Goldilocks and the British Accent

12 | Big Reputation.

Goldilocks🚺

• Dedicated to Taylor Swift, because she is a baws •

Ultra filtration...selective reabsorption... hormonal secretion...drat!

It's a typical Saturday evening. The balcony door is open and the window blinds are drawn high, allowing the orange sky outside to cast a fiery glow into my room. The digital clock on the wall reads 6:09 p.m.

Beside me, an apple juice box sits unopened as I stare at the open Biology textbook in front of me.

When did you become so crazy? My subconscious asks me. When did staring at open Biology textbooks at six o'clock in the evening become a hobby?

I want to answer it. I want to tell it how Theodore's last words from the music room had haunted my mind, how all I could think about was the smirk on his lips as he returned to his cello, how I had resorted to staring at this open Biology textbook to calm my frazzled nerves.

But alas, I can't without first admitting to myself that I am hearing voices and that I am, in fact, a crazy woman who stares at open Biology textbooks at six o'clock in the evening as a hobby.

Outside our friendly neighbour, Mr Harvey, waters the sunflowers in his garden. Like the sunflowers, his face is now pale and void of the colour it once had. Wrinkles and folds replace his once smooth skin and the smile that used to light up his face is now absent, replaced with an unpleasant frown.

It reminds me of the old days, when his wife was still alive and they were happy, when Celestine and I played in his garden while he sat on the rocking chair in the front porch and watched us. Old days when the third graders were reading Aesop's Fables and I was   reading the Oxford Advanced Learner's dictionary, when Celestine and I wore matching streaks of green on our hair.

When Dad was still around and we were the most—cliché but nevertheless—happy family.

Yes, old days when we were little and everything was right in the world.

These days, all Mom does is smile to try and convince us (but mostly herself) that everything is fine. Our neighbourhood is like a Strawberry fruit cake, beautiful on the outside but full of sadness on the inside.

"Sophia,"

So once again, my subconscious calls, its voice smooth and feminine. But this time, I will answer because I, Sophia Lockes, am a crazy woman and staring at open Biology textbooks is what crazy women do.

"Sophia,"

"Yes," I answer, spinning my chair around. "Ask any question, dear sub–mom? What are you doing here?"

"I was calling you but you were so engrossed in whatever you were doing," she says from the door post, one hand on her hip. "Is that a textbook? Are you... reading?"

Yes, reading. You could call it that.

Today, she looks less appalling with her striped t-shirt and black skirt. The only things out of place are the fishnet pantyhose, the Timberland boots and the dead racoon on her head (at least that's what it looks like).

"Yes, Mom. Why do you sound so surprised?"

"Oh, It's nothing," she says, shaking her head. "I just thought...after we discovered your geniusness and other things, you wouldn't want to read anymore. This is such a pleasant surprise. Really."

"Mom," I chuckle. "That's so silly. Why in the world would you think that. I always read. It's a hobby."

She slowly nods her head. "Well, why did I come here? Yes, Sophia can we talk in the living room?"