Chapter Two –Lacy: First Day

"The girls that are always easy on the eyes are never easy on the heart."

-Author Unknown

"Shit!" that one words summed up how my day was going to be – I could tell. I struggled to squeeze into the skin-tight skirt that I had planned to wear, wishing I had tried my outfit on beforehand. Perhaps then, I would have avoided this whole situation. "Kaylee? Where the fuck is my tights?" In the semi-lit bedroom, I could see the notable absence of my sheer black tights, their wrapper discarded carelessly on the floor. The paused that followed only aggravated me more and with jerky, aggressive movements, did I finally manage to get my skirt over.

"I'm wearing them."

My hands stilled, my head snapping up to look at the gaping door that led out of my room. "No you're not." I hissed, glaring at the gaping abyss that had yet to frame my sister. "I mean it Kaylee," I warned when she had yet to make an appearance. "You can't keep staying at my place if you're going to nick all my stuff." Distractedly, I fiddled with one of my blouse buttons, whist making my way towards the tiny, box-sized kitchen. I was greeted by the sight of my younger sister, Kaylee, leaning against the worktop, one hand balancing a bowl of sugar-laced cereal, her spoon paused mid-way to her gaping mouth.

"What?" I demanded defensively, when it became apparent that it wasn't my furious look that had somehow managed to prevent the fifteen year old from eating. Her cornflower blue eyes raked over my attire, making me tug self-consciously at my skirt. "You're really going to wear that?" She asked, her face twisting in distaste. "Yes," I snapped, though I suddenly didn't feel as sure of myself. Maybe the leopard print blouse was a bit much? The skirt too tight? "Well," I huffed; brushing past her to start the process of making my morning coffee. "I would look better if I had my tights." Switching on the kettle, I turned to Kaylee. "What happened to your tights?"

Chewing around a mouthful of cornflakes, Kaylee answered "At Mum's." Ire sparked, but I did my best to busy my hands with measuring out a couple of spoonful's of instant coffee and sugar. "I've told you this before – you can't just use all my stuff. Don't you have socks or something?" my fingers drummed impatiently against the worktop, eyeing the kettle critically, chewing against the inside of my cheek to hold back another curse that was just itching to get out. Kaylee gave an audible swallow, her spoon clattering against the bowel, an announcement to say she was finished. "I haven't shaved my legs."

"Either have I!" as if you prove my point, I raised one leg, almost proudly displaying my lack of enthusiasm for razors. "And besides," I added, when I could see she was yet to be convinced. "I have dark hair – you're blonde, mine's more noticeable." The kettle began to whistle, steam rising out from the funnel. "Kaylee, don't mess about. Today's important. I need this job." I watched as my younger sister glared, blue eyes heated as she dropped her bowl forcefully into the sink. If I didn't know our mother, I would believe that it would be Kaylee causing all the problems at home. But then, Kaylee and Mother Dearest were two peas that had the misfortune to share a pod.

Giving an undignified snort, Kaylee rolled her eyes. "Please. Like you need to impress anyone. You're working at some poxy school for some stuck –up kids that wipe their asses with fifty-pound notes." If she saw my reproachful look, Kaylee chose to ignore it. I wanted to argue – really I did – but I couldn't. It was true; I was feeding an education to the elite teenagers of London, most probably with a silver spoon. I didn't like it, my working-class morals made it so, but I needed the job and the pay was beyond what I could imagine. They say a private education is better – for the teacher's bank balance anyway.

"I need this job," I repeated, like a mantra. I just visualised the cheque that would be clearing in my bank account. Kaylee didn't look convinced, but she let the matter drop, which, coming from her, was a sign of approval. I left her in the kitchen to switch on the computer that was a little too old for my liking. As the monitor slowly hummed to life, I had a chance to fiddle with my long dark tresses in the blank screen, the tick black waves need a cut and I made a mental note to book an appointment with the hair dressers the moment my money cleared in my bank.

Once the computer was finally ready for use, I checked my lesson plans, making sure they were all saved on my memory-stick. If I remember my own school years, the first week was always an introductory one. It was a dossing week. When I was absolutely sure that my plans were there, I indulged in having a sneak peek at Facebook. I had a lot of well-wishing from friends, but one stood out from the rest.

Those who can, do. Those who can't? Go off and become a friggin' English private school teacher

- A very wise and ancient proverb

I stared at the screen, a small smile tugging my lips. Out of all the people in the world, Robyn Carter would know what I was feeling. Girls like us don't go to university, but we both did. Girls from our area don't get a respectful job, but we did. Granted, Robyn was still doing her medical training in St Thomas' Hospital but I had every faith in the fact that she would soon become Dr Robyn Cater. We had been through a lot together, more than I cared to remember and both of us bore the scars of our past.

"Bye!" Kaylee's call brought me out of my retrieve, the heavy boom of the front door closing echoing around the now still flat. I frowned for a moment, my mind trying to surface a thought – a reason – why I needed Kaylee. "Fuck." I swore, realising that my legs were still bare. That little bitch. Gritting my teeth, I grabbed my keys, purse and the mammoth size bag that I would now have to be carrying around the halls of Ashbourne Academy, a prestigious secondary and sixth form school for spoilt rich kids that would probably faint at the very notion of actual work. Or maybe I'm letting Kaylee get to me.

I struggled into my heels, a ridiculous six-inch pair which I was perfectly capable of walking in when in the shop, but now they were proving to be much more of a task. In the stupid black satin heels, I made a manic dash out of my flat, consciously aware of the fact that I have yet to shave my legs. Mercifully, there was no one to meet me in the hallway, nor in the lift, but my luck was sure to run out sooner or later.