Kimberly checked the freezer. In it was a McCain's cheese pizza. Perfect. She shoved it in the oven, set the temperature and time, and walked down the stairs to the basement. Once there, she lugged the boom box upstairs. The thing was ancient, but it played CDs, and it worked. She fetched her discs from her room, and popped her Prozzak: Saturday People in, just as the oven timer went off. She shut off the timer, and opened the door. She grabbed the pan, which was, of course, very hot.
"Dear raven dance a dyin'!" She knew quite a few Newfoundland swears, along with French and a few Russian ones. She turned on the cold water, and stuck her fingers under the flow.
As you could probably guess by now, Kimberly Holmes was very accident-prone. Every year of her life, she had had at least one major accident. There was also something else. Kim refused to admit it. She took a woodcarving exploratory just to prove it. Every piece of wood she worked on had dabs of blood on it.
Another thing, she scarred easily.
When she was five, her cousin John had dared her to walk across an old wooden board on the ground. And guess what was sticking up out of it. If you guessed a big freaking rusty nail, you guessed right. She never cried until she took off her shoes and saw the sole of one covered in blood. Then she bawled. As for the tetanus shot, that's a whole other story. To this day, she still had a small red dot of a scar on the bottom of her right foot.
If there was any advantage to it, the girl knew how to use a lot of basic first aid equipment, not only because her mother was a nurse, but also because most of it had been used on her at one time or another.
Back to the pizza. Kim, after letting out a series of heart-filled curses, had enough sense to grab a dish towel, lest she get third degree burn. She grabbed a piece of the pizza, and slapped it onto a plate. The CD player still blaring, she descended, although descended is a pretty gentle term . . . Let's just say she half slid down the steps to the basement making as much noise as humanly possible without the use of illegal gunpowder.
She booted up the ancient computer. She had begged on her knees for her parents to get a new one.
But, like all parents, they just didn't understand the importance of those things. Heck, her father didn't even know how to turn the damn thing on.
MSN's homepage came up.
She typed in her e-mail address, and her password. Five new messages. Junk, junk, stupid newsletter, junk, chain letter.
She deleted the lot of it, and went back upstairs. She popped the Harry Potter movie into the VCR, and flopped on the couch. What better way to kick off the best weekend of her young life than the hottest boy on two legs? Daniel. Yum.
After watching up to Dobby's entrance, and rewinding the part where he says he hasn't had one letter from his friends three times, Kim remembered something. She still had half of her chocolate Easter bunny left in her closet. She galumphed up the stairs louder than Chinese fireworks.
Now, the question you're probably thinking is, who in their right minds would leave a thirteen-year-old home alone for the weekend? And who the hell is Mrs. Morton?
To set the mood for this exclamation, I'll say something we should all be able to relate with.
Kimberly Holmes is a Slytherin.
She's not a bad person, but according to the Sorting Hat, she fits the bill.
If you'd ever had the dismay of playing sports with her, you'd understand. For instance, in a game of handball, she was known to drop to the ground, and press behind the knee of the person who had the ball to make them kneel over. And she fought dirty. Most people know not to pick a fight with Kimberly Holmes. Not because she's tough, but because they'll come out with a face full of scratches, and a lower chance of reproducing. Like I said, she fought dirty.
Anyway, back to Mrs. Morton.
Mrs. Morton was an old lady who lived across the street from the Holmes. She was kind, but about as interesting as a piece of gravel.
Kim's parents had asked her to baby-sit Kim for the weekend. However, on Wednesday, Mrs. Morton had called saying she had to go out of town as her grandson was having surgery on his pancreas.
Kimberly had been the only one home at the time, but swore she'd tell her parents.
It had slipped her mind. Like I said, a mean, green Slytherin.
Now, normally when she stepped into her room, she saw a complete mess. Books strewn everywhere, and clothes thrown randomly on the bed.
However, the main thing that caught her eye was a dark-haired boy around her age standing by the open window.
Her jaw dropped. After a few seconds, she decided that it would be reasonable to say something.
"Who the hell are you, and what the hell are you doing in my bedroom?"
One single word came out of the boy's mouth.
"D'Arvit"
******************************************************
I was going to have these chapters up on Friday, but I got tickets to a concert, and I was too tired on Saturday. Speaking of the concert, can you picture Kim at a French rock show? We had a blast. Vive Le Grand Derangemeat!