Chocolate

As the smell of sweet cinnamon fills my nostrils, my mother's sharp voice tunefully calls me downstairs. Like I always do, I run a brush through my caramel colored hair and spray on a bit of Chanel No. 5. Grabbing one of my many Versace bags and throwing it over my shoulder, I merrily retreat downstairs.

Claiming my spot at the marble top table, I groan at the plate in front of me. Sebastian, our cook, quickly appears at my side. "Is something wrong, Miss Brielle?"

"Yes," I hiss. "How many times do I have to tell you, Sebastian? I like whole wheat toast, not multi grain."

He apologizes several times, taking away the plate and promising a new breakfast. I wave him away and tell him to forget about it; my morning is already ruined.

"Brielle Sophia," my mother snaps from the other end of the dining table. She toys at her Tiffany's necklace and cocks her head at me."You can't possibly leave here without eating."

I order Sebastian to get me a granola bar; not my ideal way to start the day, but I am pretty sure I am already late for school. Concentrating on our crystal chandelier, I impatiently wait for him to return from the kitchen. When he finally does, I snatch the granola bar and throw it in my bag, praying that it's the flavor I like.

As she hides behind the black and white print of the New York Times, I kiss my mother on the cheek and dash out of our penthouse. I take the elevator down thirty floors and arrive at the crowded lobby, weaving my way through. Men in black suits and women wearing high heels don't even notice my presence as I push past them, finally arriving at the front door. The doorman smiles at me as he holds it open and lets me through.

I live the prosperous life most people can only dream of. A million girls would kill to be me; a luxurious penthouse, designer clothing, and a mother so affluent that it is hard not to notice. My wallet is filled with countless colorful credit cards, all lined up perfectly and printed with my full name. Brielle Sophia Margaret Lafontaine. The name of a princess, my mother always states.

Which is why I attend a prestigious private school in Manhattan, where only the wealthy are considered for acceptance. Every student lives on the Upper East Side and wouldn't be caught dead wearing something you can't buy on 5th Avenue. I fit in perfectly; if there is anything my mother makes sure of, it's that people know how much money we have. And if I can help her in the process, I am more than willing.

When the cab I've taken arrives in front of my school, I overpay the driver and jump out. The cool September air sticks my hair to my lip gloss, as I bounce up the marble steps and meet my friends inside. They are just like me in every possible way. Even at sixteen years old, we are expected to dress a specific way, speak a certain jargon, and hold our heads high. We never think twice about it; we are fortunate to live this life, we might as well embrace it.

After school, when I am on my way to the hair salon and trying to decide what color highlights I want, I stop at the street vendor to get a soda. Usually I shy away from such carbonation; it can only lead to a stomach that is less than flat. But the red Coke can catches my eye and I can't resist the temptation.

The boy in front of me is trying to buy food, but realizes he is short on cash. Annoyed, I tap my foot anxiously. As he turns around and looks at me, a disgusted look creeps up on his mocha colored face.

"Look, rich girl. Why don't you go first and pay with your hundred dollar bill?"

Taken aback, I stand there speechless. No one has ever said such a thing to me before; my money is never criticized.

"And then after that, you can head to 5th Ave," he insists, scanning my stylish outfit. "I'm sure you could use a new bag or two."

He saunters away, leaving me in front of the vendor. I chase after him, heat rising in my porcelain face. Once I catch up to him, he mockingly sneers at me.

"Move out of the way."

"No," I cross my arms, not at all terrified by his tall height. "What's your problem?"

"Unlike you," he answers. "I like to work for my cash. And sometimes, I don't make enough to buy myself a hot dog. But that's no reason to tap your foot like a little brat."

My face falls, suddenly a little vulnerable. All my life, money has simply been handed to me. Even when I have plans to just hang out with friends Central Park, my mother will always throw me a couple fifties before I leave. Money is no object to me; I've never known what it's like to not have any at my fingertips.

"I'm sorry," I surrender.

He studies my appearance once again, as if he might be tested on it. I can imagine he's not too familiar with brands such as Louis Vuitton and Gucci. As if comparing his clothes to mine, he touches his shirt. A white wife beater presses tightly to his chest, even though the crisp fall wind is blowing throughout the city.

"Where are you from?" I ask, curious.

He shakes his head. "Look. I'm sorry for being an asshole, but it's over. You go on your way and I'll go on mine. I'm sure you have somewhere important to be."

In reality, I have a hair appointment in ten minutes and a piano lesson right after, not to mention hours of homework and helping my mother pack for her trip to Europe. But I forget about all of this, abruptly enthralled by this boy.

"I have nowhere to be," I lie.

He scoffs, but sticks his hand out anyway. "I'm Trey Collins. From Washington Heights."

I take his hand in mine. "Brielle Lafontaine. Upper East Side, if it isn't obvious."

At this, he actually chuckles a little. His laugh is a soothing sound, pure and effortless. I ask him if he wants to walk through the park with me, an invitation that surprises both of us. To my appreciation, he agrees.

We spend the next hour just talking, conversations that I have never had with anyone else. He explains to me that he has been carelessly moved around from various foster homes. A knot twists in my stomach, feeling guilty just for having a king size bed.

There is something enchanting about Trey, something I've never quite seen before. He mentions playing basketball with his neighbors on a local cement court and attending public school with obnoxiously negligent teachers. A simple life, yet he speaks so highly of it.

We have reached the other end of the park by the time the sun starts to set. I whip out my iPhone, but Trey just laughs and shakes his head.

"Don't ask for my number," he says. "I don't have a phone."

Embarrassed, I slip my phone back in my leather bag. He looks around us, taking in the world one glance at a time. I shrug, upset for more reasons than one.

"I guess this is it," I state.

He nods. "Yeah. Have a good one, Brielle."

As I watch him stroll away, I back up in the other direction, prepared to make the long walk home. Halfway through my journey, I stumble upon a consignment shop and go inside. The woman behind the counter raises her thick eyebrows in my direction.

"Can I help you?"

I point to my Versace bag. "I'd like to donate this."

"Okay," she says, shocked. "Let me figure out how much I can give you for it."

Taking off my Gucci ballet flats, I set them on the counter. "I want to give these away, too. And I don't want a dime for any of it."

Before she can protest, I leave the store barefoot and determined to empty my wallet at the children's hospital down the street. Somehow a boy, with skin the color of chocolate and a persona just as sweet, has set my eyes in a different direction.

And I'm never looking back.