Morgan Is The Bomb (The M' s Series #1)

Houses

I had hoped to make my entrance more of a 'the prodigal returns' kind of thing. Unfortunately, Gail is sitting on the porch. She is of course immaculately dressed, as always. Her champagne gathered neck blouse, made of ostentatious silk, forms a stark contrast to her chain-smoking habits.  Her ash tray is piled high with empty cigarette cartons next to it on the small, circular table. For the first time I see a break in her usual professionalism-- she's wearing flared black trousers.

"Where have you been?" The tone is dead. There is foreboding, but little else is revealed. 

I lower my head. "Out?"

"Do you have any idea how worried I was about you?" She casually takes another drag of her cigarette. "Don't stand there like a traffic cone. Come here," she demands. 

I crawl up to the porch. My head slightly tilts to reveal my neck. Apparently wolves do it show submission unless I've been watching too many werewolf movies. Maybe it will protect me. 

"Gail, I know it was a--"

Her hand free of a cigarette rises. "I don't want to hear what you have to say, Morgan--"

"That's not fair!" I cry out.

"Parenting isn't fair." My grandmother snaps. "I'm trying to help you, but no. You need to shove it in my face." She stops to inhale a shaky breath. "Alright...Morgana, I am utterly and severely disappointed in your behavior. That is all I have to say. Now go inside."

"But--"

"Go inside, Morgana." She grinds out. "Before I lock you in your room and throw away the key."

I give up. There is no use in explaining when she's in a state like this. Her anger has probably been bubbling since last night. 

Let's see if anyone else has anything to say to me thus far. To my surprise the WiFi isn't connecting. I check the connection. WTF. She changed the password. I collect myself. At least I have data (side note: how do you read/pronounce data?). It could be worse. I could be sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs.

In the confines of my own solitude and lack of internet, I realise how drained I am. Sometimes, even though you did nothing physically dirty, you feel grimy. My eyes feel strained from the sleep depravation. I wipe my face. I need a shower and bed.

I trudge to the bathroom. I play some Sleeping with Sirens and hum along while tying up my hair. Steam fills the pristine room. Soaking in the bath is the best feeling ever. 

I wonder if Gail is going to call off the guard dogs. Brandt totally over-reacted. Why was he so freakin worried anyway? Maybe Clara was...No. No. I shake my head. She was probably relieved. With my toes I lazily draw circles on the end of the of the tub. My stomach starts to knot and clench. I hope they weren't too worried. Like, I'm not self-destructive. I wasn't going to get myself killed. They know that. They were more mad at my disobedience than worried about my well-being. Right?

Uggggh. I want to sink down into this bath. I wish I could say I hate this feeling : that I regret every moment and that the guilty conscience is a burning sore I would do anything to be rid of. I have never been the rebellious kind of girl, craving the attention or the thrill of disobedience. Many of them have been my friends. Most admire my ability to be my own person. I won't jump off a bridge because my friend did. I have watched with grins as they complete their own suicide missions. I was always the good girl. I involuntarily wince at the thought of causing distress, but I cant regret yesterday or today much. I feel...alive. 

"PPAP"

Oh, no! I groan. Casey sent that to me ages ago as a joke and I never deleted it from my phone.