The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single breakfast...

"Wake up sleepy head."

I groan in my wake. My feet are slumped over the blanket cover, and with open windows, the coldness is unbearable.

Havisham stands in the dressing mirror, parodying her silky hair into perfect twirls- well, almost perfect twirls.

"Don't tell me you're still groaning over sweet sleep. It's coming to seven. I'm counting on you, Alexas."

"Counting on me?"

"For the breakfast and all."

"You're joking!"

"Well, for your information, I am going to tutor Liz on her essay fifteen minutes from now. And in case you forgot, ther competition is tomorrow."

"Oh!"

"Yeah. Your father called last night to update me."

"What did he say?"

"He said Liz is barely prepared."

"No," I shake my head, "I mean, what did he say about me?"

"Oh, now you're worried. No need to be. I told him you slept over at my house."

"You what?"

"Any problem with that?"

"Y-E-S." I pout, "Didn't he say anything more? I really messed up yesterday's schedule. I was supposed to take Liz for her medical tests. She caught a flu recently. He must be really cross with me."

"Relax, everything's fine." She nurses my hair softly. What's wrong with me? Why do I always feel this ecstatic when with her?

She continues, rising to the dressing mirror, "Besides, I bet Clare took care of that. Anyways, why don't you continue with breakfast preparation as I shower? Sounds great, huh?"

"Since when did I become your house-help?" I fudge, smiling softly after her departing figure. If anything, being close to her has a cluster-effect on me.

It is as if her mundane presence is a fountain of independence, bravery and strength, the very attributes which I find most pure and vital to a novice like myself. A novice in matters of life, that is. I always envy my elder sisters of that very thing- independence.

***

A tray of organic eggs lays in front of me. I am really not great at cooking, though when it comes to eggs, I'm a self-entitled expert.

A chop of lettuce with cabbage does the trick, for in a close-shave, after beating the eggs senseless in a monk-like glass bowl, I mix the whole thing countless times before sieving it.

It takes more than sieving to have the cabbage sprout from the egg mixture and after adding two spoonfuls of crushed garlic, it's just a matter of frying.

Easy-peasy.

It's over before I can sense what I've made. The extra-virgin olive oil is skewed all over the kitchen table, the garlic cloves muddled everywhere. It's a mess.

A mess so bad it could be called a sorry excuse for an omelet.

I repeat the process two more times, each time being more precocious with the heat level. The second time, the egg is so black it would make an oil prince jealous.

With the third attempt, it's gruelingly bitter with salt. Either I'm getting over myself and the fact that I can't even fry an egg, or the eggs are bad.

I usually spent my vacations taking cooking lessons online, whenever I got the chance. I never realized how difficult it was until now.

Havisham comes in just in time.

"What a mess!" She exclaims.

I frown candidly.

"Don't worry, we'll grab something on the way."

"But..."

"You don't want to argue about that, now do you?" She smiles infectiously.

"Give me a few minutes to clean this mess up. Jeez, I never realized cooking an omelet was this difficult."

"You'll die once you see Monroe's cooking. You never heard it from me."

"Uh, she can't be this bad." I point at the black specimen of an egg in front of me.

"Come on, we haven't got the whole day you know. Liz is probably waiting."

"Where's Monroe by the way?"

"She's still at her cousin's place. I bet she'll come here by next week."

"Doing what exactly?"

"Oh, she is an artist you see. A songwriter so to speak."

"She doesn't sing?"

"Not so much, I'd say. Though she'd make a perfect karaoke singer if you ever need one."

"Karaoke? I never see it in her. What songs does she write? Love songs?"

"You bet." Havisham makes a sudden exit, "Meet you in the car, Alexas."

***

The kitchen is spark and clean when I am done. Havisham is by the car door, tapping her watch anxiously.

"You can go without me."

"What now?"

"I'll probably slow you down. And besides, Liz needs you more than me."

"If you say so. Problem is, there's no breakfast for you."

"I'll try making more omelets." I say, smiling as I notice her fake frown.

"Take this." She hands me a ten dollar bill. "There's a cafe just after the city trading center. You'll buy something."

"Thanks. Though I wonder what you'll have for breakfast."

"An omelet!" She jokes as she speeds by, leaving an empty apartment in the management of a desolate teenager.

I have always wondered what makes people tick. The thing that makes one feel they're on the top of the world. It definitely has to be beyond money or any physical item whatsoever.

It's that moment so hard to replicate that it matters so much for the rest of one's life. Adney usually said that moment was when she scored all A's on her SAT finals.

Clare, when I asked her, said it was simply the day her daughter graduated. She's now an engineer at some institute in Spain.

For me, that moment is right now, as I watch the Mercedes climb uphill into nothingness.

