Don't Call Me Ninny

Ninette Fontaine was a strong person - at least that was what she told herself, that was her personal excuse for the way she acted - but everyone once in a while, if one were to look at her at the right moment, in the right way, they would see what she didn't want everyone to see. They would see the chink in her armour - the past that she kept deep inside.

2010

Ninette was a lively five year old with a insatiable curiosity - and nothing was more fascinating to her than the new family that had moved in down the street. Her mother had informed her that they had moved from somewhere that wasn't in France - that was across a body of water. So when they invited her and her mother to their house for dinner, she was far from shy about taking up the opportunity.

"You speak french funny." Were the first words she ever said to the boy, who in turn was hardly phased by the childish declaration.

"It's called an accent," he responded in that condescending tone older children so loved to use on the younger ones. "I'm Simon."

Ninette appraised him for a long moment before she deemed it acceptable to introduce herself.

"Do you want to see our Puppy, Ninny?"

The young girl's face set into a stubborn frown.

"Don't call me Ninny!"

Simon, who had already gotten up and began to walk towards where the dog was kept just shot her a grin over his shoulder, "Are you coming or not, Ninny?"

One Year Later

"Come and get me Ninny," Simon's voice rang out in his accented French. She could remember a time when that was almost all she noticed about the older boy. Now she could barely tell that there was a difference between the way she spoke french, and the way he did.

Laughing, the little girl chased after her friend, a gapped toothy smile on her face, and blonde hair flying out behind her.

"Don't," she stated with a laugh, no heart behind the words at all, as she tangled her arms around his legs and brought them both to the ground, "call me Ninny."

Simon grabbed the girl, trapping her in his arms and smiled. "I shall call you Ninny if I wish. You shall always be my Ninny."

"Always?"

"Always."

Two Years Later

"Let us all now, take this moment to say our final goodbyes." At the age of eight, Ninette did not fully understand what was going on around her. The abstract notions of death had yet to make their way into her head.

But as she clutched her mother's hand, dressed in the appropriate dark garb, and made her way to the - closed - casket she did understand one thing.

Simon, her friend, was in that wooden box, and he wasn't ever going to come out.

Eyes swimming, she took her little hand and spread it against the shinny wood, attempting to somehow connect with, revive, the heart, the soul that in her mind should be in there.

"Please," she whispered, a tear slipping from her face, and splashing onto the wood, "Please... call me Ninny."

Seven Years Later

The girl - really well into her teens now - sulked in the back of the room and had to hold back a grimace as the teacher assigned the bubble new girl - who was too naive on the way of the school to know better - to be her partner. She stared blankly as the girl came flouncing back to her table.

"Hey there Ninny, I'm -"

Ninette whirled on the girl before she could finish another thought let alone a sentence. Her tone was as cold as the look in her eyes - as her broken heart.

"Don't," she sneered with menace, " you ever call me Ninny."