Piece By Piece

Chapter 1

                                                                             Chapter one.

                                                                               The Crash

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  "Val, hurry up and get ready!" my mom hollered from downstairs.

   I groaned, and fumbled with my sheets, trying to pull them up over my head. Mondays- I hate them with a burning passion. Alarm clocks- I hate them with a sizzling passion. My crazy, errotic mother who is now standing right over me with a cup of water in her hand- don't even get me started.

   "Val, get up now!" My mom shouted in my ear. I turned the other way in my bed and smooshed my pillow against my ear, blocking her out completely. Ahh, much better.

  Well, it was better until I felt icy water splash on me, soaking my entire bed and pillow. "Mom!" I screamed, while I jumped up and out of my bed. "What the -"

  "Don't you dare use foul language with me, young lady," my mom scolded. "Or I'll wash your mouth out with soap."

  I rolled my eyes and ran a finger through my long, wet, tangled hair. "You haven't done that since I was seven."

   "Doesn't mean that I can't do it now," my mom said. "And don't roll your eyes at me, either." She picked up a pair of dirty socks from my floor, and then scurried out of my room, closing the door behind her.

   I mumbled while I undressed and pulled on my favorite blue t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans. My ratty pair of Converse finished my look along with my silver locket that I wear as a necklace. I brushed my teeth and combed my hair, pulling my bangs back into a clip and flat-ironing the rest. I don't wear much make-up, just enough to cover a few spots and not look like a zombie.

   I don't need it though, anyways. My skin is fairly clear, with the occasional breakout here and there, and a light pink flush that runs along my cheeks when I blush. My teeth are straight from the embarrassing braces-stage in the fifth grade (I had to beg my mom to burn all of those photos). My nose is okay, but a little too big if you ask me. I have big, ice-blue eyes with a fringe of dark lashes surrounding them. And finally, I have long brown hair that reaches beyond my shoulder blades, and has a mind of its own. It's naturally really curly and wavy, with wild waves and ringlets that I have to try to tame every day. Yippee.

   I finish getting ready and then pack my school stuff into my backpack. I hurry downstairs and then make my brother some cereal, while I skip breakfast. "Pac-man, your food is ready!" I call. His real name is Patrick, but he and I both hate his name, so I promised to call him that. Of course, though, that was three years ago when he was six.

   "Stop calling me that," he says as he comes downstairs, rubbing his eyes. He sits down at the kitchen table and starts eating and doing his homework that he should've done last night. I shake my head and then make my mom's breakfast: A cream-cheese bagel and some Wheat Thins.

  Mom finally comes down stairs.  Her hair is in a neat pony-tail, her purple blouse and grey slacks are ironed and pressed, and her black heels are protecting her freshly pedicured and exfoliated feet. Mom's a tough woman, and many respect her at her two jobs; she runs a hair-salon thirty-minutes away and is a manager for a fashion company downtown.  She makes an excellent living for a widowed parent, but she's always on the job and never home. Whenever I complain about her never spending time at home, she always says, "Sometimes when you're rich, you have to be the bitch."