Rebel's influence

A new beginning

I'm staring at my ceiling, the fan spinning lazily overhead as I wait for my alarm to go off. My mind is a chaotic whirlpool of excitement and anxiety, thoughts colliding like waves crashing on a shore. Today is my first day at Crestwood Academy, a school for rich kids where every glance feels like an audition. When the alarm finally shrills, I spring from my bed, my heart racing.

I leap into the shower, the hot water cascading down my body, melting away the tension in my muscles. The scent of vanilla body wash fills the cramped bathroom, a small comfort against the storm brewing inside me.

I have only 30 minutes to get ready.

"Fuck," I mutter as I glance at the clock, panic bubbling in my chest. Makeup isn't necessary today, thanks to my eyelash extensions, but I can't skip the hair. I grab my comb and work through my long black hair, freshly dyed just a couple of days ago. I smile at my reflection; the new color makes my ocean-blue eyes pop.

Opening my wardrobe, I rummage through a modest collection of clothes crammed together. I grab the shortest skirt I can find, a black pleated number that barely reaches mid-thigh, and pair it with a crisp white button-up shirt with half sleeves. I add a tie, loosening it slightly for a more casual vibe. Finally, I slip into my high-heeled boots, feeling the height boost my confidence—if only just a little.

"Honey, you're going to be late!" my mom shouts from downstairs. Ah, my mom. Our relationship is a rollercoaster of love and frustration. She's the reason I'm starting over at this new school. We're not rich, and I definitely didn't earn a scholarship on my own. Nope, my mom slept with the principal of this school—who has a wife—and threatened to tell her everything unless he enrolled me on a full scholarship.

I race down the worn wooden stairs, each creak echoing my hurried steps. The kitchen is small but cozy, filled with the rich aroma of brewing coffee that mingles with the lingering scent of vanilla from my shower. Sunlight spills through the window, casting a warm glow over the mismatched plates on the table. My mom stands at the counter, expertly pouring coffee into two mugs. She looks good for her age—not that she's old. In her early forties, she carries herself with a certain vitality. I inherited my figure from her; we both have slim, hourglass shapes. We're tall, but not model-tall. Her long, wavy blonde hair is usually tied back, and her warm amber eyes carry a hint of mischief.

"Hey, do you want cream and sugar?" she asks, glancing over her shoulder, her smile warm but her eyes betraying a hint of concern.

"Just black, please," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Sure thing. You know, I used to be a nervous wreck on my first day of school," she says, handing me a steaming mug. "I spilled orange juice all over my brand-new dress and had to wear the backup I always kept in my locker. You should have seen me; I looked ridiculous!"

I chuckle, picturing my mother in a frumpy backup dress. "I can't believe that. You're always so put together."

She shakes her head, laughter spilling from her lips. "Oh, honey, we all have our moments. Just remember, it's okay to make a fool of yourself sometimes. It shows you're human."

A pang of nostalgia hits me. Maybe I got my blue eyes from my dad, but it feels strange to think about him since he doesn't exist in my world. I don't know his name or what he looks like, and my mom has no idea either. She was wild in her youth, often sharing tales of her escapades with friends, but when it comes to my dad, she gets distant. I don't think she remembers who got her pregnant. She claims she does but insists there's no point in me knowing. So we don't talk about it anymore, the silence hanging between us like an unspoken agreement.

As she pours the coffee, I catch a glimpse of her tired smile. Despite everything, there's a warmth that makes me feel both grateful and frustrated. It's complicated, knowing she's done so much for me, yet feeling like there's a part of our lives we can never share.

"Honey, are you nervous about today?" she asks, her back still turned as she finishes pouring.

"Not really," I say, though my stomach tightens with anxiety. "Just... you know, trying to fit in."

"Just be yourself, okay? That's what matters," she says, turning to me with a reassuring smile. "You've always had this amazing ability to make people feel comfortable. Use that!"

"Yeah, right," I reply, rolling my eyes playfully. "I'll just charm them with my jokes about spilled orange juice."

"Exactly! And if all else fails, just show off those gorgeous eyes of yours. Trust me; they'll be too distracted to notice anything else."

I sip my coffee, my eyes wandering to the family photos on the wall. One picture catches my attention: my mom and me at the beach when I was little, my face smeared with ice cream and her laughter ringing out like music. It feels like a lifetime ago.

"I'll be fine, Mom. I promise," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. But as I look into her warm eyes, I can't shake the knot of uncertainty in my stomach. Today feels like the beginning of everything and nothing all at once.

With one last sip of coffee, I set the mug down and grab my bag, steeling myself for what's to come. I head for the door, knowing that Crestwood Academy awaits—a world where I'll have to navigate not just classes, but the intricate web of social dynamics, rivalries, and perhaps a few enemies along the way.