Started With a Lie

Chapter One

Started With a Lie – Chapter One

 “Hey, Ivory, can you pass the orange juice?” Mom asks me, her hand outstretched.

“Here,” I say, passing her the container of orange juice. I continue to eat my cereal, but steal a glance at her.

I can never get over how she looks almost exactly like me—except a little older and a few more gray streaks in her hair. Her face has some paint splattered on it, and the apron she wears all the time has the fresh smell of paint. 

            My mom’s an artist.

            She spends ninety percent of the day in her studio—working on new masterpieces to help pay off the bills. Of course, I have a job too. I won’t let Mom do all the work. Especially not after my Dad passed away a couple years ago. Since then, all the bills have been weighed on her shoulders. But since I’m seventeen now, I can help her with a part-time job of my own.

            I’m proud of my Mom. She was strong even when my father passed away.

            She smiles at me and finishes her toast. After breakfast, she’ll probably go back to her studio. She only comes out for meals, or if I was home and needed her for something.

            I’m cool with it though. Mom loves what she does. Her green eyes—the same ones I inherited— twinkle whenever she is in her studio. If my Mom is happy, I am too.

            “So, isn’t today the first day of senior year?” she asks me, taking a sip of her orange juice. A golden curl of her hair falls out from her bun. She pushes it behind her ear. “Are you nervous?”

            “Yes, and yes,” I respond. I take a spoonful of my cereal and stare at it. My stomach really isn’t helping. It’s all jittery. It happens every time I get nervous. “Do you think I’ll be okay?”

            “Honey, you’ve survived the last three years—you can do it again.”

            “But this is my last year and I’m really nervous,” I tell her. Also because of all the drama last year, I secretly add.  

            She reaches over the table and pats my hand. “You’ll do fine.” Mom looks at her watch. “Look at the time! You’re going to be late!”

            I grab all my belongings—my backpack, sweater, and phone. I run from the kitchen to the living room of our small two-story home and slip on my sneakers. There is a small mirror next to the door that Mom had put so we could see if we look okay before we head out. It’s mostly because Mom forgets she has been working in her studio and has paint all over her.

            Since it is the first day, I am wearing a new top and a fresh pair of jeans that I bought on my mini-shopping spree when I had saved enough money over the summer. My frizzy, uncontrollable dirty blonde—almost brown—hair is straightened completely. But, no matter how much I try, my sea green eyes pop out compared to my pale—tan much needed—skin.

            “Bye, Mom!” I yell as I open the front door. “Don’t loose track of time and forget to each lunch!” Sometimes, I would come home and find Mom dazed in her work—just as I’d left her in the morning.

            “I won’t!” she yells back. “Have fun at school!”

            I close the door. Like having fun at school is even possible, I think as I lock the door. The air is chilly and the wind is blowing leaves off the trees in the front yard. I escape to the safety of my Honda Civic. Autumn is already starting.