Too Cool for my Own Good.

Too Cool for my Own Good. {Chapter 1}

A/N: Well, hello. So this is my first story I've put up on Wattpad, and I hope it does well. ;D It starts off kind of heavy, but it gets a lot more fun and laughable and all that good stuff along the way. Also, the following chapters will be longer. This is sort of just a short intro chapter. ;D

Well, enjoy!

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It was sad to say that the most exciting thing in my life right now was the Hot Pocket that I’d been cooking in the microwave for approximately 3 seconds. 

It had been a boring, unproductive Monday night, just like any other. The birds were out, chirping and singing their merry song, while I’d stayed inside all day and played Portal 2, amusing myself with the fact that I could run on an infinite loop if I positioned myself in-between two walls with two portals on either side of me. I’d called my two friends and reported this remarkable discovery and been quickly shut down when they stated they already knew. And that’d pretty much concluded my Monday night festivities.

I was so preoccupied with my dire, fate of the world video game, that I’d almost forgotten something: my ravenous, always present hunger.

At that moment, I stared diligently at the paper casing of the delicious frozen food. It seemed to almost be taunting me as it spun oh-so slowly in the microwave, almost as if to be begging me to hit it open with the nearest fire extinguisher. I felt it almost a need now. My fingers were itching for the fire extinguisher now.

I slapped myself mentally and shook myself back to remember my goal. Oh yeah, the Hot Pocket. I licked my lips. That’d be really tasty right about now.

“Emery?”

I heard my name being called promptly after the slam of the screen door coming from the front of the house. I flickered my eyes reluctantly away from my time consuming mission to see my mother quietly enter the kitchen after a moment of setting her things down in the vestibule. She took off her coat and walked over to the round table in the center of the kitchen and threw it carelessly over the side; she pulled out a chair and slid her petite body onto her seat.

My mother, Ginny Glass, was a very perky and upbeat woman. With her bouncy blonde curls and small frame, she looked even younger than me, her 17 year old daughter. And if her 5 ‘1 height didn’t make her seem small, her 99 pound body did. I honestly wished I could say I inherited her petite body, but I couldn’t; I had gone more towards my dad’s side and hovered over most tiny girls around my age at around 5 ‘8. My lanky body was also most attractive and certainly succeeded in rounding about my various gentlemen callers, if you hadn’t inferred already at the word “lanky.”

I stared at my mother for a moment, taking her appearance in; she looked a tad different than I was used to. Usually, she had the whole exciting artistic vibe radiating from her like a freaking neon sign from Vegas or something; now, however, all I could sense was a dull gray aura radiating from her about as passionately as a dead rodent. Usually, that dead rodent vibe was my thing.

“You okay, mom?” I asked her, raising a brow and shoving a hand in my jeans pocket, my eyes quickly flickering back to the microwave guiltily. Damn timer. I’ll smash you one day. I’ll smash you good.

My mother looked up at me, her eyes duller than they usually were. My mom had the brightest blue eyes I’d ever seen; luckily, they were something I’d inherited from her, if anything else about her. However, right now, instead of having their usual luster, something had darkened them, as if a rumbling storm cloud had passed by in the caverns of her mind.

She ran a boney hand through her tussled, choppy head of blonde hair and sighed, resting her back against her chair. She flapped her hand at me, as if my question was a cloud of smoke that could be shooed away with a sweep of the hand, “Of course I am, Em. Why wouldn’t I be?”

I pursed my lips for a moment, and then frowned, crossing my arms stubbornly across my chest. I eyed my mother again, double checking her to see if she was alright. My eyes grazed over her tired body complete with her tired jeans and baggy blue t-shirt; it was a huge contrast from her usual wardrobe of bright colors and chunky jewelry that made any fashion model look like crap on a stick. I curiously drummed my chipped nails on the marble counter, cocking my head to the side, “What’s up with the get-up?” I said, clicking my tongue curiously.

She looked up, and for the first time I saw dark purple crescents underscoring her eyes, “N-Nothing, Emery. It’s just a slow day for me is all.”

I frowned, relaxing my shoulder. My mother worked long hours in the extravagant, fast-paced world of grocery bagging. Oh, the wonders that went on in her work life; I could only imagine. Paper and plastic as far as the eye could see!

Now, perhaps it was a bit rude to be bagging on my mother. (Ha ha. See what I did there? Yeah. Pun humor; I’ve got it.) She did, after all, help me out in a lot of situations; she wasn’t like my dad who showed his face around the house maybe once a week if I was lucky, and he came back from one of his “business trips” on time. My mother and I both knew that when he told us: “I’m going on a business trip to Ohio for a while,” he really meant, “I’m splurging a shit load of our savings for a plane ride to Miami so I can get me a quality $5 hooker and a bottle of whiskey and call it a week.”

I think we were just both terrified to say it.

He did, however, send us money. Lots of it, too. I didn’t know exactly how he made all of it. To be honest, I was never that interested in what he did for a living; I think he helped run a painfully boring paper company. That’s probably why my mother never let him bring me to “bring your daughter to work day,” huh?

“You don’t look all that well,” I said, noticing her fatigue. The purple crescents under her eyes were seeming to grow darker by the minute, so much so that it was scaring me.

She looked up and tried to smile faintly, “I’m perfectly alright, hon.” She stifled a cough, “You know me; heart of a lion…” She trailed off, and she began to bury her face in her hands. I saw her chest rise and fall a bit quicker than usual, and I felt my heart clench inside my chest. Was everything alright? My mom was almost always the picture of health. She made Wonderwoman look like a vulnerable sap most of the time. But now, looking at her, she looked like a plague victim, or something. I bit my lip and inched closer, bending down a little to reach her height as she sat down. I hesitantly outreached a hand to touch her back.

“M-Mom…?” I squeaked, feeling my voice crack. I didn’t really care much, though. To see my mom in this much distress was not only odd but scary. She never seemed very pained before.

“Emery, I t-told you…” She wheezed, her voice sounding raspier than usual. I noticed her taking in long breaths of air after she spoke, “I’m perfectly…perfectly…”

My lungs felt as if their air supply had been punctured and all of the air I once possessed had been drained out. I rushed to seize my mother’s hands and squeezed them, feeling how frail and cold they were, “M-Mom?” I said softly. After I got no response, I shook her lightly and said louder, “M-Mom?!”

That was when the unthinkable happened, and my mother slowly leaned to the side and collapsed off of her chair. I felt the air whoosh back into my lungs and quickly get stolen from me again as I released a bloodcurdling scream. I wasn’t a crier; in fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried. I briefly remembered a time in 5th grade when I had after I fell down on the blacktop and badly scraped my knee; it’d turned out that it needed stitches. But nothing, not even a million stitches, could compare to the shock and horror I’d experienced at that moment when my mother collapsed in my arms.

The only thing I remember after that was hearing a ding.

Oh.

Well, at least my Hot Pocket was ready.