Dear Miss Rose Breeze,
I am delighted to announce that you have been accepted into The Royal England School of the Arts.
"YESSSSSS!!!!!" I drop the crumpled letter, ripped at the top from my shaking hands, and leap into the air, doing a perfect twirl, legs outstretched, toes pointed, arms elegantly poised above my head, before banging my hip on the sofa. Muttering swear words darkly, I shuffle-ball-change around the room, limping slightly, and do an arabesque against the oven. Then I backflip, narrowly avoiding the coffee table, and do a complicated side step routine into the bedroom.
"I did it!!! I'm through!!!!!!" I scream, jumping ecstaticly on a random bed. A groan ripples across the room, along with a much louder one from below me. I quickly tuck-jump off , then do a Kossak dance in the resulting space.
"F**k off Rose," someone, probably Punzy, muttters.
"Language" another, clearer, girlier voice yawns. Barbie's, definatedly; she's a stickler for swearing. She sits up and stares at me bleary eyed from across the cramped room, running a thin white hand through her rumpled bob. She has weird hair, Barbie does, pale, creamy blonde that's only a few shades darker than her white face, and very curly, almost frizzy, wild ringletts that just brush her pointed chin. On most people it would look weird, ugly, but it frames her bony, heart shaped face prettily, accentuating her delicate swans neck, her massive, navy-grey eyes, her pink cheeks, her almost invisible brows, her rosebud lips and dolls teeth, her snub nose. A nose which is now wrinkled in exasperation, revealing the scattering of freckles across its bridge, as she clicks her fingers in my direction.
Barbie's not her real name, by the way, but that's what we've all called her as long as I can remember, so that's what I'll call her here, in this notebook I found. Its probably Lin's, or Marie's, or Blair's, or Barbie's, Rapunzel's, as they like (deep-about-to-sing-breath) songwriting\storywriting\beinggenrallygeeky\drawing\lessonplanningorsomeformofwriting. Any member of my family's except me, to be honest. I'm not much of a writer. Or reader. Or any sort of lesson-er. I'm quite clever, really, it's just all so loooong and boooooring. Dancing, and singing, and acting, that's more my thing. And also, Barbie and Punzy and Lin and Marie and Blair aren't my real family. We're all adopted, you see, apart from Barbie, as she's the adopt-er. Well. Linnet and Marie are twins, pretty much identical, apart from the fact that Lin is slightly whiter and less pink, with short, dead straight, black, tufty hair instead of very long chocolate brown curls, and greenish grey eyes instead of blueish grey. But apart from that...
"Rose. Rose? Rose Breeze? FOR CHRISTS SAKE RRRROOOOSSSSEEE???!!" I blink and look up.
"Whaaaat?"
Punzy sighs and flops back down in bed. "I SAID, you're going to be late!"
I grab a random hand that is sticking out of a nearby bed and peer at the £5 argos watch (I know, snazzy right???) then swear really quite loudly. I rush to my feet and do a Billy Elliot style sort of run out of the room, just as a pillow missile sails through the air towards me.
I dodge it without looking round.
