Apartment 311

Ch | 1

Season One
Brooklyn Noelle Brankovich

Chapter One: "Do I have to dance today, Mommy?"

The sound of my mother yelling at the housekeepers was enough to wake me up. My golden-flecked green eyes flew open and I wasted no time getting out of my floating bed.
Sitting at the edge, I cracked every bone in my body from head to toe in the most healthy way I can as seen done by my regular chiropractor.

I let out a single "ahh" and slipped my size nine feet into the slippers that waited for me on the white carpet that made up my bedroom floor.

It was supposed to be an off-day; every week I was granted one random day to relax.
However, I couldn't help but move my body rhythmically across my room.

The golden six AM sun shone in through my bow window, illuminating my body like I was on stage again. Music that didn't play from a speaker didn't have to because I heard it in my head and danced along.

Startling me, my westernized Spaniard mother busted in. The door swung against my wall and made a loud THUD! It was enough to startle all the help on the forty acre estate.

My eyes wide, I relaxed my tense shoulders and put my feet back fully on the plush surface.

"Mommy," I breathed out, my hand on my heart, "you scared me."

"Brooklyn Noelle Brankovich, why are you parading around your room? Have you properly stretched first? Drew a bath?"

I didn't say anything because I knew better than to talk back. When she wasn't looking, though, I rolled my eyes.

She stomped to my bathroom and started running the warm water in the freestanding tub resting on the cold, true marble floor.

"Come," she ordered with a strict handclap. I sauntered over and turned my back to her so she could strip me from my satin pajamas and measure my waist amongst other necessary things she did daily.

"Hm," she went, not sounding satisfied. I pressed my lips together, bracing myself for what she was about to say.

"Two baked eggs today, bacon, greens, and no extra sugar in your cappuccino," Mother told me what I ought to have for breakfast. "I'll have the chef prepare it now if he hasn't already. Hurry with your bath, girl," she insisted just before gliding out of my presence.

All five feet and nine inches of my sienna skin-colored body sunk into the full tub - being sure not to get my eighteen-inch hair wet. No bubbles, and the water wasn't hot - it was barely even warm.

I ran my hands along all of my skin before grabbing a cloth to properly wash. Then, I rinsed my body off again and soaked for a moment. Next, I exfoliated using my TreeHut shea sugar scrub - the Moroccan rose scent - and wooden handle back scrubber.

Before she could rush me out, I got dressed in a white long-sleeved crew neck shirt, grey bike shorts, and white Nike ankle training socks.

Mother came back in my room to sit me at my seat center-room and style my hair as she did every morning for the last twenty-two years of my life.

"Is Dad here?" I had the nerve to ask, not looking up from the clutter on my vanity.

"No," she responded unhappily, "you know that."

"Sorry, it's just that I was hoping to see him sometime this week," I sighed.

"Hey," she cooed, lifting my chin, "don't frown, you'll get wrinkles." Just when I thought she had something sweet to say to me for once.