Teaching Gods Teenage Behaviour

Chapter One- Excuse Me, Goddess of the What?

Chapter 1- Excuse Me, Goddess of the What?

 I was rudely awoken by a blinding light streaming in from the window. My eyes cracked open to see that the blinds had been drawn and none other than my mother was standing beside the window with a playful smirk on her face. This was her favourite way of waking me up… and the most painful.

 I covered my eyes from the sun and picked up my phone that was dormant beside my pillow to check the time.

 “What the hell mom!” I croaked. Jesus, I sounded like someone replaced my vocal cords with a bunch of forks and knives while I was sleeping.

 “It’s a freaking Saturday, mother. Why the heck am I awake at this unholy hour?”

 She chuckled at my reaction and came over to sit on the bed. Her blonde bangs fell over her clear blue eyes.

 “Honey, it’s eight o’ clock. Not exactly an unholy hour,” she said, rolling her eyes.

 I actually looked at her for the first time since I woke up and saw that she was in a black jacket and dress pants; her work clothes.

 “I woke you up because I have work early today and I want you to go to Paul and Alyssa’s house for the time being. They already know you’re coming so don’t keep them waiting! I want you over there in thirty minutes.”

 Ah, Paul and Alyssa. They were both just sixteen, one measly year older than me. I had known them since birth practically and we did pretty much everything together.

 “Okay, Mom. Don’t worry I’ll be over there as soon as I brush my teeth and put some clothes on. Go to work, I don’t want you to be late.”

 “Thanks, Pase,” Mom smiled and kissed the top of my head before rushing out the door.

 I admired her for her hardworking and loving attitude. She had been raising me on her own since my second birthday when my no good scumbag father left us. Well, I didn’t actually know if he was really no good or scumbag-ish because whenever I asked about him, my mom got this faraway look and told me to forget about him. But only a no good scumbag-ish father could leave his kid like that. Well, at least that’s what I thought. But, all I really knew about my dad was that his name was Henry.

 I walked to the bathroom where I planned to make myself look at least slightly presentable. When I flicked on the light, staring back at me in the mirror were my drowsy green eyes and disheveled black hair. My mom was so sweet and adorable looking with her cute blonde features, so of course I knew that I had gotten my mischievous looks and suggestive grin from my father whom I didn’t even remember.

 I made my hair more presentable with a neon purple and green brush that my mom got me last weekend. It didn’t take much work to get rid of that oh-my-gosh-someone-please-help-my-hair-was-attacked-by-my-pillow-last-night look; it was already naturally pin-straight, reaching halfway down my back.

 I changed into my grey Puma sweatpants, a white tank top and black and white toms. I put some white feathered earrings in and pulled my hair back in a neat ponytail. Once I was satisfied with my look in the mirror, I turned and left my bedroom.

 My feet treaded down the carpeted stairs of the house. It was very homey and all my memories could be found right here. There was still a purple stain on the third step from the top where Alyssa had spilled grape juice when she was seven. And there was still a little dent in the wooden railing from when Paul was having a temper tantrum and punched it so hard he broke his hand. He was just nine years old, but after that episode, his step-mom, Haley, had made him take anger management courses for two weeks. Now, he was the calmest most level-headed person I knew. Six years later, Alyssa and I still occasionally poked fun about him having to take anger management classes.