~4~

After several moments, Max swiftly tucks his hands into his pockets, taking a few steps backwards. He looks at me funny.

"What?" I furrow my brows curiously.

"What, what?"

"Why were you—ugh. Never mind." I roll my eyes, sparking his amusement.

His gaze travels past me, in search of something.

"What time is it?" He asks, a panicked expression taking the reins over his features.

I clicked the button on my phone, bringing life to the screen, "Five fourty-three,"

"Oh fu—" he pauses at my instant disproving stare, "—dge. Chocolate hazelnut fudge to be exact," He mutters while stooping to sloppily cram all of his belongings back into his backpack.

Upon finishing that task, he quickly stands and slings his bag over his right shoulder—resulting in the camera flying off the piano.

"Sit, wit, knit and every other word that rhymes with the cuss word Brooklynn doesn't allow me to freaking say." Max spurts, making me giggle despite the situation.

He returns to the floor in attempt to hurridly gather the at least half a dozen pieces of what was once an expensive camera.

"I'm so sorry, B, I'll pay you back,"

Maybe it can be fixed?

I smell smoke. Yeah, maybe not.

"No you won't," I groan, gripping his arm and pulling him upwards, "You're fine. Just stop touching it or next thing we know it will explode or something."

"But that thing probably costs more than my life's worth. And it's Thursday. Mom's always home early on—"

"I know." I start pushing him towards the elevator—not that the task would even be physically possible if he were protesting, "Go, Max."

He slowly nods, releasing a sigh as he enters the elevator. Stress partly clouds his eyes but he smiles nonetheless. This boy bounces back from anything and everything in a matter of seconds.

"See ya tomorrow, B!"

The doors click shut before I can even bid my own farewell.

"Bye." I say, suddenly alone again, with no one to hear but myself.

Unless the mangled corpse of the camera I need to clean up counts for something.

•••

After wandering aimlessly around the main room for a few moments, occupied by nothing but my thoughts and pictures of puppies on my Instagram feed, I decide to go find Heather.

I pass through the kitchen, filled with stainless steel appliances and one very content, whistling cook.

"Hey, Bernie." I wave to the tall, plump man in front of whatever was boiling on the stovetop.

"Miss Brooklyn!" He breaks into one of his signature hearty laughs, "Dare I say, you are going to particularly enjoy tonight's meal!"

"Always do!" I laugh at his enthusiasm and the strong accent I have grown accustom to. One of my favorite on earth things is watching people do what they love. I adore how excited and passionate they continually seem, even when they are absorbed by the act every day of their lives. Though frustrating at times, upon waking the next morning, it's almost as if every cell in your body is compelled to start again. Whatever that one thing may be for you, its strong. It's the most vigorous addiction I've ever known, an addiction to the satisfaction that's really only found in doing what you were created to do. The satisfaction of knowing that you have a purpose.

I saunter down the hallway and pass by what feels like an eternity of closed doors. I've lived in this penthouse for quite some years now, and I've never understood the need for so many rooms. Behind every door is a space carefully crafted to look classy and aesthetically pleasing—but for what? No little kid to line stuffed animals up on the walls for the comfort and protection against the night's beings under their bed. No imagination to turn an empty corner in to a beautiful castle constructed with the softest of pillows and blankets. No time leftover to snuggle up with dimmed lights and only a flashlight revealing the words to a beloved story book. There's been none of that around here for a very long time, or ever.

A house can be fully furnished, from floor to ceiling, with nothing but the finest and newest pieces; But without a family, it's empty. There's a difference between a house and a home.

I shake out of my overactive mind as I hear noise coming from the current doorway to my right. The polished black door is perched open enough that I can see Heather placing one of my tops into the washing machine.

"Need any help? I'm bored," I admit as I pick up a pinstriped skirt.

"Maxwell didn't want to stay for dinner?" Heather asks, her smile never any dimmer than usual.

"No, It's Thursday," I answer, not bothering to correct her for the millionth time. I like it when she calls him 'Maxwell', it's entertaining, especially if Max is listening.

Secretly, she knows his real name, I know that she does. But hey, you only live once. Sometimes you just have to find humor in the small things.

Heather understandingly nods her head and I watch a few more delicate strands of dark hair fall from her morning ponytail, "His mom comes home early on Thursdays." She agrees, knowing our routine all too well.

