ISABEL “ISA” BEAUREGARD
“THEY THOUGHT ME STRANGE BECAUSE I DIDN’T TRY TO BE LIKE THEM. BUT MUST ALL CATERPILLARS BECOME BUTTERFLIES?”
criminal occupation: the new kid (distraction + pickpocket)
Some would say that expectation is a blessing, but for others it’s a burden of the highest degree, the very bane of their existence and reason for their discontent. While most Beauregards took kindly to their precedents, there was always bound to be the black sheep, the duckling among swans, the hidden knot in an otherwise flawless machine of grace and elegance. But while other outcasts stood in stark contrast to their flocks, little Isa’s difference was never readily apparent, rather existing beneath the surface like a dark scar beneath the gold of a gilded mirror, reflecting none of her secrets or inner being.
If anyone, it would be expected that Isabel Beauregard would live up to the traditions of the beautiful and wealthy. However, it couldn’t be more contrary. Her mother was visibly influential, and Xanthe’s every blink carried both an allure and a warning, but wide-eyed, quiet Isa never seemed precisely like either of those things, her only deviation from perfect behavior being her almost unsettling obedience. She was undoubtedly blessed both physically and in status, the last princess born to a family which afforded the highest luxuries that money could buy, with golden hair like Rapunzel’s and a gaze as clear as spring and flora. She displayed an affinity for pink and lace, or rather, never objected to it when the ever careful Lillian held the small, delicate garments up against her soft skin. A sleepy child, there was a peculiar lethargy which characterized young Isabel, a ragdoll quality. She was quiet and without fuss, a wonderful combination of silents which made her an ideal final child, the last stand in an otherwise impressionable empire. Unlike Silas who dominated the room in his finery and mannerisms, or Xanthe who stunned already in her adolescence, she blended easily into the grand scheme of Beauregard operations, just another small building block in their tower of ambitions.
With such impressive women preceding her, the expectations to be something equally lovely had always stifled her, a b o x which caged her in until it reached a point where she wanted to break her gentle solace and scream aloud. Soft-spoken as a child, she learnt to be perfunctory and dismissive in grade school, among all the other long-legged girls who grew up speaking of papa’s AmEx cards and Chanel No. 9, dancing on their toes in ballet classes, bragging of their older sisters and the cigarettes which brushed across their mouths. Never feeling the need to flaunt her identity, Isa found her peers to be unnecessary and intimidating, and rather than join them in their foolishness, she distanced herself. They called her ice queen, mistook her hesitance for arrogance, her tight-lipped, blank stares for pretension. And she let them think what they thought, because it was much easier to accept their assumptions than to fight.
She was passive, and in a world where demand was equated with power (economics class and Silas’ perplexed musings: C’est simple – ils exigent, nous fournissons, cherie.), they took that shyness and tried to turn it inside out. A stern reminder before a soiree, the extra pinch of color the makeup artist would imbue into her still, unsmiling cheeks, a thousand quips that attempted to make her more approachable, more social; more Beauregard. She was cold in the way that ice was cold, frozen and hard to melt. Certainly, she played her part well, following orders and carrying through with the demands of others with a precise apathy, waving daintily for the cameras and smoothing down the most beautiful dresses on the red carpets. But the impersonal sense lingered about her like smoke. She was always a little too distant, a little too distracted. Or – quite a bit uncaring. Ah, that was it. It was all a show, and the only person not clapping was Isabel Beauregard herself, bedecked in kitten heels and a mink coat at the top of a grand staircase.
Little do her parents know that their ways of life have set out a trap for their youngest, nor are they aware that in her desperation to be herself, she’s been seeking haven with a motley bunch that would never run in the same circles as her name. The lace and velvet, the chandeliers and thousand euro candles – oh, they bored her, but more significantly, they didn’t offer her the fulfillment which they held for others. She had a swelling urge within her, rising up like ashes in the wake of a fire, like hurricanes and tsunamis; to throw it all off and live, dance, be young forever without the collar which seemed to clip her to the ground. At times, she would stand before the mirror and imagine herself as someone else, stripped of her wealth and lovely things. Sometimes it’d be in the middle of a dinner, or at the spa with her few friends, who twittered on obliviously to her inner turmoils. And all that would show through? A rhythmic tap of the foot, the adjustment of a bracelet; a distance gaze and inopportune release of breath.
