One.

I creep past the closed door of Mum's bedroom, hooking my fingers into her lipstick-bright heels. She won't be needing them. The amount of time she spends on her back, I'm surprised she bothers spending the little money we have on clothes and shoes at all.

I'm quiet as I can be, leaning on the front door until I hear the click. Not because I'm not allowed out—I can do what I want. But because I want to avoid the fake maternal bonding she tries on like an ill-fitting fur coat when it's least needed.

I lean over the side of our level, spotting the rusty-once-blue Ford Fiesta puffing smoke like frosty breath six floors below. I ignore the disgusting lifts and race down the graffiti-coated stairwells.

Sam is always on time. He knows no one wants to hang around Raleigh Hills after dark. I rap on the window, and he leans over and pulls up the lock that hasn't worked since 1983. A sickly cloud of weed and tropical air freshener swallows me as I get in.

I take the spliff from his hand, balancing it in my mouth while I swap my ratty pumps for the heels.

"Where to, my lady?" He grins, saluting me then shoving the gearstick into first.

"Shut up, Sam. Just get out of here."

"Alright, alright. Jesus. Keep your knickers on."

I glare at him.

"Well, at least until we get there. They won't last long when Ben sees you in that dress."

I don't rise to him, half guessing he's right, tugging down the star covered cotton. "Can we get a move on, please?"

He puts on his toffee, penny farthing voice to wind me up. "Manners like that in a place like this? Well I never."

I blow a cloud of smoke toward him. That anyone could manage to survive this place with their head screwed on straight is something I think about, and doubt, daily. "It's not all about where you're brought up."

"No? What is it then? Who you fuck?"

I hold the burning joint millimeters from his precious interior.

"Okay okay, shit, B. Not the car. Anything but the car." He shuts up and pulls out of the estate I call hell or home depending on the day.

I switch off the shitty house music he's listening to and rummage around in the overflowing glove compartment for a decent tape. I find an abused copy of the Stone Roses stuck between a sticky Wham bar and an out-of-date tax disk.

"She Bangs the Drums" trails out our open windows as we head over to the house party. The first one since school started, and I'm ready to get wasted.

AN: SM owns Twilight, The Stone Roses own this girl who bangs their drums. A little writing exercise set in my world.