I had never known my Dad at all, because he died of cancer before I was even born. But Max lost his father to a plane crash when he was a boy, and with their family's financial instability, the accident effected them in many more ways than one. Max has always insisted on being home when his mother returns, for whatever reason. Though she does work ridiculous waitress hours just to support the two of them in the city, so maybe it was just his small gesture of gratitude.

I know life is hard for him sometimes, it hurts my heart to think about. But in all honesty, our dad situations were one of our main bonding points when we were younger. It's a touchy topic, and maybe I'm a weirdo, but I just find a sense of security in anything that relates back to Max or our friendship.

That's when I realize that I'm still holding the exact same article of clothing I had picked up minutes ago. I quickly toss it into the washer— some help I am.

"Did you two finish the audition video?" Heather asks me.

"I just need to apply and submit now," I nod, nausea stirring in the pit of my stomach at the mention of it.

"Have some faith, honey! You're going to win. Can you win an audition? Either way, you're going to kick the other kid's dream's asses," Her words seem to clumsily slip out of her mouth in excitement.

"Heather!" I laugh, covering my own mouth for some reason. Call me the language police, yeah yeah, I've heard it before.

"Pardon me," She chuckles, turning a few knobs on the washer, "You'll competition friendly tap the other kids' dream's bums."

"That's so much worse," I'm still grinning when I take ahold of the detergent and unscrew it's lid, pouring out the soapy substance and watching it pool into all of my clothing.

"Oh well. So when are you going to tell your mother?"

My stomach flip flops and the container slips from my grasp at her exact words, plopping into the soggy pile of laundry at the bottom of the machine. "Oops," I wince, purposely avoiding the question.

I scoop the plastic bottle back out, setting the apparent weapon aside for now. A little extra soap never hurt anything, right? The worst thing that could happen would be somewhat out of a movie, like where the entire house turns into one giant bubble bath—which actually sounds freaking fantastic, so I'm rooting for that outcome.

Heather's impatient stance urges me to to continue with the conversation despite my lack of detergent-pouring grace.

I shrug at this, not giving an answer because I don't exactly have one. Unless it's never, but that response might be frowned upon.

"At dinner perhaps?"

"If I feel like it, I guess,"

Heather melts back into smiles once again, "My stubborn girl, what would I do without you?" She squeezes my arm.

"Get the laundry done a lot faster?" I lightheartedly say as I finally push the start cycle button.

I love Heather so much. She's always been there for me, even on her busiest days. She may be our housekeeper, but she's also like a mother to me.

Speaking of mothers, I hear the recognized sound of the elevator clicking at the end of its ascend. It's either my Mom herself, or a package that I had ordered online. Obviously, I'm hoping for the latter.

"Mom?" I call as I round the corner and the hallway, once again coming into the large living area, with Heather not far behind me.

"I don't care!" Mom snaps, her voice cool and professional, yet hinting her annoyance. "Give me what you've got and if it isn't enough to work with—"

She abruptly pauses after noticing my presence, readjusting herself, "Make sure we're on the line between an effortless red carpet and an all business proposal. No wardrobe malfunctions this time. And I'll have the new sketches in by noon Sunday." She says blankly before hanging up.

Mom releases a deep exhale before turning to me with her million dollar smile and diamond eyes to match.

"Crazy day at work?"

"Nothing more or less than usual." She says, her features tired yet still undeniably stunning.

"Max was here earlier. Hope you don't mind."

And we rode the subway again.

I shift under her presence, per usual. It's a sad thing when simply being around you own mother makes you uncomfortable. I love her, but— I can't ever help but wonder if I really am good enough for her.

She's intimidating, to say the least. You have to be to run a major company in New York.

"When isn't he here, darling?" She chuckles, blotting her already perfectly set foundation with an oil wipe.

I give a half smile and glance down at the time on my phone, "Why are you home so early?" I add, still a bit surprised at this rare phenomenon.

Oh yeah, I also officially auditioned for my dream school.

"I have to be out by three in the morning tomorrow to catch a plane across state, I told you that didn't I?"

"No."

Did I tell you that all I want to do with my life is create music?

"Oh," Her nose crinkles at this, "Well I— yes? Amanda Hope speaking. What do you need Thomason?"

That was a good two minutes of attention...

