Turning Tables

Chapter 1

 Heya, thanks for checking out my story :D

Just to let you know i write things down as i think of them so there are likely to grammatical mistakes and misplaced commas :P

Enjoy

 xxx

 Frankie ->

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Chapter 1 - Going in For The Kill.

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I gazed out at the passing countryside that whizzed past my window, mixing into an endless blur. All that was in my sight being a vast expanse of green; a mass of shiny cars and thousands of white blobs, that were dotted around the scenery. The white, fluffy sheep causing ongoing tidal waves of ‘aww’s’, that made me feel sick to the stomach, as people cooed at the unresponsive blobs.

Tired of counting sheep I stared at the roof of the coach, its ceiling decorated with a wide range of, half decomposed, gum. I heaved a strangled sigh. Cranking up the volume of my ipod I tried to drown out the world, the sounds of Black Veil Brides thrumming in my ears. Closing my eyes I tried to imagine an alternative life. A life where I hadn’t been sent into the unknown, to a French boarding school, then yanked back out again when I had only just started to fit in.

Here I was on a mangy old coach on my way to live in the good old English countryside, where I would have to share a house with my father’s new wife and her five ‘angel’ sons, whom I had a record of getting on badly with. I would have to join another new school, right in the middle of term, knowing full well I’d be an outcast. And most of all I wouldn’t be able to spend every waking moment with my three best friends; Rhi-Rhi, Izzy and Mish.

Everything had been just fine as it was. I was doing quite well in school, I was fluent in French, I had started to get my own kind of style and I had the three best girlfriends in the world. Our advantage being that, for all of us, our first language was English, even though we all came from different places, so we could just completely relax around each other. God I missed them.

Rhianne, Rhi-Rhi, was the tall African beauty with long, flowing black, tresses; the curves that all of us wished for and the attitude to go with it. ‘If you’ve got it flaunt it,’ she always used to say.

Isabella, Izzy, was the shy Spanish sweetheart with a gentle tanned complexion and ringlets of curly, brown hair. She always found the time to comfort me at my lowest and I was the closest to her. She always had her head buried in a book and was constantly pushing her reading glasses up her face.

And of course: Misha, Mish, she was the outspoken South American with her lovable drawl and an outrageous sense in fashion. I still remember her luminous days when you could see her coming from miles off. She was a character, with a loud booming voice and the ability to make done with an awkward situation. I couldn’t help but smile when I was around her.

I, on the other hand, was the, to the point, English tomboy and I came with a baggage of rude behaviour and street clothes, topped off with the slightest hint of sarcasm. I was the blunt one of the girls more than willing to tell people just where to stick it or punch a guy square in the face for messing with one of my girls. That’s me. The street fighter from London. I'm short, at 5.3, and I have waist length reddish-brown hair with a dusting of freckles on my nose.

God I missed my girls; they would know what to do. I stared longingly at my rucksack wanting to call them, only I knew that I had to try and survive on my own at first. I sighed. The last few days had been eventful, not only had I just moved countries but I hadn’t found out I was moving until hours before I had to leave, I barely had time to pack let alone say goodbye properly. I had packed in a daze and it wasn’t’ until I had got on the ferry that I realised how much things had, and were going to, change. By the time I had got to the coach I was in a semi state of depression, my happy side not to be seen for a very long time. I was knackered, but too alert to catch some z’s, and I could tell I had my signature bags under my eyes. It was going to be a long few days.