Yaris 31, 2714 - Late Afternoon
Cerise tore sullenly at the grass beneath her hand. She should have taken up Marianna's offer to sit with her on the bench; the grass was going to stain her dress. The young politician's daughter just hadn't quite been sure of the other girl's motives--it had taken her too long to respond, and Marianna had shrugged and moved on before Cerise had made up her mind. She wouldn't offer again, Cerise knew. At least they were both green.
"Don't have one of your weird books with you today, Vauquelin?" The voice came from above her head. Cerise had to squint as she looked up, the Yaris sun getting directly in her eyes. Not that she need to look to know who it was--there was only one person who it could really be.
"Go crawl back under the rock you came from, Antoinette." Antoinette Roumanille was in the same year as Cerise, a soft-faced Anaxi girl with an unfortunate fondness for being irritating. Her father was a judge, or something like it--she had told Cerise once, when they had both joined Junior Varsity some years ago. Upon reflection, she thought the imperious way Antoinette had delivered this information to Cerise might have been an overture of friendship. It had not hit the mark; Cerise had not been particularly impressed and told Antoinette so. They had apparently become rivals, at least to Antoinette. Cerise found her mostly to be a nuisance.
Cerise looked away from Antoinette; the other girl took this as invitation to continue speaking. She always did, until she got tired of not getting a response and went away. On and on she prattled--all very cutting, Cerise was sure. She wasn't really listening, until something in Antoinette's grand monologue managed to catch her attention for once.
"What did you say?" Cerise's head snapped up, and she winced at the triumphant glee that spread across Antoinette's piggish little face. Gods but she did look over-warm. It made her already-red face even redder. Didn't seem healthy.
"I said," Antoinette repeated herself with obvious relish, each word enunciated for impact, "that I heard a very interesting story, that you aren't your father's daughter. I just wanted to know if it was true."
What a stupid, childish insult. Anyone who had ever seen Anatole Vauquelin anywhere near his oldest daughter could tell they were related. Mother always said she had her father's eyes. Cerise knew she had his smile, and she didn't like it. The insult needled at Cerise anyway, and Antoinette could see it. Her hands balled into fists in the grass. There was some snickering nearby--the conversation had quieted down around the pair of them.
"Did I strike a nerve?" She cooed. "I'm sorry. Don't tell me--is it true?" Antoinette made a great show of being regretful, then leaned in like she was going to tell Cerise a secret. "Of course, I also heard it's a miracle you aren't some kind of halfbreed--"
"Take that back," Cerise cut in sharply. She knew she shouldn't rise to the bait. It was weak, meaningless, with no basis in reality or even really rumor. Antoinette was just trying to be cruel. That was probably the most annoying part--that she was going out of her way to say such absurd things, just to find one that might land. Cerise raised her sharp chin and narrowed eyes the color of stormclouds at the other girl.
"Make me," Antoinette mocked, hands set on narrow hips.
So Cerise obliged.
It was a single burst of motion, the Incumbent's daughter not even bothering to come to a full stand. She flung herself from the ground and aimed her momentum at Antoinette's legs. Antoinette was taken by surprise and went toppling to the ground with a shriek. After that, Cerise lost track--it was just a flurry of shrieks and ill-practiced swings of her fists, while the other girl tried to throw her off.