East Kids - Tessa & Elijah

Chapter 5

Tessa

When the elevator doors open and open to me the view of our apartment, I want to shout loudly for my mother and tell her that I am at home. But then I remember that she is still at work and will immediately go to my school to listen to the annual chatter of my teachers. She will see them then, so probably not until the evening.

I have finished school pretty well, so I put my handbag on the dining table and put the car key next to it. This time Mom would kill me if I lost another key. I fish my mobile phone out of my pocket and then drop onto our black leather sofa.

Probably a lot of people would sit at their desk at this time and start their homework. However, I have banned this word from my vocabulary for several years now and I've gotten along well with this attitude so far.

I scroll through the contacts on my cell phone and then tap Jils Chat to write a message to everyone from there. My fingers almost fly over the keyboard as I write an invitation for all the students from my level.

Congratulations,

you are officially invited to my house party next Friday. Start: 20 o'clock

End: until my mother kicks them all out

Location: 991 5th Avenue (Top Floor), Upper East Side, Manhattan

Also likes to bring enough alcohol.

xoxo Tessa Grayham

With the appropriate function I send the message to everyone, so I don't have to rewrite it every time. Then I put my mobile phone on the glass table in front of me and stare at the ceiling.

Because I am now completely alone, the boredom creeps in after some time with me. All my friends already told me in the afternoon that they already have something planned today, so I am alone despite my high position in school.

Right now I'm thinking about picking up my mobile phone again and surfing around on some social networks, that's when the package in my pocket comes to mind. Should I open it or just ignore it?

The second option would certainly save me a lot of trouble, but somehow curiosity grips me at this moment. This interest grows with every second, so that after a few minutes it drives me to get up from the sofa and look for the gift. It must be somewhere under my numerous notebooks, folders and blocks on the floor between the old chewing gum pack and the torn hairband.

So I pour out my bag all over the dining table and start to wish for a spell that makes the things I'm looking for appear right in front of my nose when I can't find them right now. That would make my everyday life a lot easier. However, my life is probably already so easy in many places that a few hurdles are simply prescribed by karma.

So while I continue my search, my mobile phone suddenly doesn't stop vibrating at all. Every two seconds messages pop up from people who ask if I really meant them or want to know if they should bring alcohol. Some I answer with a short 'yes', while others I just ignore. Let them decide for themselves whether to come or bring themselves a drink.

I'm about to give up my search, and the inconspicuous brown package pokes me in the eye. With a contented smile on my lips, I grab it and drop onto a chair. I simply ignore the fact that all the contents of my handbag are scattered on the table.

Half interested and half afraid, I tear the cardboard apart and open the gift. I hope that it is not something material that his assistant had ordered in his name from sss. Although such things would probably be the purest dream for many teenagers my age, I wish for something personal. I don't know what exactly I expect, but somehow I always think when he sends something about the time I spent with him in my childhood. Then I want a gift from that time and not an iPhone or any other nonsense, but something from the heart. Inside me I still hope that he hasn't forgotten our time together, I hope to be more than just an annoying appendage for him, that you can quiet him down if you butter him up three times a year.

I put my hand expectantly into the packaging and hit a round wooden object with my fingertips. A little confused, I pull it out and look at the little wooden music box that I now hold in my hands.

The pink colour with which I painted it when I was six has already faded a little and gives me a glimpse of the white wood underneath. I gently stroke the toy with my thumb. I start turning the crank with two fingers. As soon as I have cranked for a few seconds, a soft melody sounds and the ballerina, which is positioned on top of it, starts her always the same dance.

Suddenly I see my younger self, with the colorful braces and the two braids, with my father in his workshop. He is in the process of carefully sawing out the dancer, while I sit on my little chair next to him, smearing not only the wood, but also myself, with bright pink paint. Again and again I lie over to him and watch him, then for a few seconds marvelling at how he does the filigree work, before I proudly dedicate myself to my own work again.

I completely forgot that he had it. He probably took it with him when he moved out and may have been waiting for the right day to send it back to me. For me it has always been the sign of our father-daughter love, which I have suppressed for years.

All of a sudden I lay my head on the table and keep my eyes on it while I soak up the music as if it were vital to me.

Soon I don't notice the cold glass under my cheek, nor the vibration of my cell phone. Only the soft droning finds my attention and makes its way into my brain, while I remember my childhood as if in a dream.