1994.
"Arielle, I said no and that's final."
Arielle's mother is the cruelest person in the universe.
"You're the cruelest person in the universe," Arielle whines; a long, impassioned exhalation of agony that carries and echoes across the empty foyer. Seeing that her mother has remained unmoved, she takes an alternate approach, flinging herself onto the hardwood resignedly. "If you won't let me go I'll just DIE here."
Christina stifles a laugh, earning her an immediate evil eye from her sister. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry!" she whispers, covering her mouth to hide her wide grin. "But you can't say she doesn't have a flair for the dramatic."
"She's six. All six year olds have a flair for the dramatic. Arielle Whitney Perkins, you have until the count of three to pick yourself up off the ground, say goodbye to your aunt, and get upstairs to work on your diorama. You were told that you wouldn't be able to go out if it wasn't done by this afternoon, and I'm not going to go back on that." Meredith Perkins has extensively studied childhood development. She knows that a strong-willed child like her daughter can only be handled by establishing strict boundaries and holding her to them. To allow Arielle to walk over her, even just once, would be a huge setback in their parent-child dynamic.
Arielle looks up, a glint in her eye. "There's no way to do all of those things in three seconds."
Meredith sighs. "Okay, that's it, go to your room."
1995.
"Hello? Oh, that was the beep. Mrs. Perkins? Um, hi, hello, this is Lucy Carrol, Arielle's babysitter... I'm so sorry to be calling, I know you're probably right in the middle of the benefit and I don't want to interrupt or anything, but you did say to call if anyt-- everything is totally fine, don't worry, except uh. Well I was trying to get Arielle to bed, and the list of rules you left said no sugary snacks after eight? And I told her that but she wanted a cookie and now... well she's locked herself in the bathroom, and um it's been about a half hour and she won't stop screaming? And it's fine, totally fine, I can handle this, I just did not know if there's like, a procedure that you follow for this sort of thing not that I'm suggesting it seems like something that happens often but should I like, give her the cookie or try to break down the door or-- oh God um. Okay, that was a crash, I'm going to go check on that! Everything's totally fine. See you in a few hours!"
1997.
"Yeah, but you said they liked me."
Tears are not Arielle's typical M.O. She's always been more prone to hissy fits, snarky jabs, or long bouts of the silent treatment - which usually come as a relief, after being preceded by the former two. Crying is reserved specifically for moments of pain: a scraped knee, a bee sting, a pigtail pulled slightly too hard.
Christina has no idea how she's supposed to deal with this. This is why Christina doesn't have kids.
"They did like you, that wasn't a lie. But that's the thing about showbiz, they can like you a lot and still end up going with someone else."
"It's not FAIR!" Arielle exclaims, burying her face into the nearest throw pillow, seeming about as comfortable with being seen crying as Christina is witnessing it.
Tentatively, as if going in to pet a sleeping tiger, Christina lightly ruffles her niece's hair. "Hate to break it to you, but life's not always fair, kid."
For a moment Arielle's body goes stiff, but then gradually, miraculously, the crying is reduced to a sniffle. She peeks out from over the top of the pillow, eyes still red and puffy but now positively glowering instead of leaking tears. "What good are you if you can't even help me get a job?" she poutily snarls.
Oh, good. Back to normal.
"There's my girl."
1998.
"Hello, Ms. Perkins, it's Stephanie Miller. I'm sorry to be calling you so soon after you left, but Arielle has, er, locked me in the bathroom. I think she put a chair under the door? Anyway, I wasn't sure if this was a typical thing you've dealt with in the past... I don't really want to damage your door. I can call a friend to come let me out, but the outside doors are locked, so if there's a hidden key or something they could use to get in? Well, thanks. Call back when you can. Bye."
1999.
"What do you mean you don't want to be my boyfriend?"
Kenneth Braughn doesn't know what he did to deserve being a central piece in this elementary school nightmare. Arielle stands before him, somehow still threatening despite being half a foot shorter than him and dressed entirely in pastels. Her hand is curled into a tiny fist. He imagines that fist taking a sharp jab to his throat.
Girls are terrifying.
"It's not you," he starts, and takes a large precautionary step back. "I--"
"Well obviously it's not me," she snaps back.
"I just don't really want a girlfriend right now," he finishes, feeling instantly lame and stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I mean I've got to concentrate on like, basketball and stuff. You know? The important things."
For a moment, Arielle is still. She blinks contemplatively, scans him up and down like some tiny, strangely intimidating robot surveying the land. After what feels like an eternity, she smiles.
Kenneth has never been this confused in his life, and he's pretty sure he's flunking out of algebra.
"Look," she says, her voice dropping to a conspiratory whisper. She closes the distance between them with one smooth step. "I don't think you get it, Kenny. I need a boyfriend. I could have picked any boy in our class, but I picked you, because you're tall and cute and good at sports. You don't really have to do that much! Just take me to the spring dance next month and be extra nice to me until then, and if you do a good job, maybe you can be my date to a movie premiere or something. Okay?"
"O...kay. So I don't have to like, take you on dates or anything."
