A/N this may have some grammar mistakes. Sorry. I don't own Pocahontas or Thomas *sigh*
Book of the update: the Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
"Arielle! Arielle! You haven't forgotten about the ball we're hosting, have you? Arielle!" my eyes shoot open, and I have to grasp the trunk of the tree to keep from falling as I hear my Aunt's heavily accented voice calling. The party; I completely forgot! I glance at the sun, judging it to be about noon, and then look down at my clothes: old trousers of Jacques' and a loose white shirt, with my hair in tangles and flying everywhere. Uh-oh. Quickly looking around, I jump down from the tree and pad silently on my bare feet across the garden.
Quietly closing the door to my rooms, I rush into the closet, grabbing the new dress Aunt bought me and throwing it onto my desk. I am quickly rinsing the dirt out of my hair and drying it with a towel when Maggie, my ladies maid, taps me on the shoulder, holding up the blue gown in one hand and an undone corset in the other.
"Breathe in, Miss Arielle!" I try, and feel my lungs ache as Maggie ties the final laces to the corset. "All done! Now let's get this dress on. The color will look gorgeous on you." I sigh (or try to) and consent to the gown being slid over my head. Aunt made me pick it out, and I chose the simplest one she would allow: soft blue silk embroidered with silver swirls, a tight-fitting bodice with sleeves to the elbow, and a gauzy material flowing to the wrist. The skirt is as slim as she would allow, and no wide metal hoops underneath, or layers upon layers or frilly underskirts, and only 1 ribbon draping across the front.
Maggie has put my long blonde hair in a marvelous up do, with a few loose curls here and there. A strand of pearls hangs on m neck, matching the one on my wrist. A heavy powder has been applied to my face, along with reddish color on my lips. As I see this all in the looking-glass, I realize that I look beautiful…and not myself. I hate it.
The toes of my pinchy grey slippers hurt like crazy, causing me to trip numerous times (no one saw except once) I smile fakely and try to politely greet everyone my Aunt knows, watching miserably as Jacques charms all the lords and ladies who walk away from me, either bored or disgusted with something I let slip out of my big mouth. A fat lord's son waddles over to me and asks to dance. Oh joy.
I finally escape his grasp as the song ends. "I'm going to get some air." I mumble, pushing past him. In the yard, I walk down to my favorite tree, and look around before pulling off my slippers, laying them by the trunk, and climb up to the Y-branches. If my Aunt saw me now, she would kill me. Even my cousin, Elizabeth, who is 6 years old, can sit still and have fun at a ball or tea party. Not me; I like to run, swim, climb trees, and ride horses. I like to hunt, and with Uncle's gun, I can hit my mark from exactly 100 yards away, maybe even farther; I've never tried. A sound interrupts my train of thought: a whistling. Startled, I look down to see a pair of brown eyes, just as startled a mine, looking back at me.