A Lot of Time

Chapter Three of Many More

The sun beat on my face and woke me. Father had opened my curtains, "Come on, Mabel." He chuckled as I groaned and rolled over. "Today is the day," I thought harshly. He left the room.

My mother walked in with an outfit in one arm and towel in the other, "Take a shower, get dressed, Amara is coming to help you around the house." Since when does Amara clean?

Amara is pronounced ah-mar-uh. She's my best friend, not really since day one, more like since day 4,380. For those who suck at math, that's 12 years. We've been best friends since the 7th grade. She is a very pretty, carefree, sarcastic, brunette with sass. Frankly I'm nothing like her. I am an average, worrying, snarky, red head with no intentions of being the "sass master" of any sort. Being sassy has never be my forte.

I decided to be a good girl and do what my mother said. The shower was quick, considering Marshall decided to take one the same time as me and the hot water disappeared. I chuckled when I heard him say, "Ah, ah, cold!" Max, Milton, and Martin were brushing their teeth in my bathroom while I got dressed in my room. My mother chose a floral dress-y thing with sandals and a necklace she thinks reflects my skin tone. I am very white, so not many things "reflect my skin tone."

My mom barged into my room as soon as I finished straightening my hair. "Hurry, they're going to be here in an hour." She happened to be wearing a very Sunday looking affair, she has somewhat of a pixie hair cut which makes her look fairly professional. I nodded and pinned back a braided section of my hair.

Amara was sitting on the couch while Marshall tried making conversation with her. She doesn't like him at all, from my knowledge, but he has always liked her. I wouldn't mind them dating though if it was awkward between us when they broke up I get the last laugh. I've been planning it, my hands holding each other behind my back, dramatically looking out the window when I let out out the simple (yet effective), "Ha." it will be very dramatic, but they probably won't date any time soon.

She looked relieved to see me, "Yeah, we'll talk later." She flashed her award winning smile in his direction and faced me, nodding. "You look punctual, I like it." She stifled a laugh at my attempts on being "of high class."
"Hey, I look okay."
Okay; adjective- meaning of satisfactory but not exceptionally or especially good.

"Lets just get this over with, my brother is visiting today." She rolled her eyes sarcastically and snatched my list of chores away from me. "Not too bad," ripped the list in half, "I'll get this stuff. You do that." My list was ripped at the halfway point and it contained only 5 things to do: Start the laundry, dust the picture frames, vacuum the hallway, straighten up the bathroom, and make sure the twins are presentable.

My parents had gone out to buy food for dinner tonight. My father is an excellent cook, he got a degree in cooking right after Marshall was born. When I was born they were going to stop there, but Valentine's Day rolled around etc., etc. . Thus Max was born. The twins weren't an accident, they wanted another baby. I was ten when they came around, but I knew the drill.

My chores were fairly simple, but hard to get done when everyone else also had chores and we rammed and bumped into each other. I can't vacuum because the twins are picking up their Legos out of the hallway, I can't dust because Max is sorting the table where the picture frames are, and I can't start the laundry because Marshall is cleaning out the cat box (which is in the laundry room). The only thing to do is clean the bathroom, which is bad because the twins can't aim where they spit. Marshall has tried to show them the "correct method" in the spitting process, but they haven't caught onto the fact we have to clean up after them.

I grabbed two yellow gloves and got to work. Our bathrooms stay pretty clean, so there wasn't much to do. I sprayed down the counter with some sort of cleaner and wiped it down. I heard footsteps coming upstairs, it was Marshall. He went to his room right across from the bathroom, I looked up. He was wearing khakis and a polo. I snickered and held my mouth. "Nice outfit, doofus." His head whipped around and he started murmuring curses.

Max was toting a bucket of his laundry to the laundry room when I got finished with the bathroom. "Hey, just leave that here. I gotta start laundry anyways." He sighed in relief, "Thanks, Mabel." I murmured a thanks and continued carrying the basket to the laundry room. Amara managed to finish her simple chores, "Alright, my parents are forcing quality time upon me," she laughed. "Good luck, loser!" She cheekily smiled and slammed my front door.

As the door shut, I heard a low bass coming from the front yard. Marshall's best friend. AKA my ex boyfriend. "Marshall! Vinnie is here!" I yelled with a tint of annoyance. Marshall flew downstairs and out the door. All I heard was, "Come on in dude!" Before I was met with a somewhat attractive ginger, who I call my ex. "Hey babe," he winked as I sat on my couch. My feet propped themselves upon the coffee table. Marshall motioned for him to follow. He snapped as if to say "dang," eyed me up and down, then whistled. I rolled my eyes and picked up my book. I'm currently in the middle of a Sherlock Holmes book.

I'm in the middle of the story about Irene Adler. I've read it many times, I can't even count how many times I've read it. The curiosity of Holmes when he meets a woman he couldn't, well read. Most people he had seemed to open up like a book and continue on his business or somebody else's. I imagine her with no facial expression, maybe a evil smirk, possibly a cheeky frown. Whatever she looks like, it intrigues me. Every time I read the story, something new comes to my interest. Like how Watson was standing in the middle of the open when he threw that smoke bomb in the house, someone was bound to see it. Normally he's the one to get caught, but his patriotism keeps him from stepping down a place or selling out his friends.

I wish I was John Watson. He is a hero, he has served for their country, he has a genuinely bright best friend whom takes them on adventures and they make memories, he's happily married, he's living the life I couldn't even dream of living. Why aren't I John Watson?

The correct answer to that would be because I'm not John Watson.