It's so ecstatic, this feeling. It's as if I've known Havisham for such a long time that I'm deeply confident in her.

It sounds strange, but the feeling I am getting right now, is that of being perfectly entwined with Havisham and Monroe.

And yet, I should be straight.

****

I sit cross-legged, watching HunterStreet with a bag of french fries. The lady I bought them from said they were the only best ones left in the whole world of cooking and I told her, "Thank you very much I'll take them as it is."

I'd have bought the pizza had there not been the margarita type left. The poker-faced mion behind the counter was Jerry Baker, a household rapper turned prisoner turned pizza salesman.

I knew him because he once had a crush on Joan and I happened to be the mailsman (or woman) whenever he deemed his wooing skills of worth.

"It's really only margarita left." He'd said solemnly.

"Can't you make something other than that?"

He zapped his head left and right so hard that I knew it was a solid no. So much for a pizza for breakfast, anyway.

The series I'm watching clearly have no beginning and no ending, for I am deeply enticed into watching the last episode of season one only to discover there's more episodes to be made, hence season two.

Joan would perfectly agree with me here. I'm not so much of a 'watch season two and ad infinitum' kind of movie watcher. I usually do season one and that's it.

The only exception was of course Bel-Air, and even then, I decided to watch only because I wanted to know the ending. It was that good!

I have this strange habit of dipping fries in soda, and it doesn't take long before I dip them all in, savouring the taste of each one.

I am probably going to slack on my finals come next month if I keep up with this pace, although there's nothing to stop me from acing all of my exams anyway.

I really need to ace them, if I am to ever receive an outside scholarship. Father would definitely just buy one for me, or better, pay for a private school abroad, but that doesn't come with its cons.

First and foremost, I love being independent. Not in the stubborn manner, no. More like the manner where you want to make your life as honest as possible.

Striving and all that prep-talk is all it takes, I remember Joan saying the day she left. The moment is a blur but it nonetheless makes up a lot of my life philosophy.

I finish my breakfast just in time for a little walk outside. I don't usually do gym class, or those hard-core zen like fitness exercises. A simple walk usually does it for me, especially at such a critical moment when I have to think about academics, scholarships and more academics.

What a boring way to live!

****

My sweaty pants have really been a menace, ripping in the middle as I squated to tie my shoe-laces.

Now I walk insidously, dying with embarassment every moment someone happens to look my way. It's coming to five and I am pretty sure Miss Havisham is already at the apartment. But that would mean I missed a chance to meet Liz, before she sets off for her tournament, which means...

The thought is as embarassing as my ripped pink sweaty pants.

"Excuse me, miss." I turn suddenly, waking from my day dream. "Have you seen my dog by any chance? It's a browny, this tall, and has a puffy inward face."

'This tall' comes with a few inch hand demo forcing me to gaze at the figure infront of me.

"So rude of me," The mysterious lady apologises, "Name is Christine Appalle. I live in the neighbourhood just over that hill."

"Nice to meet you. I am Alexandra. Is your house the one behind the museum?"

"My ancestors owned the museum, until they sold it for some reason I'll never understand." She stops herself, "Sorry to bother you again, but have you seen that dog."

"Around here? No. I haven't. Though I'm pretty sure it must be in those woods." I say, pointing towards them.

"Oh, now as you can see, I'm a pretty old one. I can't search the place all alone. Will you please help me look for it? I'm sorry for putting you through all this, but that dog surely knows how to cause trouble. I don't want to be collecting its waste around here."

I stiffle a laugh, managing to save face at last by asking her whether it's a crime this side of the world to not pick after a dog's waste.

"A big fine you'd get my dear. You see, I wish I wasn't getting all these birthday gifts from my newbie grandsons. They think granny loves puppies. They just don't know I'm getting too old for this."

"You sure do." I promise her.

***

The sun is setting when we finally spot Mister Trouble-causer. He's whisking in the tall grass, his puffy legs scrubbing at something. As we corner him, he swerves to Christine's legs, definitely apologizing in that dog language which is way beyond man, and being cute all the way up.

"Oh, now you're cute and all." Christine picks him up ruefully, "Look at you, mister. Look how you've ruined yourself with dirt. I wish Anika was here, he'd make a big bath for you alright."

"Who's Anika?"

"My houser cleaner. She's gone for vacation. Long story." She says, tying Mister Trouble-causer's collar. He whines for a bit, but it's to no avail, for after a few moments, they're walking together - collar in hand.

"Thank you so much. Here take this. It's a small gift for you to take home. See you later." The fifty pound note is in my hands, and she's long gone before I have time to protest. Such a mysterious day for a teenager who's supposed to be at home.