Pass Me By

If asked, there would be two significant reasons as to why I would not be considered a stalker or any form of a predator, and those were simply the lack of caring about other’s business and also the lack of perseverance to find out more. To put it simply, what I hear usually does not consist of what I care to listen to. I don’t care if someone’s best friend slept with their boyfriend, or if a sickly old hag needs surgery, or if a snobby preteen girl thinks it’s normal to act like the world revolves around her. The knowledge, along with their names and other pointless information, just finds its way into my brain and remains their permanently unless enough time goes by and I eventually forget them. Going along with the second reason, I never have, nor will I ever, wish to remove myself from my corner to find out more useless knowledge about people I don’t care about. Already I know more about random pedestrians’ lives than I do about how to make an actual living.

That is, until the day I met the girl with no story.



The first time I saw her, Estella was with her friend, Laura (or Lauren, but only her mother was allowed to call her that). The two had only just crossed the street and were no doubt headed toward the new Red Mango frozen yogurt shop that had opened a block or two down from my spot. I remember keeping my gaze lowered to the strings of my guitar, my brown bangs flopping in front of my eyes, trying in vain to hide myself. There was no way I wanted to listen to the stories of another pair of teenage girls. As expected though, this plot of mine was doomed to fail from the start, for Laura immediately took notice of me and began squealing, her words jumbling over each other. She had asked about song requests, but almost instantly added in something about what college I attended, if I sang or just played guitar, how her first pet was a kitten, and on. She made it too easy to learn everything about her, all of which was just as uninteresting as expected, and for that I was not fond of the red-head.

The sound of coins falling on others removed me from the one-sided conversation and I had turned my head to face the blond, the girl with no story, the girl named Estella. When our eyes met, it was almost as if she were reading mine, like she was learning my story, instead of the other way around. And for once since joining the street crew, I was frightened.

But I wasn’t going to let her know that.

However, she had seen something and her expression made this apparent. Her blond hair was done in a high bun that day, allowing me to silently read her, as she was contemplating a thought that had struck her. Once she noticed me staring though, her reaction was none different than my own. The only difference was she had seen something in my eyes, in my appearance, in my mind. When I had looked at her, I saw nothing. Nothing definite. She even avoided speaking, to make it even more difficult, as if she knew the little holes in my visions. And despite being unwilling to learn most people’s story, I needed to know hers. The very fact that I couldn’t figure it out so quickly strengthened the wish, the yearn, the desire to know.

The unquenchable longing to learn this girl inside and out.

And she knew that, that was for sure. It was evident in her expression and reflected off her aqua eyes.

“What is it, Estella?” Laura questioned, her forehead creasing.

So that was her name, Estella, I thought, zeroing in on this. At least I had a start; even if it was just a first name, it was an uncommon one at that. There could not be many by that name, especially in this day and age. It reminded me of something out of a Disney princess movie, but even they weren’t that original. Nor was this girl the image of royalty, with her much too big long-sleeved shirt, baggy pants, and disgusting, mutilated boots.

“Estella Marie Montgomery!” Laura’s voice was stern now, as the unusually silent blond pulled at the red-head’s arm. At the sound of her full name – I’d have to thank her for making this the slightest bit easier for me – Estella slapped her pallid hand over her friend’s mouth and glared at the girl. Laura on the other hand squirmed as Estella tried in vain to drag her down the black, in the opposite direction of where I sat. Not that it mattered to me, I’d learned the information I thought I would need and prepared to learn more from that day forward.

If only it was that easy.

There was a groan of frustration a few feet away, and I noticed Laura had given in to her silent friend. Upon noticing my eyes on them, she flashed the peace sign before making the ”call me” gesture. Having no intention of speaking with her again, my focus drifted to the blond as she stared, horrified, at her friend. I tried to pry some information from her appearance without her being aware; however, Estella was almost instantly conscious of my eyes boring into her. Blue eyes caught mine, and they were again able to see through my almost harmless exterior. I was exposed under her eyes, but again I made no indication of this.

But it was not only that which drove an unspeakable emotion through me. How was it I could not read her? How could it even be possible that I sit here, only knowing her name?

She never spoke.

That had to be it.

Something flashed in her blue eyes, what it was I could not be sure for she broke the stare between us hastily, before she rushed Laura down a new block. My eyes narrowed, knowing perfectly well that it led to a dead end unless she was keen to hopping the ten-foot wire fence. She would be back, no doubt. A grin spread on my lips as I imagined her flabbergasted expression and her friend’s fuming countenance.

With this thought and her name fresh in my mind, I lifted the guitar back onto my lap while stifling a yawn. This no-coffee-diet wasn’t working well for me, clearly, but until I could find a replacement for Mr. McNally I was fresh out of lucky. The only good news was my teeth’s steady health deterioration was slowing from the lack of the caffeinated goodness.

Just as I was about to strum a few chords, I heard a voice ask, “Hey Mister, can you please play me a song?”

My eyes peered unwillingly at a lone child staring bright-eyed at me, as if the appearance of a mere street performer enlightened him. He couldn’t be any older than eight, though adorned rags for clothes and held a mangled dollar in his tiny, dirty fingers. Murk covered his cheeks and I couldn’t help but notice the lice dancing in his blond locks.

We were one in the same.

“Whatever you want me to.”

That was the first time I’d met Estella Marie Montgomery. And it certainly wasn’t the last.