“Hi. My name is Balin Dabney.” Greeted a guy about my age. I was sitting under an apple tree at my new school called “LA Heights.” A snobby name for a snobby school. I had just moved from my hometown of Salem, Oregon to Los Angeles after my mother’s death. Let’s just say that witnessing your mother slowly die of lung cancer is pretty life changing. Steer clear of smoking, kids. But anyway, I was placed in the hands of Miss Whitney; my good-for-nothing father’s sister. She meant well, but I didn’t see her too often. Didn’t matter, though, because ever since the day of that event, I became mute. Yup. The therapists listed many disorders that I could have had, but the truth was I really couldn’t talk. The day my mother died, she had said her last words. From then on, I had too. It was as if a part of me died with her, and I knew that to an extent that was true. “Hello. My name is Balin.” Repeated the boy. He was cute, I’ll admit. He had coarse sandy hair and puppy dog eyes. Definitely a 9. Maybe even a 10. I smiled a half smile at him, but only because of his sincerity to repeat himself, Goodness forbid I’d be deaf. “See you around.” He shrugged, but didn’t budge until he saw me holding my schedule. “See you around, Abrielle Coralie.” He said my name this time. My eyes widened, but I made sure my eyes met his as he walked off to meet some friends. I glanced at my schedule, realizing that my full name “Abrielle Beatrice Coralie” had been printed on there. I stared at my name, trying not to collect tears in my eyes as I recalled the days my mother would tell me of how it came to be. How being of French descent, she had longed for a beautiful French name, but rather had been given the name of Molly. It was cute, but of all names, my mother was truly a Bernadette. I brushed a golden curl off my shoulder as I stood up and brushed my white dress. It was the first day, and I mustered up all the courage I could. After all, my name means “God is my Strength”, so with that I walked silently into the depths of LA Heights.
“Dinner is on the counter.” Miss Whitney says as soon as I walk in the door from school. I see she has her feet propped up on the leather ottoman while she’s filing her nails and watching what appears to be MTV’s version of “reality TV”. I only roll my eyes as I make my way into the kitchen and see a can of Campbell’s soup sitting on the granite counter where I had hoped a prepared meal would be. I never expected Miss Whitney to be a gourmet chef, but with an extraordinary house including lavish interior and a walk-in closet containing an assortment of Chanel and Louis Vuitton shoes, I had at the least expected a prepared meal. I tossed the can of soup in the trash, knowing that if I wouldn’t eat it that Miss Whitney surely wouldn’t either. I walked back into the living room to sulk on the teal velvet couch; just another fine decoration to depict the flashy personality of Miss Whitney. I never understood why Miss Whitney had so much money, but to my understanding, most of it was my grandfather’s fortune before he died. He had intended on investing his life savings into visiting Fiji before he died, but death came too quickly and it all went to Miss Whitney and my father. I was his only grandchild, but I received nothing more than a portrait of him; most likely the pickings of his possessions as he barely knew me and had no intention of giving me anything anyway. I glared at Miss Whitney as she continued to file her nails into perfect little ovals as she tossed a lock of her highlighted hair over her shoulder. She seemed to be much too preoccupied with whatever was on TV because she didn’t notice me smirk at her as she spilled her martini all over her Juicy Couture pullover in an attempt to reach for her MAC lipglass. “Ugh!” She bolted up and ran upstairs to change; coming back down an hour later with a black cocktail dress on and clutching to her NARS lipgloss; obviously opting for a different lipgloss than what she had originally reached for. Her hair was curled and she was wearing red leather pumps. “Don’t wait up. I’m going to a dinner party at Marlin’s. I’ll be back before twelve.” Miss Whitney said as if I knew who Marlin was. She had quite a few friends whom she partied with practically every other night. I only shrugged. I knew she would be back long after twelve, being she would be too ashamed to stumble in drunk and therefore wait at a nearby park or somewhere until the wooziness has subsided. As soon as I knew she was gone, I ran up our spiral staircase and made a beeline to her room. One thing I hadn’t missed about Oregon was the limited supply of stores. In LA, you can find just about anything. Miss Whitney’s room just so happens to be the most extravagant room of the house. My room is pretty decent, but I don’t have a complete closet devoted to shoes and purses, nor do I have a large vanity containing a wide assortment of makeup. Miss Whitney’s room was paradise. After my mother died, I was forced to move in with the bare essentials. I barely had any clothes to begin with, so that left me with my favorite white dress and my silver ballet flats which were the perfect staple to any outfit I wore. I snuck into one of her closets containing fully assembled outfits and thumbed through them. I was beginning to lose hope as I couldn’t find an article of clothing that wasn’t skimpy or flashy. A sheer silk romper? Not me. A cheetah print lace cami? Not me. Something caught my eye, though. A sheer white lace material peeked out of the condensed outfits. I hurried to it and found what I was looking for. Before me was a pale lavender dress with thin straps and an empire waistline. The dress was knee high and with it was a pair of heeled grey boots. “Perfect.” I thought.
