Writing this for a school project, thought I might put it up here too. The teacher has us doing it rather slow though so I won't be frequently updating. YES I know it's probably very cliche. I don't really care for your hate.
Disclaimer- I own NOTHING
Kayla-Marie Allen walked slowly down the broken LA sidewalk. The streets were covered with filth, litter and robbers just waiting for an unsuspecting target to walk into an ally alone only to find their purse or wallet taken from them. She navigated the streets well, having a clenched fist in her pocket out of habit. The one thing she learned from 18 years in the city was that she couldn’t trust anyone, she was left with the extreme paranoia that she would get jumped. Thankfully for her, nothing did happen on the trek home from her high school.
“Two more weeks of school Kay, And tomorrow you turn 18.” Mrs. Allen chimed as she walked through the door.
“I know mom.” She replied quickly escaping to her “room.” Her room was actually just a corner of the family room with a futon and a suitcase full of clothes. She lied down on her ‘bed’ and smiled pulling out an old Margaret Peterson Haddix book. She let the tale consume her in a medieval land, a take on Cinderella. A book called “Just Ella.” She didn’t realise how much time had actually passed until her little brother, Casey, called her into the cramped kitchen for dinner.
“Hello family.” She said slightly sarcastically.
“Hi Kayla.” Colin said. He was the only one that said anything to her. She was given murmurs from her parents and nothing from Casey, he and Kayla didn’t really get along. Kayla only had genuine social interaction with Colin and her friends. Her mother was always optimistic and acted as though there were no cares in the entire world. Her father wasn’t around half the time and the other half he didn’t even interact with her. A grunt was an accomplishment from him. Kayla scanned her eyes over her family, she didn’t see any relation at all. Her father was the closest to looking like her, sharing an almond eye shape, but other than that they were different. Her mother had green eyes and curly blonde hair, a petite figure and a beach tanned skin. Her brothers and father all had blue eyes and wavy blonde hair. They had broad shoulders and were over 6 feet.
Kayla had naturally straight hair the color of a Hershey’s bar. She dyed it black because she thought it looked better with her pale skin. She was 5’8” with a less petite figure. She wasn’t particularly pretty but not ugly either. She would have made a handsome male. Kayla had hazel-green eyes that were shadowed by her heavy brow. She had almost a heart shaped chin but it was flat where the point would be. Kayla’s unique set of features was completed by her long nose and thin lips. Genetics allowed her to look this different from her family but it was unlikely seeing as she also didn’t look like her grandparents.
Kayla finished her food and excused herself to finish her homework. The rest of her day was uneventful, she slept well on her futon happy for her to finally turn eighteen.
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Kayla opened her eyes to find the sunlight shining directly on her eyes. She groaned loudly and rolled over.
"Happy Birthday!" Her mother called enthusiastically from the kitchen.
"Thanks." She said tiredly. She got up and got changed into a pair of grey jeans, an old plain black T-shirt. She put her dark hair into a messy pony tail and walked grabbed an old pair of knock-off converse. (A/N remember her family is poor so she really wouldn't be able to afford nice converses or band merch.) She walked into the kitchen rubbing her eyes.
"Good morning." She yawned to her mom and brothers who were getting ready for school.
"I have a present to show you before you go to school." Her mom said.
"Thanks mom but I really don't-"
Her mom cut her off by handing her a piece of paper.
Kayla looked down at her birth certificate. "Why would you give me-? Oh."
The birth certificate had three words in the center but they weren't Kayla-Marie Allen. It read Kayla-Marie Way.
It probably sucks, I'm up for constructive criticism. Don't hate or I will murder you.
