care. They would much rather hang out with their charming, well-bred classmate, than even consider associating with a middle-aged social reject and his dead-beat son all the way down in The Village. Bianca, however, had been friends with Clark before the great schism, and had been doing all in her power to reconnect with him behind Lydia’s back, and had even gone as far as to get cozy with him after one of his pathetic gigs at Don Hill’s, or so she was told. Lydia didn’t deal with backstabbers, liars, and cheats—that was Clark’s territory.

Whatever it was, it sure made you look bad,

“Always the clever comeback from you dear,” Lydia answered in a bored tone that suggested she had better things to do than argue with her. She didn’t like getting her hands dirty in arguments, it was rather tackles, and frankly not her style. She preferred to pull power strings that actually made a difference. It was a skill that she had unfortunately inherited from her shrew of a mother. Why are you here? “Tsk-tsk,” Lydia clucked as she shook her head sadly, “Why take such a tone with me love? It almost seems as if you aren’t happy to see me,” she noted sarcastically as she pulled out a copy of French Vogue (it was much more up-to-date than the American rubbish her mother produced, even if it was in another language), “though I’m sure you’re actually happy to see my brother.” The last part of her comment was said under her breath, almost inaudible to Bianca.

[bianca]

At first, it hadn't been a big deal not being friends with Lydia. I mean, they never actually really talked in school, until tenth grade. They'd become good friends, and it was stupid that her parents were so immature. None of the crap would have happened if her mother would've just kept her mouth shut, but when she drinks, she thinks she's invincible. She tends to brag about what she has and what others don't when alcohol meets her system, and for her father, well, he completely zones out of it. The situation was worse, because Bianca liked Clark a lot. He had a very unique personality, and had grown to like him over the years she'd known him. She was now debating with herself, if she actually like-liked him. At times she was sure she did, and at others she wasn't so convinced. She was now scared Lydia would be somewhat jealous, and try to break them apart as friends, and end up having the same broken relationship Bianca has with Lydia. But the thing is, Bianca doesn't know anything about the sibling's relationship. Their relationship slightly bothered Bianca, but she didn't let that get in the way of life.

"Always the clever comeback from you dear."

Bianca cracked a sarcastic grin, replying smugly. "I know that," She murmured, "No need to remind me." She lay back down on her towel, yawning whilst she continued to talk. She wasn't in the mood to talk, and would rather say, 'Piss Off'. But of course she'd never really say it like that, as she wasn't that kind of bitch. Although, she had her moments, I guess. "Tsk-tsk, why take such a tone with me love? It almost seems as if you aren’t happy to see me." Yeah, your damn right, Bianca thought hastily, clenching her jaw under her skin, and trying to ignore the comments from her. Bianca didn't hear the last part of her comment, as she wasn't exactly listening and she was murmuring. She positive it was about her brother, though.

"Oh yes, I'm delighted to see you. Out of all places, you came here," Bianca replied in the fakest and most sarcastic tone she could find. She wasn't thinking about nice today, how mood had already been completely ruined, by her.

[Lydia Dupont]

Lydia raised a brow at the girl. She was rather put off by the entire situation. She didn’t enjoy confrontation, but ones without wit or purpose were especially harrowing for her. She had dropped Bianca, the moment she had learned of her betrayal. In Lydia’s mind, once she was done with someone it was forever, and she no longer saw the point in engaging them in any sort of conversation, it was a waste of her time. She was especially ruthless when it came to treachery. She simply didn’t tolerate, no matter who the person was, even beloved family members. Though Bianca had been different, the two of them had actually been close before their falling out.

I know that, No need to remind me

Lydia rolled her eyes behind her oversized lenses. She knew Bianca didn’t enjoy conflict anymore than she did, but the least she could do was try to make an argument entertaining. She was just so bored with her life in California that any sort of witty conversation would stimulate her, even if it were in a petty argument. She opened up her magazine and began to flip through the colorful ads, her mind working hard to fluently translate the scripts into English.

Oh yes, I'm delighted to see you.

“Ouch,” she said slowly and sardonically, her voice was dripping thick with irony, “I’d watch that tone of yours, or one might actually think you aren’t being serious.” She didn’t think that sarcasm called for a change in tone, she always spoke in her smooth rich voice, and it was up to others to interpret it as they pleased, “Or perhaps they might mistake you for a Long Islander.” She smiled curtly before turning back to her magazine. Being mistaken for a tacky, Juicy/Abercrombie wearing, fast-talking, suburban girl from Long Island was a fate worse than death for a Manhattanite.

Out of all places, you came here,

“Yes,” she said coldly, “given the option of allof the places in the world I chose to live in this festering wound.” Bianca had hit a nerve, though Lydia would never let her know it. She had been disgusted by the idea of having such little control over her future. Being forced to leave, and because of her father no less, was probably one of the worst things that had ever happened to her—not being able to chose her California school? Well, that was the biggest mistake her parents had ever made. The only small shred of hope that kept her level headed was the fact that Bianca didn’t seem to know about her father yet, and she was going to keep it that way.

[bianca]

Bianca chose to ignore the snide comments emitting from Lydia. She could go pester someone else for all she cared. Right now, Bianca was here to relax, and let go off stress. But so far, she'd only mounted on more stress and frustration than intended. Lydia was beginning to piss her off, but she'd never let it so. That's a sign of defeat or surrender, and Bianca was going to flaunt the stubborn bitch she could be. It was way out of her comfort zone and not her nature, but if it made her go away, she was willing to try.

Bianca pulled her big lensed sunglasses from her eyes, pushing them back into her curly hair. She rolled her eyes dramatically; mockingly too. She pulled her cell phone from her purse once again, looking for messages or calls to reply to, to occupy her mind for at least a few minutes. With nothing on her cell, she tossed it back in her bag, sighing with frustration.

"Given the option of all of the places in the world I chose to live in this festering wound."

Bianca resisted laughing. "Oh I'm sorry you landed here. Does this fail to meet your standards?" She spat back, acid dripping in her mocking tone. Bianca didn't have time for pathetic people like Lydia, as she preferred doing things useful with her life.