2
SOPHIE
Heavy metal doors slam shut behind me, the sound ricocheting off brick walls like a warning shot. I flinch.
God, I hate this place.
The aura of teenage angst hits me like a tidal wave as I step into the school entryway, the overpowering scent of cheap perfume, old gum, and hormones percolating in the air. Lockers rattle, teenagers laugh and shout, and someone drops a textbook loud enough to make half the hallway jump. I press my lips together and exhale sharply, willing myself not to turn around and walk right back out.
It’s my final semester of high school. Four more months and I’ll be free.
I should be excited. Instead, I feel like my freedom is being dangled in front of me, just out of reach. The universe is laughing at me, dragging this torture out as long as possible.
It’s not even supposed to be this way. I should’ve graduated already. If my parents hadn’t insisted on holding me back in elementary school for “emotional maturity,” I’d be long gone bynow, but no. I’m eighteen and still stuck under the heavy weight of my parent’s rules and disappointment.
I can vote. I can join the military. But I can’t be myself, can’t express my true feelings, or even stay out past ten most nights without them calling it a rebellion. My parents thrive on control, so until I leave their home, I’ll be forced to submit to their ridiculous rules and ideals of who and what I should be.
So I smile when I’m supposed to. I play the part, trying my best to be the perfect daughter. As far as they’re aware, I follow the rules. But I’m drowning under the weight of it all, fighting to break through for a breath of fresh air.
I'm quite jaded, you could say, especially for my age. Being the oldest daughter comes with soul-crushing responsibilities. Ones that grip any sense of childhood by the neck and squeeze until said innocence is dead. Younger siblings, on the other hand, can do no wrong. My sister is a perfect example.
I honestly think my little sister could kill someone and my parents would be right there, cleaning up the mess and handing her an alibi. I don’t blame her. It’s not her fault. But the difference in how we’re treated is impossible to ignore. Some days, it feels like we were raised by completely different people. Same names and faces, but entirely different rules and expectations.
I don’t hold it against her, but I can’t lie and say it never bothers me. I see it. I feel the difference.
I shift my backpack strap higher on my shoulder and begin weaving through the crowded hallway, searching for my best friend. Sal is hard to miss—stunning brunette with pouty lips, tanned skin, and legs that belong on a runway.
More importantly, though, she's the most positive person I've ever met. Her liveliness feeds my soul in a way that nothing else does. Her jokes keep me from teetering over the edge when I get too close. I'm forever grateful for her friendship.
She also seems to be late, as usual. Nowhere to be found. Neither of us are known for being punctual. I pull out my phone and shoot off a quick text.
Sophie: I'll meet you in class! Please don't leave me hanging today. I've been dying without you.
I slip my phone back into my jeans pocket, grateful for the newly fashionable wide-leg style and their huge pockets. They’re so comfortable and flattering, too. I weave through the halls, now packed with hormone-ridden bodies and make my way to my first period class, English. It’s the only class Sal and I have together, which makes it almost enjoyable.
The room’s half full when I get there. I head straight for my usual seat in the back, toss my bag in the one next to it to save it for Sal, and slide down low enough to avoid eye contact with literally anyone.
Students quickly fill the classroom, each one not sparing even a glance my way. Fine by me. I’m an introvert and I keep my circle small, and by that, I mean it’s just Sal and me. She has other friends, but none come before me. I, on the other hand, am more than happy to spend my free time curled up in bed binge-watching TV or at my drawing table, charcoal pencil in hand.
I open my sketchbook and start dragging a pencil across the page, not drawing anything specific. Just lines and movement. It keeps my hands busy, keeps my brain from short-circuiting.
By the time the bell rings, there is still no teacher, which surprises me. Mrs. Whitsell usually harps on us all about the importance of being on time. Sal finally slips in with five seconds to spare, looking effortlessly perfect in a skirt I couldn’t pull off even in my dreams.
“Babe,” she breathes out before blowing me a kiss as she drops into her seat. “Sorry I'm late. I've missed you.”
“I missed you too. Even though you ditched me for croissants and hot French guys.”
“I brought you fancy chocolate! Forgive me?”
I roll my eyes, though my mouth begins watering. “That depends. What kind of chocolate?”
“The expensive kind.” She winks.
I raise an eyebrow. “You live to spoil me.”
She grins and bumps her shoulder into mine. “We’ll chat all about it at lunch. I want a full winter break recap. Don’t leave anything out.”
“You mean my thrilling schedule of avoiding my parents, sleeping, and trying not to spiral into an existential crisis? So exciting.”
