Meet Me at Midnight

Mickey Mouse

I am going to kill my cousin. 

Rafe has finally done it. I hope he is ready to die. I am so done with the idiot. 

I was peacefully stuffing my face with Jaffa Cakes before he swooped down like a chicken and tried to take it. Yes, you heard me. He tried to steal my Jaffa Cake. Then he did the unthinkable. 

He pulled my hair. For a Jaffa Cake! 

(Disclaimer: it's the knockoff ones from Target)

"Rafferty!" I scream, using his full, very embarrassing, first name. "Get your sorry ass right here!" He smirks cockily at me."Pruébame perra!" my half-Mexican cousin shouts in response. I can tell you now, that wasn't clean. "RRRRAFEEEEEEEEEEE," I yell running to him, Rafe runs faster, unfortunately, Rafe is a basketball player and Michaela Kumar is a nerd. 

Also, Michaela Kumar is very Indian. Both my parents are Indian but moved here when I was born. Rafe is my dad's sister's child, he married Tio Juan. He's a handsome Mexican man, meaning Rafe, the lucky thing, inherited some really good looks. I'm stuck as the brown girl whose name NO ONE can pronounce. I thought it was a simple name to pronounce, not going to lie. Dewy Thomas finds it especially difficult to pronounce both my first and second name, calling me 'Michael-a Kum-er' instead of 'Mi-Kayla Koom-are'. The dirty minds of the rest of the seventh grade at the time found it incredibly funny when he emphasised 'cum' as he read out the poem we had to write together beginning by saying "Idiots by Dewy Thomas and-

I still can't believe Rafe touched my hair. The nerve of him, especially when I'm late for school. Although, I'm always late, for everything, especially school. I love my hair more than Taylor Swift. 

I'm lying.  I would shave my whole head for Taylor. She's the only girl, in the wise words of Rhianna. And yes, I am a typical American teenage Swiftie who thinks they're the biggest Swiftie, likes Harry Styles, and spends a long time bothering about her appearance. I think the main reason for my lack of friends is how boring I am. I am a generic American nerd girl.   

I lead such a meaningful life. 

"RAFE!" I yell again, "GET HERE YOU SON OF A- oh hey Mom." I smile brightly at the figure in the doorway belonging to my mother. Rafe smirks and I cringe as he shoves the cake into his mouth. There is a method to eating Jaffa Cakes. He walks out of the living room. What a disrespectful, inhumane little- 

"Michaela!" Mom barks, "You are going to be late," I suppress a sigh as Dad appears beside her in his sarong, not Levi's. He is staying at home. Masses of Vaseline and VapoRub shine on his nose as he blows loudly into a tissue. I roll my eyes. Mom glares, "Michaela! Do not do that thing  with your eyes!" she says, "Your father is sick!" I nod gloomily, I hate it when anyone in this family gets sick. Right on schedule, Mom adds, "I've put some of the drink in your bag."

"Mo-om!" I whine, "It's disgusting and I'm not even ill!" 

"Do not argue with me, young lady!" Mom warns, shaking her head and letting out an over-exaggerated huff, "When I was your age I would never have dared to talk to my parents the way you do."

I turn a hopeful gaze to Dad, he shakes his head. I groan. "Go, go, go!" Mom hurries, as I trudge towards her. I snatch the keys from her frantic hands and pick up my rucksack which feels way too heavy. How much of her little concoction did she put? "Michaela! Hurry, hurry, hurry!" Mom calls as I tie the laces of my favorite shoes: yellow and white Nike Dunk Lows. My 17th birthday present.  "I am!" I snap before opening the front door- 

"Is she on her period?" I hear my dad ask faintly. My dad is clueless like that. 

"No, just no respect for everything we do for her, I mean have you seen the way she treats those Nik-ee shoes-" I slam the door shut and walk to the Volkswagen GTI that belongs to my Mom. Dad would never hand me the keys to his precious BMW 2 Series. Honestly, men and their cars.