He looked at her, daring her to mention his speaking to her mind, but instead she shook her head and closed her eyes.
“You’re not going to ask?” Michael smirked.
“I don’t want to know.” She whispered, and closed her eyes, holding her head in her hands. She felt a migraine coming on.
“Hey, Emily? You look kind of pale,” Michael put a cold hand to her forehead.”You’re burning up.”
“Okay, how did you do it? Why me?” She was still whispering.
“I don’t know,” It was Michael’s turn to whisper. “Because you’re the chosen one.
Michael looked very ill and distraught as he said this; it obviously made more sense to him than it did to Emily. Little did Emily know that from here things were just going to get worse. Little did Michael know that the truth would hurt her far more than he knew.
The end of the day came round very quickly, and all too soon Emily found herself dragging her feet along the footpath, thinking. Today had been a very productive day. In more ways than one.
She unlocked the front door to find her Dad leaning against the marble worktop in the kitchen.
“Buenas Dias,” He smiled. “Where’s your Mum, Chiquita?”
“Out.” Emily gave him the cold shoulder.
“When will she be back?”He wanted to know.
“How am I supposed to know?” She bluffed easily.
“Will you tell her that I came?” He asked.
“Sure thing.” She opened the door, hinting for him to leave.
“Tell her that I kept my word.” He said, and then walked away, not looking back.
She wondered how he’d come in anyway; she was sure she’d locked the door this morning. Of course she had, she’d unlocked it when she came in. She saw a note taped just under the door handle that read:
You really should find a new place to hide that key, precious. Adios! Dan xxx
He was right though, she did need to find a new place to hide the key. She decided to have one in her school bag and the spare one in her handbag. There. Nobody would know where it was apart from herself.
She had an early night, having had tomato soup and cheese-sticks for her tea. She was going to have to buy some recipe books, or attempt finding her Mother’s cook books.
She had strange dreams that night; the type that you wake up in the middle of the night screaming and in a cold sweat, but when you’re awake, you cannot remember what they were about. This was what made it scarier.
By the time 5:00am came around, she’d woken about eight times, and by this point she knew that sleep was impossible so she spent time getting ready, doing her hair into two French plaits, straightening her fringe, and painting her nails red. She was determined to put on a brave face.
She didn’t bother with breakfast, settling for a glass of milk that tasted sour, but it had smelled fine. She brushed her teeth, flossed and used mouthwash (she did enjoy that minty freshness feel in her mouth) and still had plenty of time left over.
She re-ironed her shirt, put her nicest blazer and skirt on, and even wore plain black tights and polished her shoes!
By this time, she knew she couldn’t delay it any longer, so grabbed her umbrella and headed out the door, and walked to school; the buses frustrated her when they were late and she didn’t want to hear the rabble (the other school kids) all the way to school, and she thought to herself later that besides, walking was healthy.
“Good morning, Emilia. It is very nice to see you bright and early.” Miss. Rose smiled.
“I’ve decided to be the model student,” She offered her teacher a shiny red apple that she had stolen that morning from her next-door-neighbour’s garden. “And I want to raise my grades.”
She thought about how corny that sounded when Miss. Rose went to the staffroom for that morning’s briefing. So maybe she had gotten the concept ‘model student’ wrong with the whole stolen-apple thing. At least she was trying. That was something, at least. Right?