Jamie is the daughter of a private prostitute who is ruining her life, but everything changes when she meets the girl of her dreams. --->
Jamie clutched her spiral notebook to her chest as if it were her lifeline, which in many ways, it was. The unmistakable sounds of suburbia flew by all around her. She was laying down in the back seat of her mom's crappy mid-90's sedan, playing with her long, silky black hair.
"Mom?" She said softly, frightened to speak.
"What is it?" Her mother yelled back, angrily.
Wow, good mood today. Jamie thought, I wonder why? Her mom was a private prostitute, whose job consisted of going to a some guy's house, getting drunk, paid, and then getting him laid. She was the type of person who usually had large amounts of anger stored up and, for the most part, took it out on her daughter. Sometimes physically, but that was usually left up to her clients. "Where are we going?" Jamie asked.
"Kurt's." She replied, smiling. "Pays good, and we can stay there for a week, as long as you don't cause the man any grief."
Almost on cue, she pulled into the driveway of a beaten-down house. It stood from the neighborhood like O.J. Simpson in a crowd of white supremacists, as silly as that may sound. Jamie's mom put the stick in park, took out the keys, and got out of the car. Her daughter sat up straight and pushed the door open. As soon as she got out of the car, she had a tingly feeling in her chest telling her something was off. Stress. She thought to herself, getting her sack pack out of the car.
In the yard next to them, three young children were playing happily with each other. The scent of freshly mowed grass hung suspended in the air around her. "Jamie, you stupid cunt!" Her mother screamed violently. "Get your ass over here!"
so much for the good mood lasting. She thought. Walking up to the house, she caught site of a beautiful girl in the window upstairs, about her age. "Wow." She said subconsciously.
Jamie opened the screen door and did the best possible thing: Disappear. When your mom hates you and she needs to do her thing, just hide in a closet somewhere. She learned that lesson a long time ago. Making yourself visible in a house with a drunk man brings about numerous risks, such as physical abuse, screaming, and more scarring acts.
Upstairs seems best. She thought quickly, and tiptoed up the carpeted wooden steps. Breathing heavily, she reached the top.