NOBODY CAN FIX THAT [Chapter 3] - Blair POV

"But, Mum, please, you have to understand me!"

"No. I don't want to go back to New York, so we're staying. This move will be so much better for us, Blair." Her voice sounds weary, but I don't care at this moment.

"Yeah, easy for you to say! You aren't here! You are in London!" I almost yell through my cell. How can she do this to me? "You think that this move will be better? For what? For my health? I am healthy, thank you very much."

"Blair…"

But I don't listen to her. "Because here are more trees than back home in New York? And what is Central Park then? Uh? A bunch of plastic trees? Mum, this is no place for you and me! You have to understand that! We belong in New York City! I belong there! I belong with my friends!" From my eye corner I see that Dorotha enters the room with clean sheets.

"Sweetie, I know you are afraid, but you will make new friends. I'm sure of that, sweetie. Don't worry, Blair. It will be all fine. Yeah, Samantha, I will come right to you," I hear her say to her assistant. "Blair, I have to go. Goodnight, sweetheart." And she hangs on. Just like that.

"Aargh!" I throw my cell through the room. It flings to the wall and I hope that it will break. Of course it doesn't. Stupid thing. I storm out of the room and the door behind me closes with a bang that is loud enough to wake the dead from the graves. I have to escape from my life, just one minute.

I run outside, in the garden - which is really strange to have one. I have never had a garden, back in New York City. But I always wanted one. In the Hamptons we have a summerhouse with a garden, but we only go there two months each year, so that doesn't count.

The garden is beautiful. Hundredth and hundredth of roses in different colors. Pink, scarlet, snow-white, buttercup yellow, orange and so on. It smells also delicious, thanks to rain. The raindrops are still hanging on the roses. A sweet, pure fragrance. I can't fight a smile. Dorotha will love this. She has always loved roses, and had put fresh roses every day in the apartment, back home. It make me feel like a sort of home.

I fight the curtsey to take of my shoes and feel the wet grass underneath my bare feet. That is just too ridiculous to think about.

I begin to gather several roses for Dorotha. Simply just for the fun. It is one of the few things I can do around here. And it helps not to think about the place where I am – or that my mum still treats me like a child.

But it can't switch off completely all of my thoughts.

I think about today. That Bella-girl seemed nice and friendly, but now she probably hates me. I wasn't exactly kind to her. Now I regret I behaved like that, a little bit - but I didn't know what to do. I don't want to be friends with these people. I have my own friends back in New York. I don't want to get stuck in this place, and mostly making friends is the first step to getting stuck.

The second step was mostly a boy. Not that I would start a relationship - I have Nate Archibald - but you could never know what would happen. So, I feel no need in meeting new people. I don't want to take that risk. But that risk doesn't exist.

From where I stand, I can see into the kitchen of the neighbors. Their son - a 13 years old boy, I guess by his length- waved at me when I came back from school this afternoon and had said "Hey!" to me. He seemed nice. But I had ignored him. Really, I was in a bad mood and I have never liked kids. It was kind of me to ignore him and not to say something that would have hurt him, wasn't it?

I see him sitting at the kitchen table. In front of him sits a guy - no, a man. It is hard to say, because I only can see his back. Maybe his father? Probably, because his mother is also very young, I remember. I have seen her this morning. A tall, slim and pretty woman with black hair and a copper colored skin. She is in her twenties, I guess.

The man has wide shoulders, and short dark hair. From where I stand, I can see his muscles of his upper arm - which are very developed.

I gather another yellow rose while I continue to stare through their window - like some kind of idiot. The man says something to his son, who begins to laugh. I take a step to the left, and that the woman stands at the kitchen sink, making dinner.

When was the last time that I have had dinner together with my mum? Two weeks, three weeks? She was always travelling, to London or Paris or another distant far away city in Europe. And my dad lived in France, with his boy-friend, so there was always one empty chair.

It is stupid to be jealous on that, but I am. I just want my family together, back in New York. Just like in old days. Like my dad used to kiss my mum on the cheek before he left for work. Mum, dad and me. The three musketeers.

I don't have a family anymore. My family is scattered over the world, blown into different quarters. It is just Dorotha and me.

A tear falls on one of the deep red roses. Surprisingly I look down. Where does that tear comes from? Who is crying?

Another hot tear falls on the rose. And another one rolls over my cheek. Then I realize that I am the one who is crying. Quickly I wipe under my eyes. Crying is for people who can't handle their problems. People who are weak. I'm not weak. I can do this.

Crying over things I can't change. There is nothing going to change. I'm going to hate here, and there is nobody who can fix that. And I will be waiting for the day I can leave this place behind and never have to go back to it.

I straighten my back and look again to the house. The boy is waving at me, and I stiffen. He also smiles at me, like he is happy to see me and he says something. I see that his father wants to turn around, to look at me. Time to go. I gather all the roses in my hands and almost run to the back door.

When I am finally back in the kitchen, I lean on the back door and sink through my knees. The roses fall on the ground. I don't know what just happened to me? Why did I react like that? Just run away like a coward. That isn't me. This place has a creepy influence on me.

"Miss Blair?"

Dorotha enters the room. I stand up and give her the roses. "For you, Dorotha. I thought you're going to like this," I smile.

She looks at me in shock. "Thank you, miss Blair. They are beautiful," she stutters and takes the roses.

"You're welcome, Dorotha." And I mean it, I realize to my own astonishment. I rushed upstairs, and lock myself up in my room.

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