~Editted~

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Change brings opportunity. ~Nido Qubein


Maysa looked out the window of her sitting room and sighed. From the window, if she reached out, nothing would ever stop her from touching the soft azaleas that drifted about in the soft wind. She wondered what she was going to do.

It was almost time for her to come to power. Her father had died two months ago of a fatal plague that had ravished the country of its citizens. Her mother was too weak and frail to take over a broken country and it was now Maysa's duty to build it back up. But she had no one that she trusted to rule with her. Her father had taught her again and again that no sole person can run a country because no sole person has all the answers. He had told her that every good leader has advisors that they trust with their life and to make good decisions. A tear came to her eye as she thought about her noble leader, her loving father.

As she wiped the tear away, Maysa thought of candidates for her advisors. There were her father's old advisors but perhaps it wouldn't be wise to recycle advisors. They had been her father's and were used to her father's decisions, not hers. They would expect her to be exactly like her father. There was also her mother but she could not bring her emotions with her to her throne. Maysa needed someone faithful, noble, undoubted, and most of all someone that she could trust.

"Mistress?" Her servant Dalia called from the doorway warily. She had long blonde hair pulled into a tight bun upon her head with hazel eyes that followed the ground humbly.

"Yes?" Maysa answered, melancholy.

"The dresser requests your presence to fit you for a dress to wear to the gladiator's festival," Dalia replied meekly.

"The gladiator's festival?"

"Yes, ma'am. Remember, you must attend in your father's place since you are to come into power."

"Oh, yes, of course," Maysa stood from her cushioned chair and followed Dalia out. Those in power had to watch the gladiators festival for they were the mediators for this event. The mediator decided what happened and had to follow no rules except that one person in the ring had to die. People came from countries around to either enter their champion or watch for the bloody enjoyment. As for Maysa she disliked the festival with passion and so did her father but they could not stop it from happening as it was law that one leader could not take back a law that another had made. She thought it cruel and inhumane to watch people kill each other.

And now, Maysa wanted to be thinking of her bigger issues rather than a violent festival. She had no idea what she was going to do about advisors and she had three weeks to decide. The festival was a week away.


It'd been six years since I'd see Raphael, but that hadn't stopped me from remembering him. I never got over leaving him and it wouldn't surprise me if he hated me for me leaving him. Raph was my best friend and I probably wouldn't have parents right now if it weren't for him. But I left him.

I faintly remembered my life at the orphanage. I remembered wanting to be loved and feeling lonely. I remembered how happy I was to finally have a friend. But most of all, I remembered my friend. I wanted to find him and I wasn't that far out of the possibility.

My mother's bakery had become famous, so we had all moved to New York City, just a month prior. After I finally finished unpacking, I ran down the stairs that connected the apartment to the bakery. Unpacking is the worst of anything. I've always wished that someone would make something that would unpack everything for you. My mom's been nagging me about it too. Every time I'm not unpacking it's always, "Why aren't you unpacking? It's taking you forever."

As I stood at the opening in between the staircase to our apartment and the shop, the smell of cinnamon rolls drifted under my nose, dragging me through the bakery into the kitchen. The bakery was closed since it was only eight. My mom refuses to open till eleven because she says a lunch crowd is better than a breakfast crowd.

"Mom!" I called, swinging open the double push doors that kept the kitchen away from the bakery. I slowly breathed in the scent. The kitchen smelled like flour, baking, and cinnamon rolls. My mom made a lot more than cinnamon rolls. She made cupcakes, cakes and everything else bakers make, but the cinnamon rolls are the reason we're in New York City. They've won contests and pleased the most dignified people. No joke. We sent a box of cinnamon rolls to the vice president when he was in town just last week. They're that good.

"Your mother had to run some errands," a deep yet mellow voice replied. He stood over the oven, obviously watching the cinnamon rolls bake. If he let them burn, my mom would kill him.

"Oh," I frowned, this early? "But since when did mom let you make the cinnamon rolls, Kyle?" I was joking, of course, my mom would never let anyone- not even me- touch the recipe. The only people to have ever seen it is my dad and my grandmother who passed away three years ago of lung cancer.

Kyle worked for the bakery ever since we came to New York City. Normally, he was at the counter; but since we weren't open yet he worked in the kitchen, washing the platter dishes used for displaying the breads and cakes in the glass counter. His real name was Kyle Huffshmidt, so for obvious reasons, I called him Kyle. Even though my mother said anyone eighteen or over when you're not is a mister, miss, or misses, I still call him that.

Kyle laughed; brushing some auburn hair out of his light brown eyes, only to have it fall back. "You know how protective your mother is about her cinnamon rolls recipe. She put them in the oven before she left. I'm just in charge of making sure they don't burn."

I stared hungrily at the giant oven, made to hold trays of food. Would mom bother to count? They would be cold by the time she got back. I wanted one. She wouldn't let me have more than one a day, sometimes less than that. If you haven't figured this out already, my mom is very strict and rather old fashioned. I still love her but she's your typical mother.

I looked at Kyle as his laugh filled the kitchen again. "Yes," He said with a grin, "your mother said you could have one when they're done."

I smiled; it was a rumor, a true rumor, that my mom made the best cinnamon rolls in the whole city.

"She's a bit worried about you though," Kyle frowned thoughtfully, peeking in the oven at the rolls.

"Why?" I was surprised. My mother tended to worry over my manners and such, but never over me in general unless I was sick. I wasn't the kind of person to go off doing crazy stuff and she knew it.

"Said you look like you're dreaming or out of it most of the time, since you came here and something about a weird drawing," Kyle shrugged lightly. Kyle never worried. Ever. He smiled a lot and always seemed happy. It must be nice in the world of Kyle Huffshmidt.