What is being human, but to have a dark, unforgivable crack run through one’s veneer? It was that small, barely noticeable mistake. But it led her to question not only who she really was, but what she really was. Was she really just an ungrateful girl longing for a life which she had been lucky to transcend above? Was she a girl at all?
It had always lain dormant within her, the uneasiness, the feeling of not belonging. There was them, and there was her. And it wasn’t until a summer day when her family was in the Alps that she found a niche that didn’t disappoint. His name was Jett, and his friend’s name was Flow, and their little band of scoundrels were the strangest people she had ever met, and the first who judged her not for her appearance and her name. They were all just spirits, and for the first time, watching curiously as Jett lit up and Flow blew a smoke ring at her with a wink, Isa felt the weight drop from her shoulders. And she was free, if only for a night. The revelation that she had at the foot of Mont Blanc, roaming a meadow with two strangers as the Beauregards …it would change her life.
She looked good in cashmere petticoats and knee-high socks, but among the outcasts and the disparate youth, with their soft grunge and carefree ambiance, the hikes and the marijuana kisses, Isa didn’t have to look good. She didn’t have to be a she, or a her, or a daughter to an empire that expands so quickly and consumes so thoroughly. Though Jett and Flow were only temporary, off to their own great adventures while she flew away from those snow-capped mountains in Hale’s private jet, they were the beginning to a difficult and turmultuous journey of self discovery. Next would be Madrid with Santino and Cissy, next would be the artisan streets in Paris, next would be Montmartre after midnight, and dark corners with shady companions, her pristine appearance shed like a second skin, her silky blonde locks tucked messily into berets and the collars of worn sweatshirts. It taxed her to maintain the duality of it…appeasing the needs of being a Beauregard and then shaking it off for the streets and the cigarettes, the rushing races through the streets and the genuine grins splitting her face, pale complexion lighting up like the dirty bars and luminescent nightclubs. Sex, drugs, and an anonymity which suited her well. She had always walked on little cat’s feet, and though she was afraid of truly embracing the new self which she wrestled so often with – it made her happy to rebel, happy to break away.
She’s experimenting with life, with her own reality, and those hours when she can be herself are the ones that she loves best. Her new friends would be characterized as seedy at best, and though they certainly aren’t trustworthy or to be taken seriously, the fluidity of their identities and natures are exactly what Isa has always craved: a reprieve from the tight, laced-up conventions of society and wealth. In one light, she is the prim, serious youngest daughter to a family which has swept Europe (and in the dark of the night, the world) up – remote and cool. In another, she is half a mess, half a belle catastrophe, touching girls and boys and everyone in between with a sort of fervent fascination. Are they vrai ou faux? Are they of this world?
Sometimes, when she inhales fumes and exhales a dream, even she finds it hard to tell.
✕. She learnt about pronouns and gender from her new group of companions, and the topics immediately riveted her. Their description of the spectrum and what it meant to be nonbinary was fascinating, and a small voice that had been impeded by convention and Catholic schooling piped up behind her veneer of vague interest. C’est moi? it asked. Peut-etre, peut-etre pas, she responded, hesitant to truly find out. [Note: Due to her gender dysphoria and emerging discovery, Isabel has been classified as a non-binary character.]
✕. She has a habit of staring at a spot above a person’s head when speaking to them, a tactic devised to wriggle her way out of uninteresting conversations. It often is percieved as dismissive and cold, and achieves her purpose, the boring people in question tending to trail off awkwardly once they notice her pointed nonchalance.
✕. Though she will loiter with the lot of them, she has never fit among the popular girls of her school. Private, single-ed, and full of pretension, L’Academie’s favorite girls are known by Greater Paris as Les Papillons (The Butterflies). When she is walking with Cecily or Camille down the Rue de Passy or Avenue des Champs-elysees, occasionally there will be a call from a passing car or a schoolboy across the street. “Papillon!” To which she will glower, in, (though she refuses to admit it), true Papillon-style.
✕. She doesn’t mind dressing and acting as a rich girl should, persay. It just bores her, and she’d much rather have more to life than only clothes and status. The dichotomy which she has learned to adapt is quite striking.
THIS CHARACTER HAS FLEXIBLE FACECLAIM ONLY TO GABRIELLA WILDE
& IS OPEN FOR AUDITIONS
