Emilia
"Mum? What's wrong?" I whispered.
She turns around so that she isn't facing me. It'll be easier for her this way. She probably hopes that I hadn't seen her crying. She would rather give up our house than let anyone see her cry, I don't know where her pride got lost, because I certainly don't have it, and my little sister cries all the time, granted she might only be two years old, but still, she cries a lot.
"You know damn well what's wrong." She snapped, going from crying to raging in a millisecond.
I stood there silently watching my mothers' back. I don't want to admit to anything in case it isn't what she's talking about. Why would she be so upset because I missed a couple hours of school?
"I don't know what you're talking about, Mum"
"Yes you do. Don't stand there and lie to me. You skipped school. After all of the sacrifices me and your father have made to get you into that school, you go and blow it all away! Is this school a joke to you? You know that they're looking for a reason to kick you out." I wish I could see her face, to know what she's feeling.
I tried to find the strength to talk as a large lump welled up in my throat, "Mum, it wasn't my fault!" I cried, but it barely sounded more than a hoarse whisper.
She spun round to face me, her eyes wild with rage. She took a second before she was about to lecture me. But a second was all it took to take in my bruised face, my swollen lips and my black eye. She gasped loudly.
"Oh my god" she whispered before she ran over to envelop me in a huge hug.
I knew that I was going to have to tell her everything, there was no point in lying about it. Tears started to flow down her cheeks and before I knew it we were both crying our eyes out in the middle of our kitchen.
I stared down at my hands, looking at the finger that I had coloured in earlier today. It seemed like a lifetime ago. The colour had faded and smudged to a sort of deep caramel colour. They'd liked that. Those girls. When they saw my hand they laughed at me and kicked me harder, if that was possible, and then one of them had stood on my hand. That was all I remembered before I blacked out. There was a deep indentation and a bruise in a small reddish purple circle reminding me exactly where that girl, Jo, had stepped on my hand with her five inch stiletto heel. Ouch. It hurts to move my hand. I don't think it's broken, well I hope not.
I had just told my mum exactly what had happened, no detail spared. God, she looks a mess, worse than me, if that's possible. She runs a bony hand through her frizzy brown hair. Hmmm… I wonder who I take after. On one hand there's my mother, gorgeous, with brown hazel eyes and chestnut hair, slim and elegant with snow white skin. Then there's my father. Short and fat with dull grey eyes, a round face that goes beetroot every time he's angry, a beer belly and very hairy (arms and legs, his head's as bald as a baby's backside). Personally, I hope it's my mum. My dad may sound like a sex god but let me tell you, there's only two things he cares about, TV and alcohol. I don't know how my mum ever ended up with him. It's really weird, when she looks at him, her face lights up, her eyes sparkle, like he's a movie star. It kind of reminds me of how I look when I see Kellan, and every so often I think he gets it when he looks at me. But maybe that's wishful thinking.
I made my mum promise me two things, one that she wouldn't tell Dad and the second that she wouldn't tell the school. No one would stand up for me as a witness, and why would the teachers suddenly believe me when they turned a blind eye in the first place?
I excuse myself and go up to my bedroom, if you can call it that, me I choose cardboard box. I want to be alone, with my thoughts (mainly of Kellan). I lie down on my small bed, try not to fall off the other side and think about Kellan in all of his perfection and wonder if somewhere he's thinking of me too.