Stars for Sale

Chapter Four: The Notebook

Ella, 17

I stab at the copying machine's button for the fourth time. Finally, the overused device starts to copy. The librarian waves at me, and I return the favor. They seem to love talking to me, the librarians, and I'm not sure why. I like them anyway, so I enjoy chatting with them. As soon as I turn back to the machine, I put my USB into the port, making sure it's correctly in. It beeps to notify me of its completion, a noise that punctures the silence of the library. I pocket the USB and retrieve my notebook from inside the mouth of the machine, placing it inside of my backpack.

I return home only to immediately hear the voice of Robin yelling.

"Ella! Where were you? You should have started the laundry two hours ago, and Kimberly doesn't have anything to wear to that party of hers. And did you go get my Halston Heritage dress from the dry-cleaners? You know I have to wear it to the fundraisers next week, and I want to use it so Chelsea can help me buy accessories."

I sigh and assure her that I did, in fact, ride my self-repaired Vespa to the dry-cleaners, but her dress wasn't ready, and I go upstairs to ask Kimberly if she's looked in her closet yet, where I have already hung up her clothing, like I do every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Sometimes I wonder if the little things I do are appreciated, like washing all of the dishes, cleaning the family's clothes, prepare meals, clean the house before guests, feed CoCo Chanel (the Pomeranian), pick up everyone's rooms, and almost every job there is to be done in a household. No one ever shows gratitude, (not that I'm surprised,) not even Father.

For the past three years, all Father has ever cared about is partying, social status, Robin, and money.He couldn't care less about me, much less that I'm being treated like a slave. I don't really mind, though, because now he's not really the kind of person I would ever like to care about me anyway, what with him being drunk constantly.

Now that he's the Director of Affairs of the Suburban Queen magazine, which can be seen on any rack of magazines in any store, all he has to do for his job is arrange, get invites to, and attend parties. That's what he and Robin are doing any day of the week. Every day, he's either drunk or hungover. I was fifteen the last time I saw him sober, and now I feel like the Father I knew is gone forever.

I return to my room after cleaning up after Kimberly's messes, and I notice my backpack has been opened, and the remnants of erasers, bits of paper, and forgotten coins are spilled over my bedspread, and my notebook is gone.

I throw on a jacket, and my heart beats quickly as I run out the back door, barefoot.

Robin sits on the edge of our fancy outdoor fireplace, and in her hand is a small ribbon.

My bookmark.

"What did you do with my notebook," I whisper, hardly believing she would do something so cruel, as she pokes the fire. It's already very chilly outside, and my bare toes curl up on the cold cement of the back porch.

She turns to me and smiles, which makes my stomach clench.

"Ella, sweet pea, I finally found what's been distracting you so much lately! I'm so excited- now that that old thing is out of the way, you can start to contribute to this household."

She stands up to return the poker to the iron stand on the side of the fireplace, and I finally have a clear view of the fire.

My notebook is burning.

My notebook is burning.

My notebook.

My mother.

My mother's notes.

Mum.

The notebook.

My notebook.

My mother's notebook is burning.