The End of The Beginning

one

one

Wednesday, September 1st

I woke up to the sound of my mother yelling from the kitchen.

"Did you get your socks?" my mom called.

"No, I can't find them!" my little brother, Camden, yelled from the hallway.

"You always do this! It's the first day of school and we are going to be late because of you."

"It's not my fault!"

Their fight continued as I woke up and trudged to my bathroom. I could hear my brother crying from his room. I felt bad. I've always had compassion for my little brother. Can't blame my mom though, he always does this. A sigh let out as I sat on the toilet. It's my first day of school, too. Leaving the school you've been at your whole life is hard, but I've never liked my school. Or my town. Palm Valley is one of those towns full of close-minded people and where everyone knows each other. Palm Valley Academy, however, has people from all over Arizona. I'm excited to start this new part of my life. I stared at the sea prints on the shower curtain. It's an underwater scene, with a goldfish, sea sponges, and that yellow and black striped fish I could never find out the name of. When my mother would brush my teeth as a kid, I would turn and stare at the curtain and try to name everything I saw. I have no clue why I thought my 3-year-old self would know what seaweed is. Thankfully, my mom never got mad at me for turning around too much.

I got up and walked to the blue sink. The water jerked me awake as I washed my hands and stared at the faucet. When the water splurts out it makes a sound that would make you think the entire town's plumbing system is broken. I continue my routine, brushing my teeth and washing my face. As I walk out of the bathroom door, my mother is standing, blocking my way. She seems frantic. She runs into the bathroom, leaving behind a trail of wind that blows my curls into my face. I walk to my room, confused, but not enough to ask. The door of my room has countless battle scars from my childhood. Markers, stickers, you name it. My dad said he would redo the painting on the door and repaint my neon pink walls. That was three years ago, you can't trust him with those things.

My closet is pretty tiny, I've never been one to have a lot of clothes. I picked up a pair of jeans off my black headboard, a part of the outfit I've had prepared for weeks. I take off my Nike shorts and slip the jeans onto my legs. Pulling them up, I feel the jeans get tighter and tighter until they don't go up anymore. Crap. I spend what feels like hours choosing different jeans to wear. Luckily, I came across a pair of "mom jeans" (which only fit the models like mom jeans but fit me like an awkward pair of skinny jeans) and put those on. I slipped off my worn-out t-shirt and put on my black sports bra. I hate normal bras. The wires always stick into my chest. Plus, I don't have much to show anyways. I maneuver myself into a shirt I stole from my dad. It has the words "MOTLEY CRUE '' on top of a pop art print of the band members. The band must've been from the 80s, or what he likes to call his "glory days". I put on my ankle socks, pick up my backpack, and head downstairs.

I guess Mom is still in the bathroom. After placing down my backpack, I slid to the fridge to take out my lunchbox. Rummaging noises go back and forth in the upstairs hallway as goosebumps run up my arm because of the chilly air from the fridge. My brother walks down the stairs. He isn't visible, but since it's just me, my mom, my dad, and Camden, I've learned how to recognize their footsteps. Camden's has a fast-paced pat, stomp, pat, stomp sound, like the galloping of a horse. Pat, stomp, pat, stomp, pat stomp. The floor creaks as he jumps down to the first floor.

"Hi Soph," my brother calls out as he walks into the kitchen.

"Hey, Camden," I replied. "You didn't make your lunch?"