Chapter 2- Cassidy

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Oh, how I love having to buy groceries for Our Ma. Our local Tesco is relatively big, and they're constantly moving stuff around, so I can never find anything. Sixteen years of living in Bradley Stoke and I still can't locate the cranberry sauce. Kudos to me for trying, though.

I storm down the soup aisle, accidentally barging my elbow into a shelf and dislodging several tins of Cream of Tomato. "Bloody hell," I growl, scooping up the tins and shoving them back roughly where I think they go. It doesn't matter, in my opinion- some idiot will move them where the cakes were in a few months' time. 

"Having trouble, love?" An older lady with silvery hair smiles at me politely. 

"Uh, not really," I say. "But I can't find the cranberry sauce. I assume it ain't in the soup aisle?"

The lady points to her left. "Next aisle down, love," she says. "They're fairly high up, mind, but you look rather tall, so I reckon you'll be okay."

I smile weakly. "Cheers," I reply, and set off for the aisle that I literally just checked three minutes ago. At least the lady called me tall. Nothing like the elderly to give you a full confidence boost out of thin air!

I'm not that tall or attractive, if I'm honest. Five foot four, skinny- but beanpole skinny, like a damn lamp post- and raven-black hair that I always cut to my chin, because I hate having to maintain long hair. The only thing I like about my appearance is my eyes, which are a deep sapphire blue. I learned in Biology that blue eyes are a recessive gene, basically meaning very rare. I may have one of the most common hair colours, but I have the second-least common eye colour to make up for it. Nice work, DNA.

Anyway, cranberry sauce. I finally locate a jar of Tesco's own brand and dump it in my basket, almost squashing the Hovis bread I'd picked up earlier. I swear quietly and rearrange the food so the bread sits on top rather than underneath all the heavier stuff. Dad won't like it if his Seed Sensations loaf isn't perfectly raised. He's very specific like that.

Walking into the confectionary aisle, I grab some Butter Mintoes and dump them in my basket. They aren't on Our Ma's list, but they're cheap and I love them. The Haribo Supermix I grab next are on Our Ma's list, so at least I didn't go down this aisle just for myself. Selfish little cow I would've looked then, innit?

As I walk down to the self-service checkouts, my mind turns to school. Oh my God, school. I really don't want to go back. My school isn't exactly bad, it's the people that make it a hell hole. The kids who keep muttering insults my way, about the weird Bristolian girl with the stupid name. Hypocritical, seeing as most of them are from the South West and half of them have the most ridiculous names ever. I mean, there's a girl called Akeitha, which her dad thought would be a good idea for a female version of Keith. So they can't talk.

Besides, I like the name Cassidy. It means "clever one", and is originally from an Irish surname. My dad likes Irish names, and he's named all three of his kids based on them: my older sister Maeve, my younger brother Aiden, and me, Cassidy. Our Ma's sister has a similar liking for Irish names and it's rumoured that she's going to name her baby girl, who's due in Spring, Clodagh or Orla.

I like that our family has a naming theme. It makes our names flow a little more, unlike some of the siblings I've known. A girl I knew from Brownies, Iris, had a younger brother called Cayden. Like, what sort of names are those?! Not that they aren't nice names, but personally, I'd rather spell her brother's name with a K instead of a C.

I scan all of the items and shove them in a plastic Bag for Life that I had to fork out a whole 20p for. I swear they were only 5p a couple of years ago? But climate change, I guess. "Save the turtles" and all that. 

I begin to walk through the town square. Willow Brook Centre is basically the centre of Bradley Stoke, where everyone goes to shop and eat. And also where the Leisure Centre boycotters go to Anytime Fitness to do their workouts. To every each their own.

I stop by KFC to get a Krushem and a bargain bucket. Why not? Plus Aiden would skin me with a potato peeler if I didn't get him some of that greasy Kentucky Fried goodness. What can I say? Growing boys need the extra protein and saturated fats. Well, maybe not the saturated fats. But the good fats. Aiden's only twelve and has probably eaten his own weight in fast food twice over, but he never seems to get fat, so I'm not exactly going to make up excuses. Unlike Maeve, who's curvy, Aiden and me seem to never gain any weight. One of life's little mysteries.

I pay for my food and stand off to the side, letting the shopping bag hang from my elbow as I scroll through my phone. Notifications pop up on my screen, and with a huff I scroll through them, expecting to see mostly homework stuff. Most of them are: Tassomai, Duolingo, MemRise... Snapchat.

I blink, then click on the notif, which reads "Aiden sent you a Snap." Aiden never uses Snapchat, preferring to chat on Discord with his Fortnite friends. To be honest, he probably shouldn't have it at all, because he doesn't turn thirteen until next summer. However, Dad, soft as he is, let him have it as long as he only contacts his real mates. So naturally he's friends with a bunch of random people he met on Fortnite. Little rulebreaker.

I open up the Snap and see a blurry picture of our net curtains. There seems to be a silhouette of a person on our driveway. Aiden's put a caption in the middle of the image: sussy bloke stood outside our driveway lookin gurt lost.

I roll my eyes at my brother's awkward typing. First of all, it's "gert", not "gurt"- Dad has told him that hundreds of times. Secondly, "sussy"? People still use that word? Gen Alpha must suck.

That exasperation is immediately replaced with curiosity. A "Bloke on our driveway" looking lost? I text him back. Wossee look like?

His reply is immediate: idk. brown hair, maybe 6 ft, prolly ur type lmao ;)

I barely stop myself from facepalming in public. My type?  "LMAO"?! This kid needs some serious help at this point. He thinks anyone over five foot five is my type, because he's an idiot adolescent boy who can't tell the difference between a horse and a pony. He also has no right to laugh at me. I'll admit, I love him all the same, though. Don't answer the door if he rings the bell. i'm picking up kfc and I'll be there in 3 minutes, I reply quickly, slipping my phone in my pocket as I grab my food from the counter. Luckily for me, our house is only a brisk walk from Willow Brook, so I can get there in no time.

I set off home, grocery bag swinging, and wonder who the hell this bloke could be.

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