I've never lived in the old neighbourhood, I'm not connected to the old neighbourhood, and I don't give a shit about the old neighbourhood. Well, until now. This isn't my brother's story, because god knows you'll be hearing enough about him in a few years. This is my story. The story of Isabelle Grace Castelluccio. If you don't like it, deal with it.

It happened to be an unusually chilly morning in Manhattan. Well, unusual as its August, and summer should still be in full swing. But alas, it happens to be one of the random pocket days that the temperature drops twenty degrees at the drop of a dime, so in the afternoon it'll be about eighty-two degrees.

Black short-shorts adorned my porcelain legs, and a long-sleeved, white chiffon shirt tucked into them. My strawberry-blonde hair was swept into a pony-tail, and my green eyes were hidden behind a pair of vintage Ray Ban's. I looked completely like a city girl or a city doll as we're sometimes referred to as.

I was on my way to my summer internship, the last day I'd be working at "La Belle" magazine. Basically, I was a glorified coffee girl, who often had to file papers and copy contracts, but hey, it looks good on a resume, and sometimes these internships turn into jobs. I balanced four coffees on a try in my hand. Two with three sugars and three milks, for Ms Hawthorne and Ms Wainwright, one black for Mrs Jasen, and the last three sugars and three crèmes for me. At least the coffee is free. The door-man opened the door for me, and I nodded my head in gratitude, as I pressed the button for the elevator.

By the time I had gotten up to the seventeenth floor of the building, where La Belle operated, everything was in chaos. Presumably because someone hadn't turned in their column for tomorrows issue and they're nowhere to be found. It happens almost every week. Clad in her four inch heels, and short shorts, Ms Piper Hawthorne ran over to me, taking three coffees and spilling a quarter of Mrs Jasen's on the floor.

"She won't notice," she said as she bustled away. "You got that spill, right Izzy?" she finished, already halfway across the floor to Mrs Jasen's room. Mrs Jasen happened to be Piper's mom. But the thing is, she re-married after Piper had turned eighteen, meaning Piper didn't have to change her name as well. Since it was easier for Piper to leave it the same, she did, though her step-dad may or may not resent her for that. But that's not really any of my business. The only reason I know is because Piper always has something to gossip about, whether it be a new star, or a co-worker, times are never boring with her around.

I walked over to the supply closet, a whole two meters from my desk, and pulled out an old mop, and a bucket, which thankfully was already filled with soap and water. The last time I had to fill it myself, the floor was soaked for a good twenty minutes and it took Piper and me a bit of time to clean it up. Not that she minded too much. She always has something to say.

Carefully, I pushed the bucket and mop over to the spill, and began to clean the caffeinated beverage off of the floor, before it could leave a light brown stain. I saw Piper, whose wavy-bobbed-ginger hair shifted slightly with the smallest movement she made, give me a thumbs up across the giant workroom. This signaling that Mrs Jasen didn't find out about her spill, and we'd managed to clean it up in the nick of time. Apparently, on an off day, I'm responsible for Piper, though shes older than me, as she's a bit eccentric. But hey, that's not exactly in my job description.


My workday had gone like any other Wednesday, and finally, I'd gotten to leave that place. As a goodbye present, Mrs Jasen had given me a gleaming recommendation I could use on any job I wanted in the future {provided it had to do with writing or the media}, and I was set. Unfortunately, i wasn't well informed about what was happening in my home life. Sure, I lived with my god parents, and I'd always assumed it was because my parents couldn't take after me, but no one had told me when the internship was done I would be out of Manhattan for good.

When I got back to the townhouse, numbered one-seventy-three, Aunt Rosalie had already packed up all of my stuff from my bedroom, and left a piece of paper on my suitcase with an address. The thing about the address was, it wasn't in New York at all. No. It was further than that. I had my bags packed, and I was on my way to Belleville, New Jersey. No questions asked.

Well, there were questions asked, but none of them were very relevant. Aunt Rosalie had called a cab upon my arrival, and handed me a piece of my going away apple pie. It took about five minutes until we were standing outside of number one-seventy-three with our hands tied into each other's strawberry-blonde hair, and my uncle was nowhere to be found. Rosalie helped put my suitcases in the trunk of the taxi, and ushered me into the vehicle, before closing the door as the driver pulled away.

"Next stop, Belleville, New Jersey." he said.