When I Don't Cry For You Anymore

[ESTELLA]

When Martin Williams steps into a room, every eye will follow him like he’s the main star of the stage. The world is his show; people’s eyes lingering on him is the spotlight.

Then in the back of the stage, far where even the spotlight can’t reach—is me—Estella Jules.

Hi, I’m Ella; I’m 18 and 5’5. I’m in the last year of high school and have no parents. My mother died when I was 9, and since then, the Williams family has taken care of me; paid my tuition, given me a place, and a job. The very first job I got when I was 10 was to become a nanny to their only son, and the son’s name is Martin Williams.

Yes, the very young man I talked about before I introduced my name is the master I serve; the boy I take care of.

I sound like the closest person to him, right? But at school, Martin is the New York wealthy family’s only child, and I’m nobody’s daughter. The deal Martin gave me so I could go to the same school as him was to not let anyone know I know him—nor that I work for him. And I’m down to his words, as long as he doesn’t tell me to walk out of his life.

“Hey, Nerd.” Martin never calls me by my name at school, he uses the pronoun people give me. I stop with my hands full of books to face him.

“Hey, Nerd!”

“Yes, Martin. You called me?”

“Is there any other nerd here?” Martin gives his bag to me. “Put this in my class. I’m going.”

“Since I’m his classmate, take my bag too, Ella!”

“Me too, for sure.”

“Is this a free service?” the last friend of his asks. He’s just waiting for Martin to say,

“Enjoy the service,” with his smirk mocking me, before he walks off first.

“Martin, where are you going?” I call him to stops, turns back to give me an irritating glance.

“Who are you that I have to answer that?”

He walks again like he can’t be bothered to pay attention to my struggle. I’m not just asking; I’m making sure he’s not absent again this time, and he knows very well what consequences are waiting ahead if his grades go down after the amount of absences.

He’s actually good at anything. He’s a basketball star with his frame almost reaching 2 meters. He’s in the priority class where people with money and genius brains can enter. If there’s a reason why his grades keep going down, it must be his absences.

While I bring the bags, I’m sure Martin is already riding his sports car, showing off his beloved expensive gift he got on his birthday last year.

“Oh my, they’re not even in class but their bags are just heavy as hell. What did they get inside?"

Only Martin’s is left, I take it to his class and walk in confidently like I know this class better than Martin ever does. But just one step inside, I hit the floor hard after tripping over something. When I see it, Silvia Claire leads people to laugh at me.

“What are you doing here, Nerd? Are you so desperate to be in this class?”

“Silvia, you fucked the last thing up.”

Silvia’s laugh turns into shock in an instant; she pushes me away to grab Martin’s bag—dipping her hand inside to take a messy pink roses bouquet out of the bag.

I try to defend myself, “I-I didn’t know there was a bouquet inside—”

“Are you fucking crazy? You messed up the flowers I bought for Martin! you have no idea how expensive this is, Nerd!”

“I’ll pay for it, Silvia.”

“Pay with what? Do you have parents to give you money? If it’s not because of the scholarship, you’d be living like a homeless and you said you’ll pay for this?”

I sigh faintly, can’t open my mouth to defend myself even though I want to. Martin won’t like the way I rebel, especially toward the very girl he cherishes—who makes him fall deep and stumble for love.

She’s right anyway, I don’t have parents, don’t have a place, even Martin won’t bother to see me as his maid.

“Silvia, stop it. If she’s crying, who' she going to cry to?”

“Look at her glasses, even chose to glue the broken frame. She doesn’t have a dad to afford her a new one.”

Silvia nudges my arm with the tip of her heels like I’m an old fabric stained with dog poop.

“Hey, you wanna go to my mother’s foundation? I know what she has to do to you.”

I ignore the sharp question, until her friend asks,

“You’ll get her in the kitchen, right?”

“No, no…” I lift my head up, to see her slight evil smile mocking me as she says, “I’ll put her on the flyover and write on her paper ‘gimme pocket money, I don’t have parents to give me a penny.’ If she’s lucky, she’ll find someone who wants to keep her.”

Silvia laughs low and elegantly, but her words are terrible.

“Or if she’s not lucky, she’ll meet people who say ‘You’re so ugly, no wonder your parents gave up on you. They must not be able to stand having a daughter who looks like a troll.’”

“Damn, girl.”

I’m still on the floor, even getting up is enough to give me more embarrassment. Silvia throws the flowers at my face and speaks clearly to my ears.

“You can’t ask money from your skeleton mommy to pay for my flowers, you dirty bitch.”

I know she just said that to make me feel more pathetic, to piss me off—and she did.

Even the Williams never talked badly about their favorite nanny—so why the hell do these people who absolutely don’t know my mother keep talking badly about her?

I force my legs to stand, fighting this helplessness. Silvia stops laughing and stares at me unblinking.

She must want to see how far I go, and she doesn’t know how much my mouth can talk because she has never seen it open against her before.

“You love talking about parents, huh?” I ask. Silvia tilts her head, smirking at me.

“You’re right. But because these people have parents, I ain’t saying anything about theirs.”

“So why do you keep talking about mine that are nowhere to be seen?”

“Of course because there’s no one who can defend you.” Silvia walks closer, her icy blue stare piercing into my soul. “Why? Your parents want to defend you? Or… you will? You, who can’t afford a responsibility that costs $350 for these flowers?”

My lips tremble, not out of sadness—but anger.

I take my wallet out, pulling all of my pocket money and giving her $500. No one has ever gone against her, so now I’ll show them what the best thing I can earn for bravely fighting this damn system—

“Here's the money, I hope you can get a better bouquet for Martin to earn his forgiveness, and get him back after you betrayed his trust.”

—or the worst.