Chapter One - It Is NOT A School For Smart Lesbians

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҉ Chapter One – It Is NOT A School for Smart Lesbians ҉

    Why? Why couldn’t it be a Saturday?

    When my alarm went off on my phone on that fateful Monday morning, I scowled and tried to unlock the dreadful device with my sleep-deprived fingers. When the bloody phone wouldn’t accept my first four tries at the pattern, I growled and almost threw the fucking thing at the opposite wall, but I stopped myself in time. If I broke this phone out of rage or stupidity (that was how my last three phones had to be replaced), I wouldn’t get a new one until I graduated from university, unless, of course, I bought one and paid for it with my own money. No way in hell was I doing that. Finally, the bloody thing stopped ringing and I yawned, whilst proceeding to leave my bed.

    Unfortunately, when I leave my bed, I don’t leave looking like the models do in adverts - I wake up in the foulest of moods: never EVER wake up a member of the Nathan family early unless you want to become famous. On the news. For being found dead in a slaughterhouse. We aren’t the most attractive at that moment; we, I especially, roll out of bed and land on the floor with a grunt that sounds like a pig was stepped on; and then I proceed to stomp towards the wardrobe at the end of the room. Why the fuck did I put it there? Anyway, I spent around 2 whole minutes searching for matching underwear before realizing that everything was matched up anyway. What the fuck. With this knowledge, and a string of my usual waking-up-for-school-so-bloody-early curses, I plodded towards my en suite. I KNOW!!! I HAVE MY OWN TOILET! Even after living here for 8 years, I still can’t get over that.

    Unlike most stereotypicalised American girls I have read in several Wattpad books, I do not spend 5 minutes in the shower and then skip out of the shower/bath/washroom on my way to hell which is American high school (where i don't understand which grade you are in if you are in Year 11). Because, believe it or not, I like my school, because I have awesome friends and it's fun. I spend, shamefully, 20 minutes in the shower, and spend another 10 minutes afterwards trying to dry my thick brown hair. I guess I have pretty nice hair, but the price of of having nice hair, is having to wake up at 06:45 am. And when the devil comes to visit in a red dress, knocking at a particular door which bleeds for one week a month, waking up at this time can be distressing. But not as distressing as I look when I come out of the shower - I look like Frankenstein's monster's WIFE: hair madly tangled, racoon eyes from the kohl that had not come off properly the day bafore, and i look almost dead. It's not fair.

    After dressed in a shirt-crop-top-thing and pyjama bottoms at the typical time of 07:10, I headed downstairs. I wouldn’t have dared to do this around 6 and half years ago, but 6 and a half years ago my dad didn’t run off with his secretary to live in the Bahamas or some shitty place or other. Fucking cliché, don’t you think? Walking downstairs, I notice one of my button-up painter’s smocks (I took up painting for a while before realising I was shit at it) and so I put it on. You never know, my aunt could’ve asked the postman dude for a cup of tea or coffee. She’s kinda peculiar like that since… well.

 "Buongiorno, Janice zia!” Good morning, Aunt Janice!

 My mum and her sister - Janice - learnt how to speak Italian at their high school, and so they taught it to me and my older sister so we can talk about people behind their backs in a language they don’t understand. Handy, if you think about it.

“Buenos días, cariño,” she replied. I groaned; I did not like speaking in Spanish at all.

“Spanish is a last resort, Jenny. You know that,” I stated, pouring myself a bowl of ‘Cheerio’s’. Pop Tarts, Pop Tarts… what the hell are they? I swear they’re not even that healthy. My friend went to visit her newly-wed aunt in America, and tasted one, and then told me they were disgusting.

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