I Wish I Had a Story to Tell You

Part VII

I hid behind the little bakery, shaking. The wind was icy, and my sorry excuse for a jacket was no match for its strength. Night had fallen hours before, plunging me into a world full of darkness. Street lights were all that illuminated the streets of Bellevue. I didn't mind it really. I liked being hidden. Daytime made hiding difficult for me. The nighttime hours were far better.
    A figure moved in the distance.
    "Stupid, aren't they? My parents, I mean. They never notice I'm gone. I can cause all sorts of trouble at night and nobody seems to care." The voice belonged to a boy around my age. I'd heard the voice before, and it scared me. It belonged to the son of the wealthiest family in Bellevue. I didn't know his name, just his voice. I did know that if I heard it, I was to run or hide.
    That night, I cowered behind a waste bin until Con and his friends had passed. They didn't see me that time. It was a good thing, too. They were quite put off by the fact that the one person that hadn't manage to steal from was a girl their age. It made Con feel ashamed. I could tell: he never told his friends outside of his close circle about his troubles. Only those within the exclusive club would ever know.
    It seemed quite annoying to me, the fact that I had to hide from someone my own age. I had once confessed my annoyance to an old man who I often saw eating sandwiches outside of the deli at noon.
    "He may be as tall as you," the man had said, "but he's got money. You don't. You have to watch your back, dear girl."
    "I have to watch my back?"
    The man nodded. "You have to watch, and you have to listen. You have to protect yourself out here, little one, because no one else will." He outstretched his hand with a sandwich in it. "Would you like one?"
    "Sure," I said eagerly, taking it from him. I thought he was a rather sage old man.
    Come to think of it, I can't quite remember his name.

I tugged on a wool suit over a matching skirt. Ms. Page was kind enough to let Arelle and I raid an old closet. I was thankful for the cozy outfit. I'd never really had a proper winter wardrobe piece before, aside from a giant wool jacket I had found abandoned behind the department store. It may have been old and slightly torn, but it sure was comfortable. In the bathroom I'd found some pins to put some waves into my hair overnight, and Arelle had managed to get her blonde hair nicely pinned back. It was nice- having a place to stay and refresh for the night. The showers were also a bonus.
    I walked down to the dining room to meet my sister, our hostess, and Ms. Marchand.
    "Feeling better today, Helen?" Ms. Page asked Ms. Marchand.
    Ms. Marchand nodded. "Most certainly. My temperature has gone down and I feel perfectly normal. Thank you for the soup, Lillian."
    "Oh, I know you'd do the same for me," Ms. Page said with a dismissive hand.
The two women looked to be about the same age. Ms. Page had fair skin, and wore a collared sweater over a simple skirt. Her finger-curled hair was dirty blonde, tucked under a rather extravagant looking hat. Ms. Marchand had dark brown skin, and wore a pretty buttoned down dress. Her black hair was put into a curly updo at the top of her head. They both were clearly older than our parents, but neither looked tired or aged.
    "Ladies," Ms. Page gestured towards Ms. Marchand. "This is Ms. Helen Marchand. She has been helping me run this place for who knows how many years now."
    Ms. Marchand outstretched a welcoming hand. "How do you do?"
    Both Arelle and I shook it. "Well," I replied, smiling. "Thank you for letting us stay for the night."
    "Oh, it's our pleasure. I don't think you two would've wanted to be out in that storm. I mean, don't get me wrong, rain showers are few and far between out here, but that doesn't mean you want to get caught in them. Lillian, remember that one we had a couple of years back? It took out the windows."
    Ms. Page nodded. "Oh, I remember. It was quite the storm. Those windows weren't fun to replace, either."
    Ms. Marchand beamed with pride. "But we replaced them, and a storm hasn't dared take them out again since." She turned to Arelle. "Are you two sisters?"
    "We are," Arelle said. "I'm the oldest."
    I almost laughed. I hadn't heard my sister say that since early elementary school. The amount of fights we had over our age difference was ridiculous. I remembered telling my mom that I should take our father his birthday present because I was the youngest. Arelle thought that she should take him the present because she was older than me and she should be able to decide things like that.
    I was six. Arelle was seven. It was so petty and absurd that it seemed that it was an eternity ago that we were bickering little kids.
   "We're a year apart," I told Ms. Page and Ms. Marchand. "Arelle is fifteen. I'm fourteen."
   "I'm glad to see that you two get along. My sister and are close. She lives in California. Lillian, would you like to tell our guests about your brother?"
   Ms. Page rose from the table haughtily. "Oh, him."
   Ms. Marchand laughed as Ms. Page went to the kitchen to get us some breakfast. "Lillian and her brother had a falling out years ago. I don't quite know why. It was over something petty-"
    "Family heirlooms aren't petty!" Ms. Page called from the kitchen.
    "I think pretending that you disowned your brother over a rug is taking it a bit too far."
    Ms. Page returned with a plate of biscuits. "It was more than just a rug, Helen."
    "Whatever you say."