THE ELITE (On Hold)

Chapter 2: The Breakfast Fiasco

Leaving my room, I walked down to the narrow corridor and down the main staircase. The wonderful smell of waffles and toast wafting from the kitchen made my mouth water. There is honestly nothing better than having warm toast with waffles and honey for breakfast. For they are simply yet irresistibly delicious.

The usual sight greeted me. My father sat at the head of the table. The whole of his upper body was blocked from sight by today's issue of The Morning Edition ("It gives the facts and nothing but the facts!" - Ah yes. Facts. My father was a diehard fanatic of facts), his eyes focussed on the Business section. Mother, on the other hand, was seated at the table as though she were a Queen of some sort - she lived the life of one, mind you - issuing order after order to our maid, Romilda ("Honestly, Romilda. Don't burn them! - " "Sorry, Mrs. Vince"). The irony of my mother.

I slouched over to the table and sat down. The next instant, Romilda was at my arm spreading marmalade on my toast and pouring honey all over my waffles. She was a plump, middle-aged woman who didn't exactly give the impression that she was up to much. But she was a fantastic cook and an excellent housekeeper. She could cook an entire feast for a gathering of six hundred people single-handedly without fatigue. Trust me. Every year, exactly twelve days before Christmas, my parents host a feast. This isn't just any feast. We're talking about a full-bown feast which lasts for twelve nights and concludes at midnight on Christmas. Every single year, Romilda has pulled through without fail; night after night, turkeys, chickens, truffles, cakes and tarts, along with other delicacies were served to our guests. That's just how great a cook Romilda was.

"More marmalade Summer?" asked Romilda, her eyes brimming with motherly affection.
"Well I - "
"Worry not Romilda. Summer is old enough to decide whether or not she wants more food. You don't need to intervene while she's eating."
I glared at my mother. She who so often talked about the necessity of good etiquette, was herself breaching the rule in which, one must not interrupt another person while they are speaking. Romilda, however, stood to the side wringing her hands. "Bu- Yes. Yes, Mrs. Vince. I'm terribly sorry. I was just - "
"I know what your intentions were Romilda and I suggest that you stop pampering her. She's a grown girl now. She can make her own decisions. I have said this before and I will say it again: do not give me a reason to rethink past decisions." At this, a look of panic fleeted across Romilda's already pale face and she exclaimed,"No! Please, no! Mrs. Vince....I assure you such a mistake will never be repeated again." "It better not or el- Who do you think you're staring at?" queried my mother, rounding on me. It was only then that I realised what I'd been doing. "Finish your breakfast!" she snapped.

All this time, my father had been engrossed in his newspaper. "CLANG!!!......CLANG!!!......CLANG!!!" chimed the grandfather clock above the mantel, signalling that it was now eight o' clock. "Well, I best be off. Can't be late to office on the first day," said my father rising from his chair. He folded his newspaper and placed it on the table. It was only then that his crisp appearance was brought to my attention. He sported a black suit and matching tie paired with a bottle green shirt.

My father was a man unlike any other. He was a man who stood for the three things he prized most: discipline, rules and perseverance. He always derived immense pride in his appearance. Everything, including his moustache, followed a specific order (His moustache was precisely parted just to ensure that both sides were equal, and many a time, a tiny visible path could be seen).

Picking up his briefcase, he pecked my mother on the cheek, wished Romilda a jolly, "Good Day," and then turned to me. "Your train will be  leaving at eleven o' clock. Make sure you're there on time. The limo will take you. Your mother and I, have other- er - commitments. Oh, and take this. I expect you'll be needing it to fulfil all your whims and fancies and whatever else you teenagers do (He handed me a crisp white envelope -a cheque. I didn't have to open it to know that it was worth a million dollars). One last thing, we've decided that you will stay at the school year round and that's all there is to it."
Whoa! Hold up. Year Round?
"What do you mean by year round?" I replied cooly. "We've enough to deal with without you being around. We thought it best." With that, he grabbed his coat and walked out leaving me rooted to the spot.

Romilda let out a small sob but was quelled by a glance from my mother, who just sat at the kitchen counter sipping her steaming mug of coffee as though the matter of teenage-girls- being-told-that-they-were-not-wanted- in-their-own-house was a regular occurence and merely boring.
"Enjoy boarding school, Summer. We'll send you a cheque every month or so. Oh dear, I'm afraid I'm going to be rather late to my meeting, taking into consideration this fiasco you caused. Till next time, Summer," and with that, she too walked out on me.