Chapter 1: Waking Up
I woke up once more staring at the pattern of the spackled ceiling, watching it as if it were the most interesting thing on the planet. Sighing to myself I rolled on my side looking at the poster I had made and pinned to the wall.
"Vampa." I read out loud to myself quietly. Vampa was my website that I had designed and am now officially running. I then jumped out of bed, finally awake. My alarm blazed in my ears as I fumbled with switches, finally slamming my hand on the snooze button to silence the sound. Staring at my alarm clock I found the on and off switch hidden on the side. Pushing it to the off set I grimaced to myself remembering the ear splitting sound. Then I heard footsteps coming up to the door; I quickly scrambled back into bed, pretending to have just woken up.
Tap, tap, tap.
"Yes," I called in response, disguising my voice as it would have sounded if I were half-asleep.
"Wake up, wake up, wake up Zoey," my mother strode in and started pulling the curtains back from my windows. I brought my hand up, trying to shade my eyes from the glaring sun. She turned to face me and smiled.
"Don't want to be late for school now do we?"
"No," as if. I still think the only reason we're living in Stuyvasant Town is so my mom could make sure I actually go, and arrive in time for school. (Being as Stuyvasant High School is only a minute's walk away, I don't really think that's a problem, and apparently neither does my mom since she hasn't yet come to the point or thought of moving.)
I watched the disappearing figure and heard the constant chatter of the next big story float away from my room and through the halls of the apartment. I sighed and got up once again, slowly trailing to my dark wood dresser, picked out a pair of blue jeans, a simple black t-shirt saying Hollister on the front, and changed quickly just before I walked out of my bedroom.
I felt the coolness on my toes the minute I stepped on the white tiles of my bathroom. A shiver went through my body as I quickly unscrewed the cap of my toothpaste bottle, squeezing some out and then wetting my toothbrush. I brushed my teeth in a rush and pulled my hair out with an innocent hairbrush, finishing my morning routine in all of about five minutes. I sighed at my reflection in the mirror, the jagged strands of my dirty-blond hair that fell just over my shoulders, and my dull brown eyes that were so big that they took up almost a third of my face. (Though my mom says that they're perfectly normal sized.) I walked out of my bathroom and went down to the kitchen to find something to eat.
What I first saw was my mom at the dining room table bending over a bunch of papers with a pencil in one hand and a phone in the other. She looked up at me when I passed and smiled a smile that just shouted I want out of this conversation now. I walked to the refrigerator and opened the door, grinning to myself. Looking for something the least bit appetizing, and not finding it in the fridge, I retired to the cabinets, hoping to find something that I could eat without having to cook anything. Just my luck: nothing. Being the always hungry girl that I am I decided to eat some oatmeal, it's quick enough after all.
I waited in agony as I watched the bowl of milk and instant oatmeal spin slowly around and around in the stainless steel microwave. Once the timer rang I pulled the bowl out completely forgetting how hot it would be and cursed under my breath when it burned my skin. Thankfully my mom was still on the phone when this happened, not that she would have noticed otherwise, she was completely and utterly unobservant. I grabbed a spoon and went to sit at the table across from my mother.
She was still on the phone when I sat down but it sounded like the conversation was almost over; and I was proven right when she set down the phone just after I had taken my first bite. Sighing to herself she brushed her hair behind her ears and started in on her work that still lay in massive piles in front of her. She was tired, exhausted really, I could see that much. Every movement she made took energy from her already worn out body, and her job was not getting any easier for her. Writing all night, typing all day, it was just so hard on her, but she could do nothing about it. Being a columnist for New York Daily News is a stressing job. Not only do you have to read piles of letters, but you also have to reply with the best advice that you can give, and trust me, that's stressful.
