Call Me Rumpel

Chapter Four

Early the next morning, I'm sitting back at my laptop despite my pounding headache warning me to stay away from screens. If Dad's failed business ventures have taught me anything, it's that life doesn't wait for anybody; if I want to make something of myself, I can't let the dregs of a night out stop me.

My focus is on this week's assignments. I'm behind on the maths textbook questions Mrs Crawley has set and I still have to decide on the costume I'm supposed to make this term for textiles. Whilst I may have struggled to write a story in English, my creativity flourishes when it comes to costumes and sewing.

Before she'd purchased a one-way ticket to Singapore, my mother had taught me all she knew about sewing, from making quilts to creating clothes. I don't aspire to be a fashion designer—that's Jordyn's dream, who professes she'll only use models with vitiligo on her runways—but it's a useful skill to have, particularly when updating my wardrobe. When requests are running low on my website, I scour online magazines and wander to the nearest Spotlight to find fabric that'll allow me to copy garments from the designer brands I used to wear. Sometimes, when I can't find what I'm looking for, I pretend whatever I make is from an up-and-coming line my mother has exclusive access to in Sentosa Island.

Sure, I can sell my designs to the less fortunate members of my class, but that would mean admitting my financial situation is no different. Pretending to be Rumpelstiltskin is the best of both worlds.

My eyes slide to the minimised window at the bottom of my screen, tempting me to check if I've received any new requests. If I take two seconds to look, it won't really take away from my study time...

I stop myself, knowing it's a quick spiral from checking messages to searching eBay for cute laptop cases to looking up dance routines on TikTok. I must pass year eleven first, then I can look at my side hustle.

I won't get anything done, though, if my head doesn't cease pounding.

With a sigh that only serves to increase the pressure inside my skull, I push my chair back and stretch my arms. I've already tried showering to wake myself, but perhaps a run will do me good; with the makeup I'd caked on last night, my skin could certainly use the boost fresh air and exercise will provide. Downstairs, I can hear Dad in his office yelling at someone through the phone, but at least he's awake and can keep an eye out for Nanna when she gets up.

I set off down the driveway, basking in the warm sun carving its way through the tall pine trees lining it. Spring has finally set in, warding off the chilly fingers of winter's hold with the bloom of daffodils and foxgloves. Whilst it means my driveway is uninhibited by patches of frost, I still have to be careful to avoid slipping on the loose stones desiccating the dirt. More than once in the past, my sneakers have failed to gain traction, sending me sprawling across the road; I still have a grotesque pink scar on my left knee from one particularly nasty fall.

Still, nothing can take away the feeling of freedom I feel. I pick up my pace as I descend the steep hill that comprises Wattle Road, welcoming the rush of air drying my hair. I ought to hold back and conserve my energy for the climb back up, but my accelerated heart rate spurs me on, reminding me that running is the only acceptable way to speed it up.

My phone vibrates against my hip when I turn onto Grimm Road. I slow enough to retrieve my mobile, groaning when I see I have yet another text message from Ari.

Heard you left with Will... What's up with that? 🤔🙃

It's one of dozens she and Michael have sent after I ditched them at the party. I fire off a quick response, reassuring Ari that William and I are not getting back together, and slip my phone back into the waistband of my leggings. It vibrates immediately, likely with Ari pressing me for more details, but I ignore it.