Cream of Tartar

Chapter 1: Bad Beginnings

I woke up and pushed the 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets off of my queen-sized bed. Ugh, I was so not going to miss living in this squalor.

"Get up you ungrateful child!" My mum screamed at me from downstairs. I roll my eyes really hard and get dressed for the day in my cute off the shoulder t-shirt and my long, modest skirt, that screams I'm-not-like-other-girls. I take a quick peek in the mirror - but not for too long like a totally vain person. I take in my bland, sparkling hazel-blue-green eyes, a dusting of ugly freckles on my nose, my disgusting full, heart-shaped lips, my long and luscious but totally boring chestnut hair, and my hideous tall, toned, and tanned body that could rival any Victoria Secret model's. I sigh. It was hard being this ugly. I skip down the stairs and sprint as quickly as a cheetah - the fastest land animal - to the table of my very humble but hugely spacious dining room, complete with three crystal chandeliers. The butler places a giant plate in front of me, loaded with my favourite breakfast foods; rice bubbles and truffles.

"Don't forget we're leaving at 6:30 on the dot and you'd better change that shirt before I see you again, you harlot. You want to look your best for your big day, not like a sewer rat that's been dragged through the garbage."

I roll my eyes again, hard. My mother is controlling - she wants everything to be a certain way. She's been like this since my dad left. In fact, she must have been this way before he left...and that's probably the reason why he left. Shrugging, I go back to tucking into breakfast, humming softly as I do so. Mmm rice bubbles.

I've almost finished eating my truffles when my mother sits down opposite me. Can't a girl eat breakfast in peace?

"Now that you're moving away from home," she sniffles, "I think it's time that you and I had...the talk."

"Gross Mom, I'm trying to eat," I groan.

"And I'm trying to educate my only daughter before she leaves the nest and I'm left all alone," she says as a single tear slides down her face.

"Ugh, can't you just do it later?"

"No Ceram, you and I, we're running out of time together," she looks away.

"Oh my god you're dying?! Why? From what? How long have you known? Why did you keep this from me?" I ask in rapid succession.

"We're all dying, Cearm, every 24 hours we get one day closer to our untimely deaths," she smiles sadly.

"Yeah I know, but are you, like, dying in the immediate future?"

"Who's to say when our number will be up, besides the Flying Spaghetti Monster, of course."

"Can you please stop speaking in ominous pearls of wisdom for a second and tell me what terminal disease you have?"

"I'm not sick," she finally admits.

"Then why did you say that our time was running out?!"

"Because we're leaving at 6:30 and it is now 6:10, you absolute dimwit. We are running out of time to have the talk."

"Oh," I say dumbly.

"Now that that's been cleared up, it's high time that I tell you about something now that you're a big girl; I've been lying to you your whole life."

"Yeah, yeah. I know babies don't come from a stork when mommies and daddies love each other very much."

"What are you talking about Cream? Human reproduction is not the tiniest bit relevant to "the talk" and frankly I think it is inappropriate for you to be discussing such topics with your mother."

"Um okay?" I say, very confused by what is happening.

"The TTORC or Time To Officially Ruin Christmas is an important conversation every parent has with their child when they reach an appropriate age, such as 18," she takes a deep breath, "This is harder to say than I anticipated."

"Just tell me! The suspense is literally going to kill me."

"Santaisn'treal," she says as quickly as a pronghorn antelope - the second fastest land animal - runs.

"Huh?"

"Santa isn't real," she whispers.

"I can't hear you!" I shout.

"Santa. Isn't. Real." she bellows before clasping a hand over her mouth.

"What?!" I push my plate away, suddenly losing my appetite.

"Santa isn't real."

"I heard you the third time," I snap, "I-I just, I can't," I sob as I leap from my chair and dash up the stairs as quickly as a blue wildebeest - the third fastest land animal. I flop onto my queen bed and cry into one of my 70 decorative pillows.

A few minutes later there is a gentle knock on the door, "Crema?" I don't reply. "Cemar?" I still don't reply. "I think we should talk after our little conversation."

I don't want to talk to her. In fact, if an elderly obese man doesn't actually come down the chimney every year and give me the toys I asked for when I sat on his lap and whispered all the naughty things I had done in his ear, I don't think I want to do literally anything ever again!

"Camer, I know you're upset but I just wanted to say one thing, "Change your shirt otherwise you'll look like a hoe hoe hoe."

A fountain of tears leak from my eyes, my emotions still raw from the festive betrayal. It was too soon for a Christmas-related pun and she knew it!

By 6:30, the car is packed and ready to go and I'm still wearing the same shirt. My mother shoots me a withering look but doesn't comment - she 'doesn't like to make a scene' in front of the butler even though he's clearly out of earshot and stopped caring about 15 years ago. 3 hours stuck in the car with this angry woman - how fun.

I fall asleep somewhere between the 1 hour and 10 minute and 1 hour and 25 minute mark, tired of listening to her incessant droning about how first impressions matter as if anything bad will ever happen today.