Around the Corner (Discontinued)

Chapter 1

With drifting eyes, I yawn, shifting out of the the clutches of sleep. Saturday morning commences it's welcoming as I stir awake, fully rested for the first time after a month of finals. As I tune in to distant voices, memories come rushing back to me, falling into a vague but sure order. Fernanda, returning home after weeks. My parent's fury. Arguing. More arguing. A short moment of sleep. And now, as I can hear, more arguing.

I kick up my blankets and prop myself up on the edge of the bed, feet dangling above the wood floor. Sunlight pools onto my legs, illuminating patches of sallow skin. The blinds, try as they might, can not keep all the light out of my room and persistent rays leak onto my furniture. Sighing, I stand and stretch.

As something furry brushes against me, I glance down at my leg and discover Bramble and his dazing yellow eyes. Crouching, I run my hand over his back, summoning a low purr from the cat. He nuzzles my leg, an unnecessary gentleness; the muscles underneath his fur are proof of such. He presses against my legs, meowing. I twitch my lips into a smile, sensing his longing for breakfast.

Bramble pads alongside me as I walk down the corridor, his brown paws silent where my feet cause floorboards to yawn and creak. I enter the kitchen and the hostile air invades without hesitation.

My mother leans against the kitchen counter, her lithe figure tense and her arms crossed. A little further, sitting alone at the table is my father, scrutinizing a newspaper. He is not a man to be found reading, with his failing eyesight and adoration for television. He's tense as well, as if the argument that's subsided has not fully erased the issue at hand.

"Laila, it's rude to stand and stare," My mother scolds. I apologize.

"Go get some breakfast and sit down," my father commands, and I catch a glimpse of his eyes before he returns his focus to the paper. His hair is the color of charcoal, dotted with specks of gray. Most men his age suffer from the exact opposite: silver hair dusted with the remains of their youth. I remember meeting his colleagues, other professors at the college, and wondering why they appeared so much older. My father had laughed when I asked him.

I open a tin of cat food for Bramble, who doesn't wait for the bowl to touch the ground to begin eating. Scouting the cabinets, I reach for a half full box of Cheerios. As I'm getting the milk, she ambles in.

She doesn't greet us. I pour the milk into the bowl, trying to ignore her presence and the miasma of anger emanating from my parents, a near impossible task. Whether or not our eyes are on her, our attention sure is.

"Good morning, Fernanda. How did you sleep last night?" Mother asks in a superficial, friendly tone. I shoot her a glance. She dresses in a lie; there isn't any happiness here. Only anger, and two weeks of worry laying to rest unevenly. My mother is anything but happy with her oldest daughter. I've accustomed to their anger towards Fernanda. They never wanted a rebellious child. Somewhere along that line, I come in. I try to become the child they want.

"Like I was on a roof," she complains, "I hate the bed. It's so uncomfortable and awkward. I think I spotted a few holes, too. I was practically sleeping on a roof. And it was so cold, I was freezing during half the night." My mother exhales deeply, her gorgeous face strained.

"Don't you think you just need to adjust?" She asks, sweet and sharp. I eye Fernanda. She prepares herself a mug of coffee without haste, her back facing us.

"Adjusting? Of course not. I hate it here," she says.

My mother peers at her, her stare scorching the back of Fernanda's hair, surprisingly not setting the dark locks of hair aflame. My sister is undisturbed by such- she continues mixing in her sugar. She adds four spoonfuls but no milk.

"Well, this is your home, you sleep here. You should be thankful," my mother states. Fernanda doesn't flinch.

"Your idea of thankful is for me to kiss your ass every five minutes," she snaps, "that's not going to happen. Adjusting isn't going to happen. I'll find another roof to sleep under. Bruno's bed is warmer, anyways. And it sure doesn't make me feel like I'm a rooftop."

"Fernanda! You sleep in your own bed, under our roof. I don't want to ever hear you talk of that pinché again!" My mother shouts, splitting the tension from moments earlier to smithereens.

"Don't call him that," Fernanda hisses. "His name is Bruno. Use it."

"Why should I?" My mother growls.

"Because I want you to become comfortable with it. After all, I like screaming it every Saturday night at his place." Fernanda turns to witness my mother's paling face. She grins, the smile of someone who has done a horrendous deed, and knows they've gotten away with their crime.

"Fernanda-" she begins.

"Shut your trap already! You asked how I slept and I told you. What more do you want?" Fernanda questions.

"That wasn't an appropriate answer," my mother starts.

"Oh well. It was an honest answer. I felt like I was on the roof."

"I wish you were on a roof," I remark. The words escape from my mouth and drag me into the argument. Fernanda whips her head around at me, pinning me with brown eyes full of disgust and anger.

"So do I, so I could throw you off," she shouts. I shrink back, knowing I'm fighting a losing battle.

"You're plain st-stupid! You probably don't even k-know how to get on a roof t-to start with," I stutter. I'm no fighter. My comeback is as horrible and formless as my thoughts are.

She opens her mouth, as if to say something, but it's my father who speaks next. "Shut it. Both of you." he says sternly. He emerges from out from his newspaper shield. He beckons Fernanda over, and whispers inaudibly to her. He understands Fernanda more than anyone in the family, even though they don't look alike. Fernanda has my mother'a beauty. But her mind is much like my father's. They both consider violence as a possible solution and, although my father straightened out in high school, don't care much for school. But my father possess something my sister doesn't.
Control.

Fernanda storms off, swearing under her breath. I face my father, whose anger is clear and crisp.

"I expect better from you, Laila. You're a smart girl. You know right from wrong."

"I do," I defend weakly, "I don't run away."

Not missing the opportunity to lecture me, my mother says, "you better not. Nothing good will come from that. Now get out of my sight. I need to talk to your father." My mother dismisses me with the flick of her hand. I bite my lip, and stay.

"What did I say?" My mother says, "leave, Laila."

"Doesn't she get in trouble?" I pipe.

"Don't worry about your sister. You're in trouble."

"What?" My hands become fists, and my brows furrow. "I didn't do anything."

"Precisely. You did nothing about your words and ended up starting another fight," my father replies. "Next time, do something."

I leave the kitchen as quietly as I had entered. Only this time, I fight back tears.

Spending the morning trying to imagine what my punishment is lead me to numerous dead ends. I don't have a phone to mourn the loss of, nor a computer to miss. In the corner of my room, a boxy television plays reruns on mute. I stare at the actors and actresses, watching them banter in silence. My parents may ban me from seeing anyone after school. I glance at the pile of worksheets on the window. The top page of the pile is the cover of an algebra packet, full of unanswered problems. Instead of my name, Mildred Perry labels the paper I sigh.

I'm not a bad daughter. I attempt to comfort myself with the thought. I do well in school. I listen. I behave. I am not Fernanda.

I am not Fernanda.

First chapter! For older readers, this has been edited but nothing too major has changed. New readers, I hope you enjoy :)