This is the conclusion to the interconnected Amy Amstel stories started in “My Date as a Teenage Girl Model”. If you haven’t read the earlier stories I suggest you start there (330+ Kudos clickers can be wrong but the odds are in your favor). The stories about Amy Amstel are mostly self-contained though.

Transatlantic flights seldom are fun. If you start from Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport terminal 2 you don’t exactly get off on a good start either. If you really are a bit too tired to work it’s even less fun. Flying west I try not to sleep on the flight since that really messes up my sleep-cycles. I was a bit surprised to find a scraggy teenager in the seat next to me. Not the usual passenger in first class. I decided that a long chat with the boy would be preferable to pretending to work. It didn’t start too well. When I introduced myself, Harry Howard, and told him that I was editor–in-chief of the most important fashion magazine for men the boy looked horrified. Apparently not a fashion aficionado. Well, I could have told that from his clothes. Jeans and white T-shirt as well as disheveled hair. Despite that he had a “groomed” look if you looked closer. Actually if you looked very closely he was kind of “pretty”. Shaped eye-brows, holes in his ears, just a hint of mascara remaining on those very impressive eye-lashes. Intriguing.

Photo by Wilson Vitorino from Pexels
 

Part 28 of 29

Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Even though he officially retired some years ago, Grandpa is still a force to be reckoned with at the library. If he needs the community room on New Year's Eve then naturally he gets the community room on New Year's Eve even if the place is shuttered tight. He says he knows just where all the bodies are buried and there's no budget for re-interring them so they just have to let him do what he wants.

There was a lot of screaming on the car ride back. Usually, this would bring me to a bad mood, but I felt powerful and in control this time. I felt like whatever my dad keeps yelling and threatening me with didn’t matter. It can’t matter. My smile kept and even turned into my wild grin a few times throughout the ride. I realized that he’s not really yelling at me or even cares about actually punishing me. He only cares about how indignant I was to him. How disobedient. He would not ever punish me because that’d take energy and time. He doesn’t really wanna put in the effort.

Part 5

The nurse took me back to my room where I was put back into bed and given a shot to allow me to sleep. The next day Francesca came to see me and she told me that I was no longer her maid but would now be classed as family, as will Mario when he recovers.