It's the most wonderful time of the year....
Noelle Adelaide Abara is an incurable romantic. A daydreamer. An old soul. She fantasizes about wearing ballgowns, riding in carriages, and waltzing into the night. Unfortunately, she lives in New Shire C...
When I started writing this chapter my computer stopped saving so I had to take a picture instead. The words were then deleted but then my computer started working again so I could write the rest, sorry if this chapter is kinda weird because of the picture.
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I've grown so tired of reminding her that I have taken to calling her Mother instead of Mom like she wants me to call her. If she won't listen to me, I won't listen to her. I miss Papa terribly, I have never been away from him. He refused to send me to finishing school, despite Stepmother's insistence and instead hired private tutors for me. I am beginning to wonder if I should just play along, it might be easier. I decided to try it today. My "mother" has been awfully nice to me, making me food, and always asking how I feel. The food is delicious, especially the pastries. So far, I've tried a croissant, some cookies, and something called a blondie, which was my favorite. It was sweet and soft and gooey with chocolate and caramel. I like clothes too. They are far more comfortable than my ones at home. I can wear pants and shirts, some of which are fuzzy and warm. I also discovered something called sweatshirts, which are large oversized shirts with a hood and are my favorite thing ever. My "mother" showed me I had quite the stash of them, in all colors and fabrics. Today, she invited me to join her at her bakery, Sweets and Treats. The doctor said I can take a few days off before starting school again, whatever that means. I wonder if I will have tutors or be sent to a boarding school. Perhaps this is Stepmother's idea of punishment for trying to fake sick, but I know Papa would never agree to this. I really have no idea what is going on, especially with the incredible machines and everyone insisting the year is 2020. I am planning on finding out, however. Maybe getting out of the house will help with that. My "mother" owns a car, although it does not look like any car I have seen before. It's bigger, faster, and quiet compared to the others. I get to sit in the front, and apparently, Noelle knew how to drive, just a few months away from something called a license. I clutch the edge of the car seat as Mom zooms down the road. It seems everyone here owns cars, I haven't seen a single horse nor carriage. The bakery is a small building with a brick outside and large windows. The windows have cakes and pastries displayed, along with a tower of macarons. Inside, the walls are painted in swirls of cream and peach, with delicate pink curtains. The floor is checkered and with the occasional drawing of some sort of sweet. There is a glass counter with more pastries displayed, and there are shelves behind it with cakes. There are also little metal tables and chairs, delicate and curved looking. I sit down in a corner with a book and begin to read. The book is wonderful, about a boy who discovers he is a wizard and goes to a school in a castle called Hogwarts. I feel a bit like him, taken from a normal world to a magical one. There are some words I don't understand, such as telephone, computer, and television. I finish the book in one sitting, not looking up a single time. When I finish, I decide I must get the next book as soon as possible. I saw that on the bookshelf in my room, there were multiple books in the series. Having nothing else to do, I go to Mom and ask how I can help. She looks taken aback for a moment. "I thought you didn't like baking very much," she said. "No, I like baking. I find it relaxing. The precise mix of ingredients creating something delicious. It's wonderful." I respond, miffed that she turned down my help. "Um, okay,: she said, looking around. "Can you knead that gingerbread dough? There are aprons in the back." I find an apron with little Christmas trees and begin kneading the dough and rolling it flat to be cut into shapes. It is slow, methodical work, and I soon fall into a rhythm. Knead the dough, sprinkle flour, roll out flat, move to the tray. Knead, flour, roll, tray. Knead, flour, roll, tray. Knead, flour, roll, tray. Knead, flour, roll, tray. Knead, flour, roll, tray. As I set down the final batch of dough, I realize something. I like it here.
