What Dreams Are Made Of (Camren)

Chapter 1. History

Some thing to bear in mind before we start:

Camila is British

Camila's POV

She was hurting because of me. It was my fault. And this is how it began.

Early in the fall of my new 15 year old life, just as the leaves faded orange and the breezes breathed a slight chill of confused temperatures in England, my wonderful parents decided to send me to a summer school. Of course, I rejected the idea immediately, but as usual I had no say in this situation.

"My teachers are perfectly fine," I insisted. "I don't need another tutor."

"We've invested too much money on you now for you to go throw it away," Mom scolded.

That was their argument for everything and it made me have to do what they say because they had a point. It made me feel like I was carrying such a heavyweight on my shoulders, with a possibility of falling any second, but I couldn't or I would ruin everything. I never forced it upon them, this idea to send me to a grammar school, let alone a private one. I could have done just as well in a normal school but for some reason my parents weren't convinced.

So there I was at the gate of the so-called summer school which would be taking place for the last 2 weeks of the summer holidays in a seemingly run down high school, desperately needing money (and attention). Walking in, I felt the vibe of a mental hospital, with its cream walls and white doors and skirting. And then, I caught a glimpse of the owner of this "business," clearly stating he was Indian with the upturned sides of his moustache and over oiled hair, both in need of a trim.

The next 2 weeks went by in a blur - absolutely not what I expected, but making a new friend always makes things interesting. Everyday Alisha and I would meet at the park adjacent to the school and then walk to the school an hour before midday. It was actually quite fun though, not because we were doing work but because we were doing the opposite. Secretly, we would check what was happening on Instagram and then we laughed hysterically at random moments, making focused eyes turn to us, annoyed.

As September started, so did school and for the next few months, I was forced to work like it was the oxygen I needed to survive. I was signed up to nearly all the extra classes and my mind felt like it might actually implode and trickle down my nose, constantly. It wasn't just the stress of school though; a 5'5" blonde girl with chestnut lowlights got the better of me.

At times things got a bit out of hand. With a black belt in Taekwondo you wouldn't want to mess with her, I did. She was determined to make every boy in school afraid of her by threatening to kick them in a sensitive place. It was honestly going too far so I told her to stop. Why did I even bother? I anticipated a cocky comment in response, instead however I had the joy of smelling her armpit from the headlock I was held in.

I remember feeling breathless and when I tried to hit her in the stomach so she would let go, she just pulled tighter. I could feel the blood rushing to my face and all the emotions which I had been trying to hide came crying out. The pain, the anger, the sadness all urging her to stop and when she did, they fell to the floor choking and I lay there letting out a whimper as I struggled to breathe.

Physically I had no shot at winning this, I was shorter - 5ft 2, I had no muscle and I was also brown, so if by Gods grace a miracle happened and I actually won, I would probably be blamed. I was the minority here after all and with all the controversy over #blacklivesmatter it would just fuel the need to blame me. If anyone who just met me in Bury was asked if I would win in a fight with a girl, chances are that they'd say yes. I often come off as confident with a hint of cocky if I'm being honest. But how I act is different to how I feel. I only act that way because I'm scared to be broken by showing my insecurities.