The girl had shoulder length, jet black hair that whipped across her face in the gentle spring breeze. On her left wrist was perched a robin, it's beady black eyes looking away in uncertainty, it's brilliant chestnut frame shining in the sun. Such beauty was a shame to let free. It should be kept and admired in a cage, for all to see.

But this was a girl with a soft heart. Her eyes glimmered with fondness at the beautiful bird on her hand, yet her expression did not match them. Her mouth curled downwards despairingly, her cheeks were not of a warmth or redness akin to the other cheerful girls around her. She looked with a sort of yearning towards the robin, because she wasn't free. How she longed to be able to escape it all, with a single thrust of her wings, and fly away to freedom.

The loud BUZZ of my room intercom made me jump, stopping me abruptly in the midst of my sketching.

"Mathew dear, dinnertime,".

The intercoms were getting on my nerves day by day. But I guess that's what you get when you own a 3-storey mansion with only 3 people living in it. Plus 5 maids, of course. It would be impossible to yell for each other in this cavernous house. I pressed the red SPEAK button and muttered into the speakerphone, "OK, Rocio,".

Slightly annoyed at having to leave my art at such an inspired moment, I sighed and folded my A3-sized sketchblock. I kept it deep underneath the looming tower of political science textbooks in my book cupboard, then arranged my wax colour pencils neatly in their box and hid those as well behind my dresser. Noone could know of my artwork.

I had kept my passion for the art of pastel painting a secret from my parents ever since I drew my first portrait. That was 3 years ago. I'd drawn my best friend, Caine, in charcoal on paper. He'd said it was such an exact depiction of him and loved it so much he paid me ten bucks for it. That was what pushed me to go further, and now I couldn't stop.

Noone suspected of my talent, not even when I started ordering a couple of canvas and cardboard sheets, chalk and wax crayons from the art store some time ago. They all seemed to think it was part of school projects or some other irrelevant activity. I'd been silently drawing in my room with my door locked, whenever I was free. To date, I had three 2-inch thick portfolios full of drawings, all of which noone knew of.

I strutted downstairs, taking in the delicious scent of roast beef and mushroom gravy, with a slight hint of parsley. Noone cooked as good as Lorenzo. I've been glad enough to have him as my cook for as long as I've known. I walked on, past the drawing room(which, ironically, I never use for my drawing), the living room and the music room, until I finally reached the dining room, where both my dad and Rocio were already on their seats, pouring drinks and serving each other plates of food.

"Mathew, you're late. Again. And what did I tell you about calling your mother Rocio?" my father demanded.

"You mean my stepmother? Like I said, Dad, I don't need to call her Mom. We're not even blood-related," I replied.

"Mathew!" he yelled.

"Honey, I don't mind," Rocio shushed him, and as always, he fell to the lure of her demeanour and quietened. "Some beef for you, Mathew?" she asked me, pouring some water into my glass.

"It's ok, I've got it," I answered, glaring at my dad. He said nothing, only proceeded to eat his dinner.

An awkward silence followed for the next five minutes or so, which was only disrupted by the maids bringing in more water or replenishing the food on the table.

I was so used to this routine. Rocio being condescending to both me and my dad, my dad and I fighting at the dinner table, long awkward silences. It had been like this for months. To be exact, 4 months. The same length of time Rocio had stayed with us.

Rocio had tried to be nice to me ever since she moved in, after my mom left. It was obvious that my dad had been cheating on Mom, what with all his secret phone calls, his late-night drunken appearances claiming he'd been "at work", his weeks out of the house saying he'd been on business, even though we all knew he was with Rocio. In the end, my mother couldn't take it and left, and all I could do was visit her every fortnight or so. A shame, because I inherited alot of my mother's looks; her straight, thick, dark hair, her piercing black eyes, her angular features. It often frustrated the hell out of me, knowing that Rocio had such attributes as well. I didn't want to look somewhat like my stepmom. I didn't want to have anything similar to her at all.