Arielle rolls her eyes. "What's the point of dating in middle school? It's not like we can go anywhere without our parents driving us."
"Yeah, but you said--"
"Kenny. Shh." She puts a finger to his lips that smells like something from Bath and Body Works. Apples? Girls are weird. "I can probably throw in a Lakers game."
"Well. Okay."
2000.
"What the hell? You can't do this to me!"
"Arielle Whitney, we do not use that kind of language in this household."
"Well fine, I don't want to be a part of this household anymore, because this household sucks!"
Alexander Perkins is the Scary Dad Who Never Yells. He is an anchored rock of calm, existing in a mysterious bubble of serenity with a thick skin toughened by the arguments and tears of failing grad students. He's the kind of person who breaks your spirit by telling you that you've disappointed him. And he's about as moved by Arielle's antics as he is by a cup of decaf coffee.
"We had an agreement. You went against the terms of that agreement. You expect to be rewarded for that?"
"Why do my grades even matter? It's not like I'm going to have any use for this stuff after I graduate."
"What do you plan on doing when you can't act anymore?"
This question gives Arielle pause. "I don't understand your question."
"When you can't act anymore. When no one's interested in casting you anymore. When your aunt's last name has lost its credit and your beauty isn't enough to distinguish you from the crowd and your completely average abilities aren't cutting it alongside other actresses who've studied their craft and are better than you. Then what?"
He's not trying to be mean. Alexander's intentions are rarely to be mean. Of course, that doesn't mean that he doesn't sometimes accomplish it without putting forth the effort, either.
Something about Arielle has shrunk in size. She swallows hard. "You don't think I'm a good actress."
"I think you're young. I think you need to keep working on yourself. I think you need to step away from acting long enough to figure out what else you're good at - what you might have a real future with. If you still want to, you can start auditioning again once you've graduated." A contemplative pause. "Graduated college."
Arielle folds her arms. "I'll be a legal adult by then, you can't tell me what to do."
"Yes, well. I haven't given up hope that you'll have picked up some common sense by then, too."
"Alex," Meredith finally interjects.
"Whatever. No, whatever. Screw you, I'm going to bed." Arielle rises from her chair and pushes it in with a slam.
"We do not use that kind of language in this household," her father calls at her retreating back.
"Bite me!"
2002.
"You can't LOCK ME IN HERE! I'm going to tell my mom when she gets home!"
Arielle gives the chair she's wedged underneath the doorknob a swift kick to make sure it's firmly in place. "Like she'll believe you over the babysitter, brat. I'll let you out as soon as you agree to do what I say."
"You're a bitch!"
"I know."
2003.
"This is definitely not a good idea."
"Katherine, for once in your sad life, do me a favor and stop being such a pussy about everything. We're not going to get caught." Arielle flips her hair without a hint of irony. "I'm too smart to let us get caught. Get in the car."
Katherine is a good girl. A genuine good girl, one who goes to church on Sundays and Wednesdays for youth group, who donates to charities and volunteers at retirement homes and eats her broccoli without complaint. How she fell into sorts with Arielle is anyone's guess, but it probably has something to do with how despite not being a good girl, Arielle has some sort of force field around her that repels punishment. Maybe she really is too smart to get caught. Maybe she's just lucky. Either way, here she is in Katherine's driveway, patting the passenger seat of a car Katherine is 98% sure she doesn't know how to properly drive yet.
Katherine is a good girl, but Katherine is a doormat. She gets in.
"That's more like it!" Arielle crows, turning the volume up on the stereo and putting the car in reverse. They lurch backwards with a jolt, then a thud.
"Oh my God. Oh my God oh my God oh my God I knew this was a bad idea."
Arielle hits the brake. "Shut up, I can get us out of this."
2005.
"Cool, but I'm not going."
Arielle has been waiting on this moment for four years. The way she pushes her Stanford acceptance letter across the dining room table has been dutifully rehearsed, the accompanying smirk on her face studied to perfection.
Her father, as always, seems neither surprised nor moved by this development. "Yes you are."
"No, I'm not. And you can't make me. You can't force someone to go to college."
"You're not a legal adult yet, and if you want to continue living under this roof and on my dime, you'll do as I say."
"Fine. Make me go. I won't go to my classes--"
"You will go to your classes or--"
"I'll just skip them all until I get kicked out anyway! It won't matter because by then I'll be acting again, which is all I wanted to do in the first place except you wouldn't let me! And if you want to cut me off do it, I'll find another way to make money."
"With your high school degree and what work ethic?"
"Oh do not even get me STARTED on work ethic, you--"
"Enough." Meredith Perkins has extensively studied childhood development. She has extensively studied the familial unit and the application of sociology to it as a micro-society. And, frankly, she saw this argument coming a mile away.
"Meredith--"
"Enough. This isn't the environment for this conversation. Both of you go cool down."
"Mom--"
"Arielle, enough. Go. We'll talk about this later."
"I can't wait to get out of here, you know," Arielle yells, halfway through her ascent up the stairs. "No one's going to be telling me no out there!"
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