Beep. Beep. Beep. Bee— I groan as I fumble with my phone, not even bothering to open my eyes while I blindly search for the snooze button. The light is too bright.
Just then, furry paws step on my face. I squint, already knowing who it is.
Sometimes I question if he actually loves me like I love him.
Probably not.
Opening my eyes, I lay there, wanting to get up but unable to get myself to leave the comfortableness of my bedsheets. I zone out, staring at the ceiling mindlessly.
Damn, I should really clean those cobwebs.
My eyes leave the corner of the ceiling.
Nah.
At last, I roll my body to the side, ready to get up. A pair of glowing yellowish orange eyes stares straight back at me.
I almost yelp. I swear my soul threatened to leave my body.
Lucifer wears a nonchalant expression and just keeps watching me, his gray fluffy tail swishing behind him.
I scowl. Why does this feel so familiar?
I choose to put an end to this stupid staring contest I've always lost and start getting ready for school instead.
I drag myself to the bathroom and look in the mirror. A girl with bed hair and puffy eyes looks at me back.
Nope, don't know her.
Putting my hair up in a bun, I begin my daily morning routine.
_
With my hands occupied with fastening the last button on my uniform, I walk to the kitchen. The smell of toast immediately greets my nose, making me salivate.
"Good morning, Mama." I greet her cheerfully and she turns around, hands still occupied with scrambling eggs.
She gives me a look, and I already knew the words about to spill from her lips before she parts them.
"Why are you up so late today? It's 7.30 already. You woke up later than your brother." She tsks and returns to turning off the stove. Reece chuckles from his seat. I stick my finger up to him, scowling.
I went to bed at 11 yesterday, all because of this prick. He refused to give me back my diary, telling me I had to go find it myself. I searched far and wide for it. The mailbox, the fridge, some bushes; I even dug up some places where I felt suspicious of in our yard. That earned a scolding from my mom and some 'what the fuck is she doing' looks from passerby. All while Reece peered down at me from where he stood in his room while he munched on the chocolate I got, looking clearly amused by the scene before him.
In my final attempt, I pinched my nose, gathered all my willpower and shuffled through the dirty pile of laundry, where I spotted it's shiny black cover at the very bottom.
And the last time I checked, which was this morning, it still fucking stinks.
"Ma, she just showed me her middle finger!" He feigns a pout, trying to look like a sad puppy.
I cringe. What a snitch!
"No, it was my ring finger!" I retort in my defense.
"What you mean behind it is literally the sa—mfthngd" A piece of toast is put in my mouth and a hand is pulling on my shirt. Before I even had time to register what happened, I end up outside on our door step.
Two backpacks are thrown at my feet and I glance up at the entrance to see my mother wiping imaginary dust off her hands.
I look at her, confused.
"Please," She gestures to the both of us "continue."
The slam of the door breaks me out of my trance.
I turn my head to my brother, who is right next to me. We both stare at each other with toasts in our mouths, looking just as dumb-founded.
-
As I slouch in class, I can't help but feel an overwhelming sense of dread counting down the minutes that refused to pass quickly enough. It wasn't just the monotonous subject matter or the seemingly endless series of conjugation drills—no, the true source of my misery was seated right in front of me: Mr. Alexandre Dubois, my French teacher.
He definitely has the looks, I'll admit. Long dark brown hair, thick eyebrows which frames his forest green eyes, a chiseled face, strong jawline and a fit physique. I would've considered the man a real eye candy if I hadn't known he was the epitome of strictness, with a side of sternness and a complete absence of any humor.
As Mr. Dubois begins his lesson, his voice droning on like a lullaby that threatens to push me into a deep slumber, I accidentally knock over my pencil case, causing an eruption of metallic crashes. The noise seems to jolt Mr. Dubois from his teaching stupor, and his gaze locks onto mine.
I shrink in my seat, feeling the weight of his disapproval pulsate through the room—an invisible forcefield of disdain that only seemed to target me. It is as though my existence is an affront to his very being.
