Constricted Lies (Unedited and On Hold)

.: Chapter Five - The New Guy :.

~ Well, here's your character, Lindsey. You get to be this popular, drum playing chick :D No, I couldn't form that sentence in a better way.

.: Chapter Five - The New Guy :.

"Alexandriaaaaaaaa," sang the voice of my little sister.

"What?" I grilled, my duvet still over my head.

"Get up! You do know that you're going to school, today, right?" I knew; I just didn't want to get up.

"Mmm."

"I'm counting to three. One." She was not my mum.

"Two." Let her count to three, I didn't care.

"Two and a half." Why bother when you knew that I wasn't getting up?

"Three. Time's up, Alex; I guess I'll have to get you up by myself."

I heard a sound, like something was being pulled along a pole; I vaguely recognised it, but not enough to be able to tell what she was doing.

"Don't say 'I didn't warn you.'" Smugness crept into Lizzie's voice. I did not like that. At all.

Not long after, my duvet was being pulled away and I was blinded by the light that filled my room. Ew, it was way too bright. Without a thought, I instinctively pulled one of my many pillows over my head to block out the light and tried to get back to sleep.

"Ugh, Alex!" She was annoyed... Alex - 1, Lizzie - 1,000,000,000. At least I got a point.

She snatched the pillow off of my head. Poor head. Oh, well. I got another pillow and, this time, I held it down with both of my hands. Lizzie tried to swipe it away from me, again, but my grasp was too strong for hers. Oh, the triumph; another point for me. The pillows around me were evanescing - I could feel it. I didn't really see the point in that while I had my pillow over my head, but I soon found out.

My back was being attacked by soft thingamajigs, which were most likely my missing pillows.

"Ow," I groaned.

In the assault, I had loosened my grip and Lizzie pulled away the two pillows I had and asked, "Ready to get up, now?"

"No... But I will." I wasn't admitting to defeat, I was just being mature... HAH!

Lizzie was standing at the end of my bed, arms crossed. She was wearing a tight-fitting, long, navy blue button down shirt; black jeggings; a bronze coloured bead necklace; and light violet ballet flats with a brown shoulder bag. That was way different from her usual ensemble, which consisted of plaid shirts with singlets, jeans, sneakers or boots and the occasional leather jacket. That in itself was different to what she wore when she was younger: everything had to be pink and girly. Her hair was a mix between golden and dirty blonde and reached down to almost her tail bone with no fringe; now, she had bleached, platinum blonde hair that was shoulder length and had a fringe that curved and reached down past her shoulders. Gone was the innocent, little girl I once knew.

I popped the question. "So why've you bothered dressing up, today?"

"No reason." Liz disregarded the question - that, I could tell, was a façade.

"There's a reason. Is it because people hate your fashion sense?" Now, that was sad, but still, I had to ask.

No response.

"Is it because you've decided that you want a change?"

Still no response.

"Is it because you like a guy and want to impress him?" That seemed plausible enough.