Princess? ...I Think Not (1st 3 Chapters)

Chapter One

Forcing one eye open, I squint at the bright light from my phone to find it's almost five in the morning. Why am I awake? Why in the hell—oh. Cereal for dinner, not always a good thing. How could I forget what evil milk does to me? Tucking my phone back in its hiding spot underneath my pillow, I squeeze my legs together as I get out of bed and, with dignity and grace, waddle out of my room, into the hall, to the bathroom I share with a ghost. I share with the dead because, I assume, they're around me, and we never have guests over because I'm freakin' Miss Popularity.

Once all of the pressure is released off my bladder, I dive headfirst back into my bed and roll up like a burrito in my warm blankets. The monsters can't get you if you're wrapped up; my logic as a kid. Traditions never need to end. As I'm drifting into darkness, my hand vibrates. Once, twice.

"Ella," I growl into my feathery best friend, my pillow. "I am not acknowledging you until at least seven!" Ella Clarkson, otherwise known to me as El. We've known each other since we were divas in diapers in preschool. I remember the day like it happened yesterday... A little boy pushed her down on the playground and the teachers didn't do anything. I, in point of fact, heard one of the ignorant beings use the stereotypical, "Oh, he has a little crush. How sweet." The innocent girl in the yellow frou-frou dress cried and stared at him like he was a monster while the kid grinned at her like a serial killer. Full-blown Joker, I tell you. Doesn't it scream how he's getting butterflies whenever she sneezes because it's so freakin' adorable? Since they weren't doing a damned thing, I took matters into my own somewhat-violent hands.

When we went back inside, I used his head for target practice with my blocks. The little futuristic killer lost his smile then, but I found mine. She giggled but said what I did wasn't very nice, I shrugged. We haven't left each other's side since.

Everyone thinks it's strange how we look almost like twins, but we are, nothing alike. Where I'm fire, she's ice, I have a temper; she's calm and cheery. I'm not too social and she's a social butterfly. Where I like junk food, she's a health nut. Where I find myself most comfortable in gothic stuff—I love the dark and unusual fashion sense, feel very weird without my combat boots— you'll find her wearing Toms or sparkly flats with feminine, flowery dresses, or skirts. If it has bright colors, she'll wear it.

You get where I'm going with this, but the main example is she likes to wake up before the roosters next door do and I'm a night owl, or vampire, who likes to sleep until noon. I am not a morning person. I will terminate your existence for disturbing me, but the guilt sets in and I peel that lid open again.

Wake up already

I'm boreeeddddd

I miss u BFF... Wakey-wakey!

I intend to reply, but the welcoming, peaceful darkness embraces me with open arms again.

More sunlight peeks around the black curtains covering the window. Through the bleariness, I check my phone again and notice more texts. I'll respond later. I slide it back under my pillow. It's just 7:05 a.m....hi ho, hi ho, back to sleep I go. Shut up, Baily.

Hold up. 7-oh- what?

My eyes spring open, I recheck my phone, and the blankets soar through the air as I shoot out of the bed, sheets still twisted around me. Running into the bathroom, as much as you can run with bedding still on you, I sling the clingy bastards on the floor and strip in such a rush I barely notice I'm missing one sock. I realize this as I keep trying to get the damned thing off but keep scraping my bare foot.

I'm such a nerd that needeth coffee.

I take one of the quickest showers of my life and run back into my room buck naked. Throwing on random clothes, I snatch up the boots I discarded on the floor the night before and grab my bag and brush then rush out of the door and to my car, Balthazar. Which is my dad's old, matte-black Mustang with a T-top. It's about ready to fall apart, but it's all mine. My baby. My Balthazar. I usually take it easy on him. Not today. The tires squeal as I peel out of the driveway, and I take the time to yank a brush through my hair at red lights.