Tick Tock - Time's Running Out

Tick Tock (13)

Chapter Thirteen

Jamie

Ow. I felt crap. What had I been thinking last night? Since when had it been a good idea to pollute your system with poison? I would kill the inventor of alcohol! I digress. I opened one bleary eye, and then the other. Then I shut them. The sunlight streaming though a tiny crack in my curtains was too much.

Bloody hangovers. I hated them.

I tried to remember the previous night’s events after running off the dance floor with Darren, however, it was like watching a really bad pirate copy of a film. It was kind of blurry at points, and people’s heads kept getting in the way when they left the theatre to use the toilet. Damn alcohol! I faintly remember chugging down half a bottle of straight vodka and partaking in a game of ‘Seven Minutes in Heaven’, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember who I ended up with in ‘The Closet’! I was sure that it wasn’t Robbie (which I was utterly relieved about, as that would’ve been really disturbing), and it wasn’t Darren (which I was devastated about, because that would have been nice). I only knew how tall the person was, because I faintly remember him being the perfect height so he didn’t need to bend double for his lips to reach mine, and he didn’t need to strain or stand on a box or something either. And I could describe the kiss that occurred in ‘The Closet’ perfectly. It was soft, but hard; gentle, but firm; perfect, but a disaster. It was a disaster, because I didn’t know who’s lips they belonged to!

Oh, God. Why was I such an idiot last night? The aim was to show Darren how attractive I could be, but it didn’t have the desired effect. He just thought I was a slut. So he treated me like he’d treat any old slut. I still couldn’t believe it! I thought he’d have more respect for me! But, alas, no. He thought I was just like the rest. I really regretted wearing that dress with the tan tights, because it just made me ooze ‘slut’.

“Jamie,” a rough male voice said from behind my door. It was my daddy.

“Come on it, Dad,” I said, propping myself up and rubbing my eyes. He perched himself on my bed and leaned in to give me a hug. His lips were right by my ear when he suddenly shouted: “MORNING!” and trust me – he shouted. Did I mention that I hated hangovers? I did? Oh, well, just to reinforce the point...

Bloody hangovers. I hate them!

My head was pounding and I just wanted to get rid of all noise and saw my head off. Of course, this would lead to my death, but I honestly didn’t care.

“Dad!” I moaned, covering my ears with my hands. “I thought parents loved their daughters, not hated them and therefore loved to cause them pain after a hard night... studying...” I trailed off, cringing. I knew I should have told Dad and Sam the truth about the party, rather than say I was at a study group.

“Jamie, pull the other one,” he laughed. “No teenager goes to a study group wearing the dress you wore last night, coupled with the make-up you wore last night and wakes up the next morning with hangover symptoms! I know you went to a party last night – the same party Robbie went to, as well.” I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off. “You’re also hugging an empty bottle of vodka and you have a reminder on your pin board saying ‘party at Olivia’s, Friday night’. Also, you took ages to pick out an outfit yesterday with Tiff and you said – and I quote – ‘dress to impress’. A hot nerd I should know about? Oh, wait – hot nerds don’t exist. And, before you ask,” he paused, then putting on a stupid posh English accent he said: “elementary, dear Watson.”

“All right, Sherlock,” I sighed, getting out of bed. “Can Sherlock Holmes please make me a cup of coffee and locate two paracetomal tablets for me, please?”