In the Shade of Groves [COMPLETE]

Chapter 1

*Some chapters will come with songs that I think go with the chapter, here's the first: Paint by the Paper Kites*

Here I am again. The bottom of a ten-foot pool and a blinding white light glows from the surface. It's as if there is no air in my lungs and no matter how much I flail my arms I can't seem to bring myself up. I try to open my eyes wider to see the source of the light but I only manage to squint. There's a noise from far away that I can just barely hear. Suddenly it feels as though I have to swim to the top or I'll drown. I'm acutely aware of my lack of air and I vainly thrash my arms. No matter what I do I'm glued to the bottom of the pool and the sound gets louder.

I slowly blink my eyes open until I can make out the fuzzy image of my room. Walls that are way too pink for someone my age. A tray ceiling with a white base studded by blue, pink and yellow polka dots. I'm not sure what age my parents decorated my bedroom. I say parents but I really mean my mother. There is not a single corner of this house that has not been touched by her artistic whim. Over the years, the house changed themes from Zen, traditional, mid-century modern and rustic. For now, the theme is white and chrome. Except, of course, for my bedroom, which is pink.

I reach for my phone and shut off the alarm, 6 a.m. School doesn't start until 8:05 on the dot, but my mother insists I wake up in enough time to look "presentable" as she so lovingly puts it. By that she means well-groomed hair, generously applied but natural looking makeup, and a well-planned outfit.

When I get over to the full-length mirror, I sigh. So much work to be done and only an hour to do it all. If it were up to me, I'd run a brush through my hair, put a little concealer on that patch of acne under my chin I can't seem to get a handle on, add some mascara and call it a day. If I went downstairs looking like that my mother would ask me if I was feeling ill and insist on checking my temperature. She never so much as crosses the threshold of her bedroom without ensuring every dark circle is covered and stray hair is sprayed and tucked. She expects no less of me.

Sitting in front of the mirror, I begin brushing my flat and somewhat dull-looking brown hair. It's been at least three weeks since I've been to the salon to have it dyed a rich dark brown. The hair dye wasn't my idea. At age 15 my mother decided my hair color needed some livening up.

I twist my hair around the iron, careful not to burn my fingers, as I've done hundreds of times, and brush through them for a more natural look. Though nothing about my look is natural. After I'm satisfied with my hair, I move on to the bigger task of my face. My skin has a pretty even tone except for some errant acne scars. I remember the week it broke out; I think my mother was more mortified than I was. She took me to a dermatologist who told her it was normal for someone my age, to which she replied, "we'll be getting a second opinion". For her, it probably was unnatural considering she has never had a single blemish. After months of different soaps and creams, the breakout eventually died down, but the scars remained. Now, I have to use a fair amount of concealer and foundation to cover it but after several applications it's almost as if it doesn't exist. I don't bother much with my eyebrows because of how thick they are. Except for when my mother pulls out a magnifying glass and inspects them. On the occasion she does find one out of place, she comments on how lucky I am she found it before someone in school noticed my unibrow.

After poking, prodding and plucking, I go to my closet to find a preplanned outfit. It's a medium-length black skirt with a green V-neck long-sleeve shirt that has buttons going down the middle. I have to wear stockings under the skirt because it's January and 24 degrees outside. I wedge my feet into two-inch black leather ankle boots that are a half size too small for me. My mother insists no girl my age should be a size 9.5. The blisters and sores on my feet might argue otherwise. Overall, the outfit is not something I would pick for myself, but my mother gets final approval on all outfits before I leave the house. I take one last look and let out a deep breath.