I sigh. “As tempting as that is, Mum’s at the Beckford High charity drive meeting this afternoon, so I have to pick up my sisters from dance practice. Raincheck?”
“Sure, later.” She gives me a quick hug before heading towards her house, while I make my way to the student car park.
I spend the entire drive to Pulse dance studio wondering how I can help my best friend overcome her insecurities.
Nora and Esme come bounding out of their dance class full of energy and climb into the back seat of my car, immediately barking their demands at me.
“Can we go get ice cream?” Esme begs. “Pretty please with a cherry on top?”
“I have an assignment due,” I tell her. “Sorry.”
Nora pouts. “You suck.”
“Hey,” I scold, “kindness is free, you know.”
She rolls her eyes and mutters, “Whatever. Mum always takes us to get ice cream after dance.”
With one hand on the wheel, I massage my temple with the other. “Well, Mum isn’t here, and I told you I have an assignment to work on. You can’t get everything you ask for, Nora.”
I love my sisters. I really do, but there’s no denyingthey’re spoiled brats. It’s not their fault. They’ve been raised getting everything they want.
The two of them trade whispers in the backseat as I drive us home, and as soon as I pull up in front of the house, Esme throws the door open before I’ve even closed the gate, let alone turned off the ignition. Nora bustles out after her and I groan when I notice they’ve left their bags for me to bring in.
“No worries,” I mutter, gathering their things, as well as my own, and trudging into the house like a fucking packhorse.
I dump their things by the front door with a sigh, hearing them down the hall in the kitchen. They’re no doubt making a mess, but I don’t give a damn. I did my job by picking them up, and I’m not their maid.
My phone buzzes with a notification, but I don’t check it. I really need to get my creative writing assignment finished.
My theatre classes don’t give me enough credits for my arts degree, so I signed up for a creative writing elective.
I’ve been writing poetry for myself since I was in high school, so it’s something I enjoy. It seemed like a no-brainer, an easy credit. Write some moody monologues, sprinkle in some poetic metaphors. I’m an actress; I tell stories for a living.
Only it hasn’t been that easy.
Professor Johnson isn’t impressed with my ‘surface-level drivel,’ as he put in his notes on my last piece. He wants ‘emotional authenticity’, whatever the fuck that means. He’s an assistant soccer coach. What does he know aboutemotional authenticity?
But my damn stubborn nature won’t let him, or this assignment, get the best of me.
Write about a moment that changed you.
I’ve written two hundred and fifty words about my dad leaving, but it feels impersonal and flat. There’s no heart. It sounds like the diary entry of a pissed-off teenager.
With a sigh, I delete the whole thing.
I drum my fingers on my desk as I stare at the blinking cursor on my screen.
A moment that changed me. Something real. Something authentic.
My chest tightens, and I force my thoughts not to go to Dylan.To what he did to me.
There’s no way I can put that into words.
I hesitate, my fingers poised over the keys. Surely there’s something else I can write about. Anything else.
A sharp knock on my bedroom door makes me jump. Before I can answer, it swings open, and I scowl at my mother standing in the doorway with a glass of wine, her grey eyes swirling like thunder.
“Why didn’t you take your sisters to get ice cream after dance?” she asks in her typical haughty tone.