"Oh," was the only response I could think of. I had been thinking of ways to find Raph. The weird drawing was probably the drawing I drew last night, trying to recall what he looked like, but unfortunately I had no artistic talent what so ever. It ended out as a deformed stick person. He said he lived in the sewers but you wouldn't catch me crawling down a manhole into that icky water. I hate toilets that haven't been flushed; I can't imagine tunnels filled the stuff from the toilets that have been flushed.

"If you ask me," Kyle muttered, walking over to the shelf to get an oven mitt. "The city air is getting to your head."

I just nodded, still thinking. I wasn't really paying attention to him. But I did hate the city air. How did I live with it when I was little?

"You'll get used to it, Calister." Kyle grinned at his pet name for me. He said it sounded like his favorite restaurant, McAlister's. I didn't like being named after a restaurant, but my mom told me it would be rude to complain.

"Maybe," I muttered, six years in the country air can really change a person's opinion about the city. I could almost see the filth in the air let alone smell it! It might not be as dirty as I think, but compared to the country it's disgusting.

"Do you miss the country?" Kyle asked as he opened the oven and reached in, pulling the tray of cinnamon rolls. He set them on a marble counter on a towel so that the hot pan wouldn't touch the counter.

"I miss the stars," I frowned, not feeling like going into detail. I did miss the country, everything about it. The room, the endless rows of trees, vast plots of grass, the clean air, the lack of people, the forest animals, and the stars. I missed my friends from the country too. Alaina, Kristy, and Penny were my three best friends. I wasn't extremely social and neither were they so we got along perfectly. We were called the quiet bunch, which made us laugh because outside of school we wouldn't shut up. We did everything together too. Mom said I could invite them over soon and they told me to, too. They thought it was awesome to get to live in the big city, but it's not all that and it doesn't come with the bag of chips either like everyone said it would. "All that and a bag of chips." Whatever. Well, the shops were nice. I thought I would check some out later.

Kyle just laughed. He always laughed at everything. I didn't think he meant to be rude. I just assumed it was what city people did. I probably would act like that too if I grew up in this cramped place. No wonder I had issues as a child. "I understand, Calister, I've seen millions of stars in the city…you just have to wait for a power outage."

I frowned, how long would that take? Even though I had better things to think about other than the stars, I didn't feel like thinking about those other 'things.' Truth be told, I had only been thinking about the country and Raph the last month. School would distract me if I had it now, but it was summer.

Then the scent of the cinnamon rolls caught me again. I smiled, glad to have something else to think about. I took a plate from the counter and reached for one as the steam rolled off of them. I snatched one quickly, hoping not to burn my fingers but I did. I shook my hand loosely to cool my fingers.

Kyle laughed-again- and I laughed with him this time. It makes me wonder if people ever get mad with someone laughing at everything. I could see a fight breaking out because an easily humored person laughed at something a hot-tempered person did and the hot-tempered person jumping on the humored person.

"Tell mom I said thanks!" I told Kyle as I walked out through the swinging kitchen doors.

I made sure to wave at a group of college students standing at the door reading the time sign with a look of disgust so that they would see me with my delicious cinnamon roll. I wonder if I would ever do that to people if Raph hadn't tried to scare me when we were little. It was kind of like that we were both messing with people. The college students started yelling at me to give them one but I just smiled and walked away.

I ran up the stairs, afraid my cinnamon roll would cool before I could eat it. I opened the door to our apartment with my spare hand and walked inside. I was glad that my parents had bought this thing because I doubted that a renter would let me have a pet. I wanted a turtle or a cat, whichever my parents obliged to.

Our apartment is a nice size. A four bedroom with a full bath, kitchen, and living area. A hall, opening from a little empty space between the den and kitchen, held the rooms. One of the extra two rooms was my TV room. The other room is my dad's "library". It isn't a library to me. I'd call it an 'investigative room', since he uses it to study crime evidence and such. And there's a coat closet too, right next to the hall in the kitchen.

I opened the second door the left, my TV room, with one hand, the plate in the other. My TV room's almost like a playroom, I guess. But what 15 year old has a playroom? There's a TV on an old wooden nightstand I no longer use with a wii beside it. There's a blue bean bag in the middle of the floor, on my rainbow circular carpet. I thought to add more when I invite friends over. On the opposite wall of the TV there's a set of shelves covered with a collection of CD's from over six years. Below it is a stereo system I got for my birthday. Before that, it was a regular CD player. There's not much, but it looks nice against the light green walls.

I set the plate beside the bean bag before I flumped down into it. Then I picked up the roll and took a big bite. The frosting and stray cinnamon began to cover my finger, and the hot roll burned my tongue, but I loved it. To me, that's the pure joy factors of a cinnamon roll. I slowly ate it layer by layer.

Since I was by myself I decided to think about these other 'things.' I remembered we used to talk every night. I smiled. He was- or my name for it- a turtle-boy. He had a mask that covered from his nose, around and over his head in line. Was it orange or red? I frowned. He was cute too. Raph wasn't cute to me when I was little but now when I think about a little turtle boy I think it's cute. I wonder if he grew any. It'd be kind of awkward if he were still three feet tall.

I sighed. Would he even remember me? He might be mad at me for leaving him. The thought crossed my mind again.

Bored, upset, and tired of thinking of the subject already, I shoved the last bite of the cinnamon roll into my mouth and cleaned my fingers of frosting. And no I didn't waste the frosting by not eating it.

I leaned back into my bean bag and sighed, staring at the speckled grey and black against white ceiling.

Even though I had been asking myself the same question for six years, I couldn't help but think at least one more time: Would I ever see Raph again?

But maybe, he was just my imagination. It'd been so long and I had such a vivid imagination that maybe I made him up when I was little. And now I just thought he was real for some odd reason. But even so, maybe Raphael is real and maybe I can find my best friend.