"So how was work, dear?" Rocio asked, finally breaking the glassy silence.

"Good, very good," said Dad, taking a bite of his mash, "In fact, I've decided to take up on that offer of Ellen's. Ellen Gray, the host of that dinner party we attended yesterday. She seems very professional in her dealings. A few of my other friends who are currently making business with her have claimed she's very efficient and credible. No problems with account balancing, fully secure management, easygoing public relations... it's all good."

"Oh? That's great," Rocio chipped in.

"...Yeah. I discussed it with my staff and we sealed the deal this afternoon."

"That's lovely news. How about you, Mathew?"

I looked up from my food.

"Uhh... sorry?"

"I was asking how your day went. Did you go anywhere? Have fun with any friends?"

Another sign of her plain ignorance. Sure, she cared about me to ask such a question, but she didn't care enough to know that I'd been in my room the whole day.

"Umm... no. I stayed in my room,".

"Doing more reading? You still have months until Harvard, son," said Dad.

"Yeah well, you can never be too ready," I lied.

"Wait, didn't that girl yesterday... what was her name? Charley? Isn't she going to Harvard as well?" said Rocio.

"Oh yeah, Charley." said Dad, " Such a charming little girl, so polite. She seems like a decent girl. Didn't you get her number or something before we left yesterday? It'd be good to keep in touch with someone you know before you move in to Harvard," .

I sputtered my food on my plate. "That girl?", I mused, "She seems like another one of those upper east side spoiled brats who spits out every good manner in the book because their parents tell them to. It's all a show, I've seen it before, Dad. Once the curtains close, they're all back to their world of gossip, lipgloss and superficial boyfriends. The first sight of her and I knew it. No way am I getting acquainted with Charley,".

"Actually," Dad retorted, "I was thinking about something that might do some good to me and you. I need you to check in on her every once in a while. Make sure her Mom isn't doing anything funny behind my back. Make sure our deal still stays secure, and my investments don't go to waste."

"Nu-uh, not a chance. Dad, your business is your problem. And besides, since when do children give any indication of what their parents do in business?"

"That's exactly my point. Just get to know her, be friends. I need to be sure her background is good. Who knows what could happen if her mom messes things up?"

"But she's..."

"Just do it. Talk to her. Remember Mathew, I'm paying for your education here. It's the least you could do in return. What harm could a girl do? I'm sure you haven't been around alot of girls in ages, what with your books and all,".

I couldn't do this for two reasons: One, I preferred spending my time on my drawing, and two, I did not like the girl, which my father is still not convinced about.

I sighed. There was no way I was getting out of this. Truthfully, I had no problem with girls. I would probably have no problem with Charley either. I could talk up a girl anytime I wanted to. I seemed to attract them like bees to honey on any day. Prom wasn't a problem for me, I had girls on checklists waiting for me to ask them out, and neither did football practice pose much of a bore. Cheerleaders seemed to scream slightly louder every time I shot the ball in. And what made me stand out even more was the fact that I ignored those girls. I hated the fact that good looks alone could satisfy them and push them to try and attract my attention. I hated that noone wanted to depend on charm, brains and wit anymore.

But I saw Charley. I saw those blue eyes and blond hair. Granted, she was pretty, almost gorgeous in her blue dress. She looked so.... typical. From her insistence to shake my hand the very first time we met, gut instinct told me she was another Paris Hilton, squealing at the sight of a fairly attractive male. Another bee, buzzing towards a honeycomb, not caring whether its honey was sweet or sour or bitter. All that mattered was the exterior. And I hated being regarded in such a way.

So, either I do this or I tell my father about my art. Which he'd probably take as a waste of my time and throw away at the first sight of it. Looks like I'll have to deal with the girl instead.

"I'll get the chauffeur to drive me to her house tomorrow," I grumbled in deep resignation. I knew I was going to regret this.