Finding Atlas

I lived in a classic New Orleans mansion on the corner of Prytania and Royal, its rustic and grandeur appearance matching the mansions surrounding it. Our front lawn was perfectly manicured, as was our backyard garden, the rose bushes settled by the porch, and the moonflower planters outside every window, all maintained by me because my mom couldn't keep plants alive for the life of her. All the house cleaning was usually split between Grace and myself.

Grace Sarasses had been taking care of me since I could crawl. She wasn't just my Creole housekeeper with a heart of gold, but rather the mother figure I never had. Growing up, my city councilwoman mother was often absent in the developmental points of my life. While my mother was busy having afternoon tea with her friends and attending city council meetings with my father, Grace was teaching me the ways of life. She taught me the basics of reading and writing, how to speak French, how to cook and clean and garden, nearly everything I know today. What she didn't teach me my father taught me, or I learned from friends or experience.

Although Xavier, my cousin, was certainly my father's favorite, my father loved me just as any father should. He taught me how to prove a point and how to win an argument. Aside from teaching me things that lawyers like him were experts at, he also taught me how to ride a bike and how to play the piano. Although my mother was absent in relatively seventy-five percent of my life, my father was always there for me.

As I started middle school, my friends taught me all about gossip, lies, and betrayal. Not that I, personally, was involved in any of that; it was all far too messy and I've always been a clean, cookie cutter person, so I steered clear of those friends and made myself some new ones, who I think are more trouble than the ones in my past, although not in a bad way.