The Pretenders

the pretenders| chapter 1

01. Not Too Shabby

EMBER
[earlier that day]
"Ember," a tired, raspy voice called me from a dreamless and agitated sleep. "Sweetie, wake up."

     I shifted on the dilapidated couch of the hospital room to see who woke me and saw the sullen figure of my dad who rested on the electronic bed. He smiled, seeing that I was awake.
I could only imagine the pain and energy it took for him to smile now.
I winced as the insides of my cheeks caught in my braces when I yawned. Damn, I hated braces. It felt like my teeth were being ripped from my gums. I groaned, groggily getting up from the lumpy upholstery and sat in the small space right next to him.
"How're you holding up, pops?" I asked, hugging his side loosely.
"You worry about me too much, Emmy." His shoulders shook from his small chuckles, but soon, his laughter turned into a fit of coughs.
My eyebrows drew together in concern as I rubbed his back, then poured him a glass of water.
     I raised an eyebrow. "I worry too much, huh?"
     "Hey, just because you take care of your own old man, does not mean you can sass me, little girl," he scowled at me after sipping at the cool liquid.
     I rolled my eyes and chose to just go with it. I looked back at him, and he seemed drowsier than yesterday. Dark bags around his cerulean eyes were deeper, more etched into his face and frown lines started forming on both corners of his mouth.
     "So, what are your plans for today, bub?" He suddenly asked, after he downed the last of the water.
     I was supposed to bring Isabelle to school; Eric was on duty today and mom didn't trust Belle with the car. Then, I needed to talk to the cast director for the play at the local theatre.
     I told my dad all that while I fiddled with the fraying ends of my cardigan. Eric would have to be assigned to dad. My schedule today was hectic and, as much as I hate saying it, I didn't have enough time to take care of my dad today.
     "Well, bub, you better get started to make it to supper with your mum," he smiled, gently shoving me off the bed. "Go on."
     "You're kicking me out?" I joked, getting up and collecting my things.
     "Damn right, I am. Now go and don't come back until you're starring in that play!" He laughed softly, sure not to irritate his throat.
     I laughed along with him, and after promising to do so, I was out the door.

     I pulled up at the driveway of our two-storey. That was mostly on the grey-scale, with its small grey stone cladding portion in the front, wraparound white paint, and washed-out grey garage. Shoots of green bamboo and clean-cut shrubs sprouted at the main corners. All in all, I was pretty sure it gave off a zen vibe.
     I gave the car's horn a little beep beep then waited around five seconds until Isabelle emerged from the front door.
     My sister, Isabelle - or Bells as dad liked to call her - was quite like me physically and mentally-speaking. We had the same auburn hair that we refused to cut - though I dyed mine a creamy blonde - the same brown eyes, and button nose.
     We even thought more or less the same. It was actually pretty freaky.
     She walked out in her grey knit sweater, dark blue jeans and black pair of Converse, her hair in a high ponytail.
     "Hey, bitch," she smiled, hopping into my silver Jetta. "How're the streets?"
     Well, someone was in a good mood today. She grinned fully making a dimple pop out on her right cheek while she buckled up her safety belt.
     I smiled, seeing her so happy on a Monday morning. Most of the time, she got into the car cursing under her breath and a deep scowl on her face. And sometimes, she didn't get in at all.
     "Not too shabby. Earned a bunch of wads; nice business, nice business," I played along with her joke, pulling away from the curb.
     "Enough to buy me a new piece from The Boutique?" She raised an eyebrow, amused.
     The Boutique was a quaint shop at the end of our street that sold old novelties and vintage collection items. They had almost everything Belle loved. Vinyls, vintage stamps, postcards, planners; you name it. The only problem was most of the things costed at least eighty quid a piece.
     "Sorry, Bells, but no," I chuckled and she scowled at my remark.
     I rounded the corner of the long stretch of our street onto the main road where Isabelle's school was, preparing myself for seeing the familiar faces of her friends.
     She huffed jokingly. "Our pimp won't like this."
     The car came to a stop outside the old-style building fashioned from grey cobblestone with silver metal letterings spelling out: Peter Barde's High School.
     "Our pimp won't find out about that," I winked then handed her a ten. She squealed happily and embraced me for a nice long Isabelle hug - like a bear hug but Isabelle-sized and strawberry-scented. She pulled away happily, stepping out of the car and was soon flanked by her small army of friends.
     I recognized Samuel, a tall boy with golden-brown hair and a pair of chilled blue eyes. He caught my gaze and waved, smiling at me.
     I watched them happily walk away into the old building as they all laughed and joked with each other. And I couldn't help but feel the despicable bubble of jealousy rising in the pit of my stomach while I drove away to the local drama theatre.