"Don't mess with me. Tomorrow is not a day to be handled leniently." She speaks into her phone with authority, as always.

I slide onto a firm leather couch while I wait, pondering over the woman in front of me. It isn't a rare occurrence for me to be told that I look like my mom—but personally, I can't say I fully see it. Sure there are similarities, but her hair is a delicate golden blonde while mine has messy almond tints to it. Not to mention how I have to straighten mine to get it to cooperate in any way. Mom's eyes are a piercing electric blue, but mine are clouded by a filter of gray.

"What about the shipment? Is that still on schedule?Good."

My skin is pale and freckles are sprinkled across my nose and cheeks; Whereas Mom's is, like I said—

Perfect.

I don't mind though, I'm my own person. I want to be my own person. Brooklynn Hope. Even if there's nothing special about that name, I'm glad it's mine.

I hear a click from Mom's phone, signaling the end of her conversation. I quickly rise at her return of attention to me.

"Where were we?"

"Well—"

"Dinner is served!" I'm interrupted by the announcement from our pleased little cook. Suddenly I become aware of the delicious scents emitting from the kitchen and am instantly starving. I'm not a girl to turn down food. Ever.

Mom laces her arm in mine and smiles, "Shall we?"

"Of course."

I sit down at my traditional chair at the table and stare down at the absolutely mouthwatering selection of food that rests under my eyes. Chicken with some sauce that I can't even pronounce consumes the largest portion of the plate, while the remaining is seasoned with my favorite pasta and some dark green salad. Bernie has done it again.

Heather coughs and gives me a expression that somehow lessens my appetite.

"Now?" I mouth towards her while Mom pours herself a glass of lemon water.

Heather nods.

I didn't think that a meal as delicious as this could be ruined so easily, but alas...

"Hey, Mom. I need to talk to you about something." I force off of my tongue before I can back out again.

"What is it?"

"Max wasn't just hanging out earlier," I gulp, now completely forgetting that there's any food on the table at all.

"Oh?" Mom raises an eyebrow, "You two are officially a thing now?"

"What? No!" I choke in surprise just before blurting the all too fragile words I've been holding back, "He helped me apply for MACC. Remember? That school I mentioned that I really want to go to next year?"

Mom nods her head slowly as my head pounds in my chest. She seems to be digesting the sentence and trying to recall any knowledge of the school, or maybe she's just trying to figure out what I had said. Every word had kinda mushed together in their hastily escape.

"I remember. Honey,"

I hold my breathe.

"that's great!" She exclaims.

I exhale, that's step one over with. Check.

"If this is really what you want, we'll make it happen! Obviously money isn't an issue," she now speaks speedily, with an excited tone, "and Dear, you'll just have to show me the clothing designs you presented on your resume!"

I knew that's what she would assume. I'm suddenly at a loss for words though being fully aware at how this was going to play out. I see Heather awkwardly look down at her plate, and I wince at my own stalling.

"Mom. That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about—"

"Of course I'll edit them!" She says, for once growing a large amount of interest in a conversation with me, "I'm sure they're divine on their own but I really wouldn't mind tweaking the sketches a bit. A professionals touch never hurt." She smiles to herself.

We all know a bit of tweaking would mean her completely redoing the designs. If the designs existed in the first place that is. I have to tell her, as easily as I could play along with this, I have to take the disappointment instead. I have to.

"No. Mom, I didn't apply as a—"

That's when I hear the all too familiar ringtone of mom's phone, signaling another anxiously awaiting call.

What about her anxiously awaiting daughter?

"Excuse me," She whispers to us before she exists the dining room almost as quickly as she came. Leaving her untouched plate of food to grow cold as we all know she'll stay occupied for quite some time.

I can't decide whether I'm upset or relieved, but Heather shoots me a sympathetic look regardless.

Whatever. I tried to tell her, I really did—

But now I've lost her again.

• • •

A\N

Hello! I'm a couple days late on the update but here it is! In my opinion, it's a bit of a long and uneventful  chapter, but necessary. Things may or may not be about to start picking up ;)

This chapter holds the first interaction you readers see with Brooklynn's mom. Thoughts? Do you think her mom is really as hard to deal with as Brooklynn claims? She's definitely a busy woman!

Until next time,
Happy reading! (And voting hehe)