"What on earth is going on back there, Miss Aliza?" Mr. Dubois barks, his voice dripping with annoyance. "Could you not create such a cacophony of sound in the midst of an otherwise harmonious classroom?"
I slump lower in my seat, my face burning bright red as the rest of the class turn their attention to me. I swear I heard a snicker from the back. Humiliation courses through my veins like a cocktail of embarrassment and anger.
What does cacophony even mean anyway?
"I'm sorry, Mr. Dubois," I mumble, my voice barely audible, and I inwardly curse at how pathetic I sound. The class remains silent, only adding to my discomfort.
Why does everything have to be so difficult with him?
He sighs, the tension in his rigid posture loosening ever so slightly, and continues scribbling French sentences on the board.
What is up with this guy? What have I ever done to him? I bend down to retrieve the pens scattered across the school tiles, trying to make as little noise as possible as I place them back in their case.
As I pull myself upright, my chair is kicked. I turn around to face no other than Logan. Running his fingers through his blond locks, a smug look is plastered across his features.
I sneer. If only I could stick two pens up his nostrils right no—
"Mademoiselle Aliza, quelle est votre réponse à cette question sur le tableau?" "Ms. Aliza, what is your response to the question on the board?" Mr. Dubois looks my way, his steely gaze seems to bore into my soul.
"Huh" I unintentionally let out, causing the class to erupt into laughter. He raises a hand, silencing them.
I am met with an icy stare from Mr. Dubois, sending a shiver down my spine. "Répond a cette question." "Answer the question." He draws out, tapping his maker on the board to every word as if he's trying to get his point across to a four year old. It makes me want to cast a hostile look his way.
I don't remember manifesting so many assholes into my life?
I blurt out what I thought was the correct answer. "Je m'appelle Aliza, et j'aime les natsuses au prainteps...?" I announce, my voice unintentionally resembling a wounded sloth.
The entire class bursts into laughter, and rightfully so. Natsuses au prainteps? What kind of madness had possessed me?
I frantically attempted to correct myself, mumbling something about spring and flowers—or at least that's what I had meant to say.
Mr. Dubois brings his hand to his face, as if masking his disbelief, and the laughter intensifies. "Aliza, les natsuses au prainteps?" he says, eyebrows raised so high they could have ignited a satellite.
Gosh, I just wanna crawl into a hole and die.
He stands there with his hands on his hips, supporting his weight on one leg and throws his head back with his eyes closed. It's like he's in a silent prayer, or taking a breather.
The class calms down, leaving the atmosphere in apprehension and I await for what comes next.
But all he does is run his fingers through his hair and sigh. His gaze bores back into mine, silently telling me what a disappointment I am, and I get the message. And although I am at the midst of bawling my eyes out, I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
It's as if he can tell when he squints his eyes ever so slightly.
The tension is very thick.
To my relief, he averts his eyes back to the board and continues babbling on with his lesson. I release the breath I didn't realise I was holding. I don't know if I could withstand that eye-contact for any longer.
Yet another snicker is sound behind me. This time, I already knew who it is but I don't bother with 'it'.
I sag my shoulders and rest my cheek on my fist, pretending to be present in the lesson. In reality, I have no clue what he is saying, as every word that comes out of his mouth is French. I would have found his deep and stern voice sexy, especially when spoken in French, if he wasn't such pain in my ass.
As the class came to an end, I gather my things, trying to move as subtly but quickly as possible so the Devil himself comfortably seated in front does not take notice of me.
I quietly start to head for exit.
Almost there girl, almost there...
"Aliza," The voice I prayed not to hear calls for me. I freeze.
"Stay, I need to talk to you." Shit.
I glance back. He doesn't even bother to look at me and continues typing away on his keyboard.
I am just one step away from the Devil right now, and I'm sure as hell not going to give away this opportuni—
"Don't even think about it." He peers at me, daring me to take that step. I do not want my mother to be receiving an email from him again, and he knows that.
I let out a long sigh. This day couldn't get any better.
_______________
I got you with the chapter title, didn't I?