Madly In Love

Chapter Eight: Give Me Your Bubble-Gum Words and Bully Me Baby!

Chapter Eight:

Give Me Your Bubble-Gum Words and Bully Me Baby!

Normally Mondays are decent.

Normally I will willingly drag myself from the warmth of my little bed.

But this Monday, this Monday I want to hide under the covers until I pass-out again.

Because this is the first Monday in which Meredith won’t be peeping her horn out front and yelling over a mouthful of red vines that I better ‘move my skinny ass’.

Scrubbing the heel of my hands into my eyes I whine and groan. I should have just called. It would make my life so much simpler. At least I would have had a ride.

My bedroom door creaks and I pull my quilt tight around my head as my mom’s soft chuckle fills my room making my chest loosen a little and my cheeks twitch.

“Sweetie, there’s no point hiding from this. You and Meredith will be best friends as soon as you cross those school gates, it always works out.” The soft click of her shoes sounds on my floor as she finally settles on the edge of my bed, her hand coming up to rest on my covered arm, she rubs it soothingly and clicks her tongue.

“This is silly, hun. You’ve got to face up to this; hiding won’t make it go away.” Yeah, but it sure does help. Her voice is slightly tighter and I know she wants to tell just how much she thinks a break from our friendship is probably for ‘the best’.

Mom’s never liked Meredith. Through the many years Meredith and I have been close, she has drummed into me just how much of a ‘bad influence’ Meredith is and that our friendship is too ‘co-dependent’ and ‘unhealthy’. Like some jacked up Dr Phil or Oprah. And every time, no matter how badly Meredith and I are at odds, I always defend her. It’s in my genetic make-up to do so. And after a while, mom just gave up trying to tell me otherwise.

I simply grunt in reply and pull my covers tighter. Mom shifts and her thin hand slides up to grab at the top of the quilt, pulling it roughly until my eyes and nose are on show. I wrinkle my forehead so she knows I’m not happy.

“’M sick.” I mumble and I watch her eyes roll back and how she sighs in great exasperation.

“Get up, come down and have breakfast with your brother and I and stop acting childish.” She demands, standing up and tearing the quilt from my body.

I want to protest and whine and stamp my feet, but as I watch my mom calmly fold the quilt up and stuff it under her arm, I see the way her tired eyes droop and how severe the purple rings are around her eyes. Like she’s suffering from a broken nose.

Sliding out of bed, I admit defeat and she smiles such a bright smile that I have to hug her, so I do. I wrap my arms around her middle and squeeze tightly. She hugs me back just as tightly and, arm-and-arm, we go downstairs.

Dave is the only one at the kitchen table - not surprising since dad's always working early these days -  shovelling down ladles worth of sugary cereal until his cheeks and eyes bulge like hamsters do. I plop down opposite him and watch in great disgust as he attempt to speak through his full mouth.

“At least have the curtsy to swallow first, pig.” I hiss and squeeze my eyes shut as he lets his jaw slack so I can see the mush of half-chewed cereal in his chops. “Gross,” I spit, pouring my own bowl and eating dainty, lady-like bites.

He swallows loudly and grabs the cereal box from my side, pouring himself another hefty bowl-worth, “Yeah? Well so is your face.” He waves a sticky hand in from of my face until I swat him away with a scowl, as he laughs while shovelling more cereal.