A Collection of Short/Long Stories I've Written;

Becoming Ronnie: 5.

Instead of dignifying the question with an answer, I changed the subject. “So… what do we still have left to do?”

“Loads,” she replied.

I rolled my eyes as we walked past a dog walker, “Hello, could you maybe expand your answer?”

“No need,” my sister replied. “We’re at the next stage.”

“Stage?”

My sister turned to look at me, “Yeah, you know. Stage three.”

“What’s stage one?” I asked cautiously.

“Acceptance to change.”

“Okay,” I replied. “Whatever. What’s stage two?”

“Wardrobe.”

“Stage three?”

My sister pointed towards the store we stopped in front of. It happened to be hair-dressers,

“Hair.”

“Are there any other stages?” I asked.

“Yes.”  She answered. “But for now, you’re going to get your hair done.”

“Hello, welcome!” a very young, preppy, brunette greeted us.

She was wearing a floral all in one – or jump suit, according to Demi. She had one at home, but black. The beauty about transformation, into someone new, was that even though I felt like I didn’t fit into Demi’s clique, or something, I already knew certain things to say, some gossip and the names of some of the outfits that people wore.

“Hey,” my sister replied. “Is Chloe in?”

“Chloe?” I asked in disbelief. “As in our Chloe?”

My sister turned to me and lifted an eyebrow. “Yes, Veronica. Chloe, as in our sister, Chloe.”

“She’s having her hair done too?”

“No, Veronica.” My sister replied, giving me a flat look. “She works here?”

“Works here!?” I suddenly realised in shock that my voice had raised considerably and I quietened down. “I mean, really?”

“Yes.” My sister rolled her eyes, “God, Veronica.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled. It wasn’t my fault I didn’t know about Chloe having a job, I never saw her.

After the divorce she’d gone to live with dad, mother didn’t want her around – not after she got pregnant at the age of nineteen. She didn’t want her friends from the company frowning down upon her for her daughter’s un-responsibilities so she was shipped to dad’s while we had to stay in the apartment in Manhattan.

Don’t get me wrong, I love her to pieces, I just don’t get along with my dad very much, to put it bluntly – but in the nicest possible way – my dad thought more about his girlfriends, who were mostly nearly twenty years younger than him than his own children.

“Yes,” the receptionist answered, finally getting a word in edge ways. “Chloe’s out the back. Would you like me to go and get her for you?”

“If you could,” my sister nodded. “Then yes, please.”

The receptionist smiled, “I’ll be right back.”

Moments later, a wavy sea of brown hair came bouncing behind the receptionist.

“Sweetie!” Chloe called, hugging Demi close. “Your appointment isn’t until next Wednesday, what are you doing here?”

Demi pointed to me sheepishly and Chloe, my twenty-five year old sister turned to face me.