They met the same way most authors write it: a beautified rendition of Wuthering Height without the ghoulish deaths or unlikeable characters. It was just her in her parents’ summer house, daintily unknowing of the luxury of picking flowers in the worriless days of childhood: ma and pa went off to their own business, so they weren’t there to deal with their daughter talking to the strange boy that just tumbled through the hedges following a stray ball.
He stared as he merely went to retrieve the ball, seemingly undisturbed by the fact that he was practically trespassing, “Sorry, my mate there threw too far. I’ll be on my way.”
Something made her call out, perhaps just the mind-numbing prim and properness of her housekeepers and tutors — she recently found out that those weren’t as common as she thought — made her want to risk finding any friendship, even in a stranger, “Hey, wait.”
“…What’s your name?”
The boy turned to her with pure puzzlement, “Why do you care?”
“…I’m…just bored. Do I need a reason?”
“…’suppose you are right, name’s Sean. What are you called?”
“Antolia, Antolia Acquarine.”
“That sounds just like your house: stupidly fancy.”
“How do your folks keep the windows so so shiny anyway?”
“I mean…they…we clean it.”
“Where do you even find this time to do that?”
“That’s none of your business,” She might have pouted, turned around in that flounce of her hair way that she knew would earn an “awww” from her aunts or uncles, but only to be met with silence.
Then she heard the rustles of the hedge, and only turned in time to see the back of the boy disappearing into the branches.
“Hey, come back!”
For some push from her own stubbornness of not standing to be ignored and strange urge sent from the Creator Himself, she went after him, nearly tripped on her dress as she yelled some silly insult a child can conjure.