(I was saving those shoes but I couldn't resist using them in here, with that Spanish-flamenco-flair-ness that they have.)
BIO: Isobel is Atlantic City's Spanish important. With her perpetually tan skin, straight white teeth, and dark curls, it's no wonder all the boys generally flock to her. However, Isobel is devoted to her long-distance boyfriend, Marco, and she thinks that he's just as devoted to her as she is to him. Silly, Isobel. What happens in Spain stays in Spain.
SIGNATURE SONG: Harder Better Faster Stronger - Daft Punk
SIGNATURE COLOR: Terra cotta
“¡Mierda!” Isobel swore under her breath, then quickly covered her pomegranate- painted lips and glanced around to make sure Franz hadn’t heard. Sure enough, the pilot’s assistant, or copilot, as Isobel often heard the American tourists say, was leaning back against the belly of the jet and smoking his Gauloises, eyes closed, either pretending not to have heard her or too captivated in the warm sun that deliciously baked the entire city of Barcelona. Her father’s favorite jet, white and slick in its glory, popped against the bright blue sky.
Isobel turned back to her suitcase, or rather suitcases, all fourteen of which were overflowing. She stacked three on top of each other and promptly sat down on the pile as forcefully as she could, but it was no use. They remained open.
Sighing in frustration, she sat down, opened a suitcase, and started pulling out its contents in attempt to find something that she might not need. A carved whalebone from Ireland—of course she needed that, it was given to her by a foxy male native who she still dreamed of occasionally; a set of Scottish bagpipes—they made the most haunting melody when she played them; her old stamp collection—well, the stamps were all very pretty…
“Isobel?” A familiar voice that made Isobel automatically grin rang behind her. She turned and fell into the arms of Marco, her lover of five months. He was 21, she was but 17, he was dark-eyed and “wild” as everyone proclaimed; she was a petite thing, with light honey eyes and was as naïve as the day.
They were opposites, but she knew he was perfect for her. Of course.
“Oh, Marco! Just what I needed!” She gave him a kiss and turned to her bulging luggage. “I can’t seem to figure out what I need to take out. My suitcases are overflowing, but everything in them is so…special, sabes? I can’t leave them.”
Marco held her in his arms, with the back of her head against his tall frame as he surveyed the mess. “Do you really need everything? That whalebone, for instance. Do you need it?”
Isobel blinked, turning the perfect white whalebone in her hands. “Well, of course…it’s so delicate and I…” She blinked again, biting her lip.
Marco laughed, her head vibrating against his chest, and removed the whalebone from her grip. “You see, Bella, you’re in negación, or what those Americans call…denial. You don’t want to leave Spain, do you?”
“No. I suppose you’re right.” Isobel bowed her head for a moment, thinking hard. Then she brightened and said, “I suppose it’s a better idea to leave all the useless items here, anyhow. They would get damaged during the ten-hour flight, and you know how reckless of a pilot Lars is.”
Then she leaned back against Marco and watched Franz help empty her bags, her vision blurring with tears. She had always wanted to try new things, explore the world. So it was a month ago that Father suggested she finish her last year of schooling in America. She promptly began a search of the city in America that sounded most interesting, most exciting. It wasn’t Las Vegas. It wasn’t New York City or San Francisco. She had chosen Atlantic City. The name had a nice ring to it—“Atlantic City”—and was far less overrated and more mysterious than “NYC”.
Here she was, about to fulfill one of her childhood dreams, but she felt a pang of regret as she gazed up into Marco’s dark brown eyes. Was it worth it, leaving Marco? He smiled down at her. He understood her imagination, the way her dreams worked.
“Donna Isobel,” Franz called. “The pilot is waiting.”
Isobel pulled away from Marco finally. “I’ll call you everyday, I promise. Or I’ll write to you. Or both!”
“Of course,” Marco replied. He gave her a last kiss and then, scooping up her tote, she headed towards the jet, escorted by a white-gloved Franz. Marco watched Isobel go, her dark brown curls waving an innocent good-bye at him, her eyes shining in excitement as she boarded the jet. He felt a smile tugging at his mouth. Silly little thing she was, with an endless heart and hope, willing to believe whatever she wished. He couldn’t tell if he was sad or glad that she was leaving Barcelona. One thing was certain—she was in for some big surprises.