Frenchie

Chapter One- English, French and Rock Bands

Frenchie

Chapter One: English, French and Rock Bands

Sunlight poured out over my sheets, and I let out a content sigh. The room was still mostly dark, my lights were off, but I had kept the window slightly open over night and was being greeted by sunlight, as usual. I rolled over onto my back keeping my eyes closed, not wanting to get up. I still have a while… I thought to myself quietly. I don’t have to do the paper route today, it’s Tuesday…

That’s when it hit me. It was Tuesday.

I bolted upright, cringing at the time on my clock. Did I forget to set it?! I pulled the cover off of myself, hopping over to my dresser and swearing under my breath. The floor was colder ever since I had gotten rid of that old blue carpeting, that I’d had since I was born, my parents had thought it was going to be a boy.

I pulled a tee over my head quickly. It was red, and had the face of an angry monster on it. It was from bluenotes, I think. I shoved myself into a pair of skinny jeans and pulled on some orange ankle socks. Since I didn’t have the time to brush out my messy, curly brown hair, I grabbed an elastic and made a quick ponytail. I put in some Citrine stud earrings, my birthstone, and to finish off the look I put some thick 3D glasses with the lenses popped out over my grey eyes.

I raced down the stairs and found a note on the fridge from my mom:

Dear Cynthia,

I had to go to work. Dropped Ali off at the daycare, so don’t worry about her. Try to get to school on time. Breakfast is on the counter.

-Mom

Mom was a very busy person. My dad left us when I was little, so she had two jobs to pay the bills. She was a part time waitress at Jeremy’s Diner on the weekends, and a full time Drywaller during the week. In English, that basically means she makes… Well, drywall. I really don’t know anything about it. Sometimes she’ll try to explain it to me, but I’m not very interested in walls, so I usually zone out at some point or another. I don’t think she really likes it either though. She’d rather be an artist. Even though we already live in a tiny apartment, she made sure she had a room where she could paint and be all artistic and stuff.

The fact that she had another four year old child probably didn’t help. So far she hasn’t told me about who Ali’s father is, and I don’t really want to ask. Sometimes I wonder if she even knows… But don’t get the wrong idea about my mom, she’s awesome. Just a little stressed and depressed sometimes. She’s always been there for me, no matter how busy she got, and she’s never once asked me for help. I do anyway, though, it’s what I have the paper route for… It doesn’t help much, but I plan to do more once I’m considered old enough to actually get a job at a fast food joint or something.

Ali was more or less your average four year old. She didn’t look anything like me or my mom though, with our dark curly hair and grey eyes. She had pretty long blonde hair, and blue eyes, so obviously she takes more after whoever her father is. She looks up to me a lot, I think, I guess because the past one or two years of her life I’ve been there more than even mom has. I get stuck babysitting a lot now that I’m old enough to. She had this one orange stuffed cat named Gerald that she pretty much never put down.

After scarfing down the eggs and pancakes my mom had somehow found the time to make me, I ran back up the stairs and into the bathroom. I scowled at the mirror. Of course, the first day of my last year in middle school and my acne still hadn’t cleared up. I had covered every last chemical-filled cleansing cream on my face that I could use without getting an allergic reaction, but still, it refused to leave me alone. Stupid hormones.