Dissonance | ✓

03 | French Vanilla

     The bay window of my bedroom overlooked the other houses in our neighborhood. The Victorian-styled home next to my own housed the snobbish Oakwoods my family enjoyed associating themselves with. Lydia Oakwood, the only-child of the Oakwoods, was quiet, took ballet classes and was on the honor roll at her school. This must have been the image my parents wanted me to carry, but I believed nobody could be that perfect; there must have been something 'imperfect' about her.

     I turned my focus from the neighborhood to my quarter-filled duffle bag at my feet. There was only so much I was allowed to take with me to my new school. I already filled my larger Gucci suitcases with some of my clothes, shoes and other stuff mother put in that I did not take note of. I then had to decide what else to take with me.

     New books from Barns and Nobles? CHECK. Make-up bag? CHECK. Sketchpad? CHECK. Writing journal? CHECK. Oil pastels or water soluble colored pencils...why not both? CHECK.

     For the remainder of the space, I brought the duffle at the end of my desk and swept small knickknacks into the bag, until a photo I did not get to recognize drifted in the air before landing on the floor. The back of the photo was scribed with the date '11/17/05'. I knew what the photo was of, even before I picked it up and flipped it around.

     My mouth was wide open as a five year old Jules shoved a forkful of French vanilla cake into my mouth. We stood in the center of the gazebo in the garden, and other kids and parents from the neighborhood crowded around us in celebration of my seventh birthday.

     At that time, Jules and I were inseparable. Everything we could do, we did together. It was not even a discussion of if the other wanted to partake in the activity, it was more of an instinct; it came naturally. Even my mother got onto the boat with us, and dressed us in matching clothes. We loved it, and we loved each other.

    Even though we were not close anymore, a part of me still felt the need to keep that memory of our better times together. I knew it was sappy, but it proved that I was not the emotionless freak that everyone thought I was.

     I reached down for the sketchpad in my duffle bag and fixed the photo in between two pages, then tossed it back inside and zipped the bag closed.

Downstairs, my mother waited patiently for me at the doorway. I carried the duffle over my shoulder and dragged the suitcases behind me as I trudged down the stairs. Mother winced at the sound of the suitcase wheels hitting against each step; it made my day a little less bitter to know I had bothered her.

     At the door, I set my bags down. Through the slim, stained glass window by the door I expected to see a cab waiting, but there was not one.

     "Am I going there by foot?" I joked to my mother.

     "Very funny." She replied, expressionless. "The chauffeur is waiting in the garage for you. There is no way you will show up to that school, with a Baker name, looking poor." I rolled my eyes.

     "I am guessing dad didn't want to see me off?" I asked. My mother shook her head pitifully. "What about Jules?" There, I had a small bit of hope.

     "She went off to tennis practise before you woke up at six, but wanted to say bye. I told you to get up earlier."

     Again, I rolled my eyes, then said: "Well, I guess I'm off then." I picked up my bags and opened the door wide enough for the suitcase to get through. As I walked down the stone path I heard my mother's two inch heels click behind me. I curved left and up the driveway, to see the chauffeur awaiting next to the purring black Mercedes.

     I offered the handle of my suitcases for the chauffeur to load into the trunk. He took them, and I pulled open the back passenger's seat. Before shutting the door, my mother poked her head inside and kissed my cheek. I stiffened; such affection from her was rare. When she pulled away, she said "I love you, and take care." I only smiled and pulled the door in.