Season Girl //SOON TO BE DELETED//

Chapter 8

Autumn's POV

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I pulled my school jumper tightly around me, because it was getting dark, cold and it was spitting (rain).

I jogged down the street and took up residence in Tescos.

Dad had told me earlier to get some jam, which even though I had pointedly explained to him it would be a waste, he refused to give in.

I selected a small (the smallest there was) jar of jam and went to go pay at the counter.

"Hello, how are you today?" The blue eyed checkout boy asked me, scanning the jam and putting it into a plastic bag.

"I'm good, thanks," I replied, smiling.

"That's £1.50 for the jam," he grinned, passing me the bag. I handed him the money, watching as the small round coins left my palm.

As the receipt came out of the roll, when I leaned over to rip it off, he grabbed it and scribbled something on it with a blue pen.

"Excuse me?" I asked, pulling the receipt out of his grasp. I looked down at what he had written, it was a phone number.

"Call me?" He asked, as I started backing away.

"M-Maybe," I stuttered, turning and running out of the exit.

Did a complete stranger just ask me to call him? Why? I'm just Autumn. No one had ever noticed me like that before.

I folded the receipt up carefully and tucked it safely away in my pocket.

I was quite a way from home, and it was raining fairly heavy now, so I ran crazily through the rain to a bus shelter.

The bus pulled up, and I climbed on, paying my fare and sitting down on the seat, plonking my shopping beside me.

The bus pulled up outside my house, and climbed off, jogging up the driveway and banging madly on the door.

"Dad, it's me, Autumn. Open up! It's raining out here!"

Dad opened the door, and I pushed past him into the hallway.

"Excuse me miss, I think you have the wrong house," my dad politely said.

I looked at him, wearing a dressing gown and worn slippers.

"Dad? It's me, your daughter, Autumn," I explained gently.

"Autumn? Why aren't you wearing your glasses?"

After my complete transformation the only thing my dad comments on is why I'm not wearing my glasses.

Come on!

"Contacts," I replied, walking into the kitchen and putting the jam in the fridge.

"Oh, OK," dad absent-mindedly pushed his glasses further up his nose. His ginger hair sticking up madly in tuffs on the top of his head.

"Shoot!" I yelled, opening up the microwave, which has a suspicious sticky yellow substance splattered all over the door.

"Dad?"

"Hmm?"

"Can you please explain to me why you put a whole raw egg in the microwave?"

"I was cooking it?"

"Right...in the microwave, with the shell still on, by itself?"

"Are you not supposed to cook them like that?"

"No!" I sighed. My dad might be smart, but he is utterly hopeless at cooking.

"What were you trying to make?"

"Omelette."

I cleaned the sticky microwave up while dad ordered a Chinese take away.

When the Chinese arrived I was so hungry I literally jumped on dad as he carried it into the living room.

Tonight would be our last dinner ever in England. That made a shiver go up my spine.

"Dad?" I asked, pushing fried rice around my plate.

"Yes?" Dad shoved a spring roll in his mouth, as if on command.

"Can we visit mum before we go?"

Mum is buried in the church graveyard in town, and we visit her every birthday and Christmas.

"Of course we can, Autumn," dad smiled gently, "and we can buy some flowers for her."