smother me - r. weasley

one - mashed peas and letters

one

            The breakfast table was calm. Isla, her gurgling, gum-mouthed little sister had yet to hurl her tray over and splatter the back wall with mashed peas and carrots, her father was still at the table instead of looking for a pesky misplaced sock five minutes before rush hour hit, and her mother stood over the stove, gaze cutting between the sizzling bacon and the toddler who looked like a swamp monster, covered in muted green mess. Fernie almost forgot that she'd have to worry about school in a few weeks amongst all the peace.

The windows were still latched tight, and the air conditioning still blasted like a howling wolf from the vents, the sweltering summer heat didn't get the school memo. It was record highs according to the weatherman, who stood on the small buzzing television, balanced dangerously on the edge of the breakfast counter, the cord pulled tight and tense from the outlet.

It hadn't moved since Fernie was born, she doubted that today was the day that some mysterious breeze would tip it off.

            "So," her mother hummed, approaching the group with a still-hot pan of grease and breakfast meat. "We already got your uniform, and you're sure that you got all the materials? I don't want another black shoes situation," Her voice was stern, and tinged with frustrations.

The past years, prepping for school was a chore. To this day, Fernie could've sworn on her life that they bought black shoes last year. They squeaked and pinched her toes. But, when she was told to stand in front of the class, Ms. Marie, the absolute troll, swatted them with a yardstick, and told her to look down. To her surprise, and her mother, who had to drive there with new shoes, they were no longer the black shine, but instead they were purple, the color bright and the color of an artificial lolly-pop.

The very color lollypop that Fernie was thinking about buying from the vending machine after class.

Her mother accused her of returning the pair and buying these the day before, when Fernie went out with some neighborhood girls to the shops. She denied it to this day, insisting that all she did with them was watch Francine McDonald get herself caught in a detector after trying to shove a shirt down her pants and walk out without paying. The floral jumper made it look like she had a diaper on.

            She curled a runaway hair around her finger in annoyance. "Yes Ma, I know." She drawled in response, watching the glint of red show in the sun from the window amongst the dark brown of the rest of her hair. It was like she had rust in the curls. She hated it.

Her face was schooled in disinterest. Her mother never believed the fluke. She had little patience. Her face, almost a mirror of Fernie, was always pinched and cold. It was such a difference. Fernie was brighter, face rounder, cheeks flushed and squishy, at eleven should be. Her eyes, an echo of her mother's, gleaming hazel in place of her mother's closed off stare. Even her hair, texture from her father, wilder and uncontrolled in curls, the same auburn, and yet her mother's was always held back, secure and unchanging.

Fernie couldn't help but let her mind wander. There were other occurrences, like when Isla's mobile, the repetitive song driving Fernie mad as she tried to study one night suddenly stopped, and was found in pieces next to her little sister's pram. The music was no more. The time when her grandmother made her wear the ugliest jumper, with neon pomp-pomps glued to the front suddenly shrunk, to the point where it wouldn't even fit a doll.

None of these situations, as her mother labeled them, were thought of after twenty-four hours.

The sound of the mail echoed over the weatherman's voice, interrupting the normality of the morning. Her father, face smudged with raspberry jam and his tie tucked too loosely, bumbling and uncoordinated, went to the slot and took the stack. His fingers were already flitting through it. His eyes narrowed at bills, crumpled up trashy coupon books and junk papers, the last envelope staring up at him.