Pictures of You [M. C.]

3

(Song for this chapter: "Break Your Little Heart" by: All Time Low)

The week went by agonizingly slow. Each night brought less sleep than the one before and by Friday afternoon I was completely exhausted. I'm not completely sure what the reason for my lack of sleep is but I have a suspicion it has a little to do with Michael. I haven't spoken to him since he snapped at me earlier in the week. I don't necessarily want to befriend the kid; I'm just slightly aggravated by his mood. He was pretty quiet all week but a permanent scowl seemed to be tattooed on his face.

"Mom, I'm home," I say walking through the front door of my quiet house. Immediately, Mom rushes around the corner coming from the kitchen with a huge grin plastered to her face.

"I'm so glad you're home. A family moved in down the street and they have a son your age. Michael I think his name is. Apparently he goes to your school. Anyway, I invited them over to dinner tonight," she says in one quick breath.

"We've met," I mumble rolling my eyes.

"What was that, dear?" Mom is now back in the kitchen and I reluctantly join her. She's standing at the stove, stirring something in a huge pot. Steam flows from the top and it smells amazing.

I lean against the counter next to the stove, "I said that Calum and I are going to the movies tonight." I was hoping that this lie would get me out of the dinner. The truth is that Cal and I haven't spoken to each other besides the occasional "hey" in the mornings when he picks me up. We still eat lunch together every day but it has become awkward.

"You can go," she says. My face instantly lights up. I can't believe that actually worked. "...after dinner." And there it is. My heart drops and I cross my arms over my chest. Mom senses my change in mood and glances in my direction. "Your father will also be joining us." I inwardly groan. My father has a way of making family dinners turn into a huge argument over nothing. I hate family dinners.

Knowing that my mother managed to get the final word in, I trudge up the stairs but not before she yells up to me.

"Make sure you wear something nice! They're coming over in two hours!"

"Fine!" I yell back, slamming my door behind me as I walk in. I look myself over in the mirror. Today's outfit consists of black skinny jeans, a light gray shirt, and a black and white flannel covering my arms. I don't think I look bad but I know exactly what my mother meant by "wear something nice". Basically, no jeans, no t-shirts, and no flannels, which practically eliminated over half my closet.

About an hour and a half later, I decide it's time to be to change. I pick my plain black dress and slip it over my body. Then I tie my hair into a messy bun on top of my head, letting a few strands frame my face. Examining myself in the full mirror on the back of my door, I notice how skinny I've gotten in the past month alone. I haven't exactly been eating three meals a day; I'm lucky if I get one meal in. It's not like I'm starving myself on purpose; I actually love food but I haven't had much of an appetite lately. I shrug it off and make my way downstairs.

Now on the main floor, I see the table is set up for five. An old glass vase has been added to the center of the equally old table, a bouquet of pink, white, and yellow flowers sprouting from the top. Three wine glasses sit at what I'm assuming to be the adult seats and normal glasses are positioned at each place. From what I can tell, I will be forced to sit across from Michael, which also means I'm obligated to make some kind of small talk.

"There's my girl," a deep voice says from behind. I turn around and see my father there, wearing a pair of gray trousers and a white button-up shirt with a blue and black tie. Honestly, this combination of colors makes him much older than he is. But then again, the gray hair on his head does little to help either. He holds his arms out to me and I walk into them involuntarily. He holds me tight for a few seconds before letting go. "I missed you," he says quietly. I reply with a smile.