I know this is a pretty long chapter, just like I know how some of you might find it boring. But I promise it’ll be worth your time. I absolutely, 100% promise. Just stick with it until the end. :)
Mom hates when I sit on the roof. She says it’s dangerous and that eventually I’m going to tumble down the side and fall to an oh so depressing death. I’m sure Mom wouldn’t mind if I did end up dying - it would be one less pain for her to deal with. She’s got enough to deal with already without my constant nagging about stupid teenage girl things. But even though I know she’s tired of telling me things I shouldn’t do, I’m sitting on the roof.
I started sitting on the roof when I was ten because I could finally be independent and do things without constant parent permission. There’s power in double digits and I took advantage of it by hopping through my window and sitting down. My house dips right near my window - incredibly convenient, if you ask me - and I come out here as much as I possibly can.
My favorite time is the morning when the sky is painted that perfect orange color mixed with a little bit of night time darkness. I would watch it at night but sitting outside in the partial darkness really didn’t work for me.
“Alice, you better get off that roof now,” Mom says to me. I turn and prop my arms up on the windowsill, sliding my body closer to the outer wall.
“Why?” I ask and look at her. She leans against my door frame and raises a perfectly tweezed eyebrow. I hear from people all the time that Mom is the coolest adult and I agree but she’s still my mom and that’s weird to admit to.
“You’re going to fall.” She tells me and gestures outside. “It’s dangerous.”
“It’s not dangerous,” I reply and stand up so she can only see up to my waist through the window. “See? It’s flat. I’m perfectly fine.”
“You’re going to slip and fall one day and I’m not going to feel sorry for you.” Mom sighs. We’ve been through this conversation more times than I can remember. It’s surprisingly not getting repetitive, even though know exactly what she’s going to say next.
“Right,” I say and sit back down, crossing my legs Indian style. “Can I get a haircut soon? My split ends are freaking ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” Mom replies and I know she’ll keep saying that until she wants to actually organize an appointment. With my mom it’s the same thing every day, every time. She doesn’t change up what she says much.
“Please?” I ask. “I really, really need it. I’ll absolutely die if I have to walk out in school with my hair like this,” I groan and fold my brown hair up through my fingers to show her the ends.
“Oh the angst,” Mom says and puts a hand to her forehead dramatically. Mom says and turns to walk away from my door but stops. “And get off the roof. You only have a few minutes to get ready before you have to eat and head out for school.”