I was happy to have the house to
myself after they left, even if the house was remarkable neat (even neater than
usual and that’s saying something!). Mom
had made a point of inviting the friends in when they came. She likes to show
people that she hasn’t neglected the cleaning, as if running around with a
bottle of bleach and a wet cloth, wiping down tiles and marble made everything
normal. I’d had to change into a ‘normal’ tee-shirt (not something of my own
customisation) and a pair of jeans that didn’t have beads stitched on, or
anything like that. I’d had to come downstairs in a pink tee-shirt with none of
my trademark designs on it, my hair pulled back in a plain ponytail and just
girly glittery make-up that all the ‘popular’ girls at school wore. Then I had
to simper pathetically whenever the friends said something that they thought
was funny, and lie that school was going brilliantly.
The minute they’d gone out the door I
was back into my navy leggings with the roses all over them, my black vest-top
with the black-sequin detail I’d added myself, my hair all loose in its crazy
curls, the lilac streak henna-dyed back in. I’d applied purple eye-shadow and
orange lipstick, and replaced the lilac pumps I’d been wearing with scarlet
ankle-boots. I felt as if I was back in my own skin, not pretending to be some
sugar-pink so-called popular clone.
I sat down at my own laptop and got
started with creating an account on the writing website. It only took me five
minutes, and I uploaded five songs and two poems, before switching off the
laptop and going to raid the cupboard where the biscuits and nice things were.