Dreaming Silence

Diners and Strangers

My ears were still ringing from the plane landing.  A bus ride was taking me as close as it could to my Aunt's house in the middle of nowhere, Georgia.  Oh, pardon my manners. I'm Brynne Callast. 16 years existing, 5'2", 100% French. My parents decided to run off and leave their only child in the huge city of New Orleans. They sound great, right?

Honestly, they never really fit the image of the 'perfect couple'. Whenever they were home, they argued about the stupidest things. When they weren't fighting, they were operating their run-down café down the road.  If it weren't for my grandparents, they would've put me up for adoption to put their life-savings into that place. 

In the present, about two weeks ago, our café ran out of business. Parents started panicking, wouldn't blame them considering they didn't have any other options for employment at the time (perks of being immigrants). I had a feeling they were going to do something outrageous like up and leave the house while I was spending time with my friends, but it still hurt.  

Anyway, I should tell you what I'm doing in Georgia.  My mother had an older sister who decided to move out to the east coast after graduating college.  Apparently, she opened up her own shop over there, and was making quite a bit of money. When my mother heard about this, she disowned her sister, and cut off all communications with her. I know, a bit extreme, just because she achieve something we couldn't.  So when my folks decided to abandon me, the woman said, 'Why not? I don't have any children, and I can use help around the restaurant'. Now here I am, walking from the bus stop to her house in Escott, Georgia. 

"1503 Gale Avenue...so, it should be the sixth house down? Finally." I seethed, whipping locks of sable hair behind my shoulder. She could've sent a cab for me, at the least.

Walking down the street, I scuffed at anthills burrowing up from the cracks. I also inadvertently smashed into some idiot while counting my steps.

"What the crap, Marie? Watch where you're--" His words hung on the edge of time. "Oh, sorry, I thought you were someone else." 

The guy stood six inches over me, daunting sea green eyes studying me like a book. His blond hair slicked up in a small point, a curl teasing his eyebrow. Teeth like a dog. I bet girls fainted while he passed by.

"I guess those looks get you farther than your brains if your occupation is running into strangers," I rolled my eyes and picked myself up.

"Jesus, you've got a mouth on you." He thrust out a hand. "I'm Lance, Lance Foster. And you might be?"

My jaw dropped. Who did this prick think he was?

"Sorry, I'm not supposed to communicate with people like you. You're the reason my brain cells commit suicide every minute." I spat, brushing past him, ignoring his scoff.

"I see how it is. Playing hard to get, yeah? Well, I'll just keep following you until you tell me your name!" His trodding footsteps pounded behind me, jumping in front of me.

"Jeanne?"

"Seriously, don't they have laws against people like you?" I tossed my head and walked faster.

"Hmph. Maybe you're a ... Molly?"

"Tough luck. You're too dense to guess it."

"Taylor? Mean girls are always called Taylor."

"Sorry, better luck next time."  Stopping in front of my aunt's house, I tapped my foot and stuck out my hip, looking at his face.

"Fine then. If you won't tell me your name, I'll give you one! How about we call you..."

His eyes scanned the area, looking for some answer.

"Egret! That's perfect. You walk like one too, when they're chasing their dinner? Exactly."

My face burned, squinting my eyes at him.

"You're a moron! I do not! My name is Brynne Leah Callast, not Egret. Good-bye, Lance."

His eyebrows furrowed and a twisted smirk grew on his face.

"I like that name. But I'll still call you Egret," he winked. Turning on his heel, he walked away with hands in his pockets.

I walked up to the house, but took a second glance at the sandy-blond head fading down the street.

.                                      .                                              .

I opened the unlocked door and sighed. My head echoed throngs of pain. My only goal was to find the nearest bottle of Advil and crash on her couch.

"I guess I'm alone here?" I spoke in a soft voice, slipping my beaten leather boots off at the door.

It was a small house. My aunt's kitchen was linked to the living room with a breakfast bar and a few designer stools.  A small floral couch sat in front of a tiny coffee table, with a radio sitting on a bookshelf. The bathroom was to the right of me, closet across with a few pair of shoes and a coat or two. An old staircase led upstairs to what might've been two bedrooms and an attic.

"Not too shabby," I bit my lip. Trying to distract myself from my headache wasn't as easy as I thought.

Walking into kitchen, I found an apple and a bottle of Ibuprofen. Underneath a glass of some brassy substance, there was a water-soiled note:

If you're reading this, you're either breaking into my house or my niece Brynne. Let's hope you're Brynne. I hope your flight over was nice, and walking from the bus stop wasn't too miserable. I'm at the diner until 6:30, so make yourself at home. I left some fruit on the counter and there's some juice in the fridge. Your bedroom is upstairs, and to the left. Unfortunately, it's the attic. I hope you don't mind? Talk more later. 

--Anais

Great, so now I had to live with her college junk and memoirs? I guess it was better than the streets in Louisiana. 

Trudging up the stairs, I pushed the door open with my foot. The creaking was like nails on a chalkboard. Paintings of gardens and women leaned against the wall, boxes with french words written on them--pictures, decorations, records, books--just a few to name. A gable window was spilling light into a small section of the room where a metal bedframe stood, with a thin mattress and covers that looked like they were from World War Two era. Feather pillows that barely had any life left in them were on the floor. 

I tossed my pack onto the bed and sighed.  The dresser next to my bed had a framed picture of my mother's family. Sisters, mother, father. She was the youngest, perhaps the most naive too.  

Wherever she is, I hope she's okay.