My phone's alarm rings, and I almost roll off the bed, then half-comatose, I silence it. Damn this loud alarm sound! I should change it, but I know I'd hate it no matter what sound it makes.

I curl up under the blanket in agony, gathering strength to get up. Why isn't it summer vacation already? I wish I could skip these last two weeks!

But unfortunately being tired is no excuse; I have to go to school. The math test is today!

And I didn't study at all.

I'd like to dig myself deeper into bed. I should say that I am sick. What a pity, my parents saw through my attempts to do so in my whole life! And I'd rather do a hundred math test than willingly draw the aim of their wrath.

I put on my glasses, then crawl out of bed, my limbs trembling with exhaustion. From the bottom of my closet I pull out David's black sweater with the word Nirvana on its back, as if it might protect me from certain death. Once dressed, I stagger into the bathroom, yawning profusely. I look into the mirror and startle back. The circles under my eyes could rival those of a night shift worker, and my hair is even greasier than yesterday.  It is also completely tangled, having taken the shape of the lumps in my pillow. I quickly grab an elastic band to hold it together. However, as I lift my untidy mane, I notice a red handprint on my neck and part of my face. The nightmare of last night suddenly comes back to life. From the force of the blow, I was sure that by today my whole face would be swollen, covered in purple bruises. But no. However, this small redness can still lead to unwanted questions from my classmates, so I tiptoe down the corridor, up to the second floor, to my mothers' bathroom. I take out the crate-sized make-up kit. I loathe to put any of it on myself, triggering more pimples, but they can't see it. So even though my first lesson is PE and I will sweat the whole thing off, I still need to do my best.

I open the box. Oh my God, which one is the foundation? Maybe these are on the right. What a shame that they all match my mum's tanned skin and not my pale skin! I choose the lightest one and apply it thickly from my forehead to the neck of my sweater, without any tools or expertise. At times like this I envy my mother a little for hiding the dark side of her life behind such perfect masks. But God forbid I ask for her help! She might think I'm seriously interested. Because she is. She's a real mall girl. And I never, ever want to be like her…

Done. Itching with the urge to wash it off immediately, allowing my clogged pores to breathe freely, but I resist the temptation and walk out. One level down, I pack my notebooks and some erotic fantasies to take back to the library, then head downstairs with the bag on my shoulder.

At the turn of the stairs, the sound of movement hits my ears. Startled, I pause, breathless, waiting to hear anything threatening, but it was only the sound of Mum's slippers. What is she doing here? Ah, of course! It's Wednesday, and she has to be at work by nine. Shit... I'd rather climb out of the window than run into them. But there's no window and my bus leaves in fifteen minutes.

I step out from the cover of the stairs. My eyes immediately settle on my mother as she puts her plate in the sink. Her light beige shirt highlights her skin tone, and tight dark jeans show off her long, treadmill-trained legs. Her dyed black hair is in a loose bun, her make-up completely hiding the bruises from yesterday. The perfect woman. Beautiful and pretty, no one could tell she gave birth three times and is closer to sixty than fifty. As her black eyes meet mine, she sighs.

"Oh, dear, are you wearing David's worn-out rags again?" She pouts at me condescendingly, full of pity. Or is it disgust?

"That's one thing, but if she spent a whole hour wasting the water yesterday, she couldn't even wash her hair?" Dad says from the table. He addresses his words to Mum, as if I'm not worthy to be spoken to.

And instead of coming to my defence, my mother, in deep silence, agrees with him. Him, who smells like a homeless man with  week-old stubble on his face waiting to be mowed. But, of course, without ever setting foot outside these four walls, he's not likely to sully the name "Morawa". And we are a perfect, prosperous, elitist family. The upper class.

I'm sick of all this. I rush to the door.

"Come and eat with us!" my mother calls after me, but she sounds annoyed that I'm missing breakfast, rather than kind.

"I have to catch my bus. I'll grab something at school."

"I can give you a ride."

And then listen to her about how I should look, live, behave and cover up my problems with perpetual hypocrisy? I choose the bus.

I step outside, slamming the door behind me, but the words I heard continue to haunt me in the form of memories that never happened. I see myself getting out of her black Tesla in front of the whole school, much to my mother's delight. Unkempt, accompanied by envious eyes.

Do you understand how much shame you bring upon us?

But I am just such a shameful being. I bet if the ultrasound before I was born had shown them what I would become as a teenager, I would have been aborted. What they do at night is forgivable. Because no one can see it. But what I do is intolerable.

The agony brings a smile to my face. How long can they lie to avoid losing prestige?

At the bus stop, a woman in a blue T-shirt is looking at me. It's not cold, yet I pull David's sweater tighter over me. It's as if the whole world is waiting to see when the mask of perfection will fall off so that it can sink its scandal-hungry claws into me. But seriously... does she see something on my face? Is my foundation thick enough? I start to reach for my face, but stop myself; I might end up smearing it.

The bus turns the corner,  and the brakes let out a sharp breath as it comes to a stop.

I show my pass when I board. Making my way inside, I am surprised at how few passengers there are. Then I realise that this is not the 07:15 bus.

" ... no, unfortunately. I've been studying."

"Don't worry, you haven't missed anything; he still didn't say whether he would be at the Championship. Instead, he's dropped a few things about his private life... GameGuru has already published an article about him."

I recognize that voice. Oh my God, it's Bill! How could I forget?! I quickly adjust my scraggly ponytail, though the situation is beyond remedy. Now I regret that I did not wash my hair. As I pass them, my gaze connects for a moment with the boy's green eyes. Blood rushes to my cheeks, I tear my attention away from his fashionably shaggy black hair and plop down on the seat behind him by the window. Behind Bill.

"For real?" asks his friend sitting next to him.

"Yeah, look." he pushes his phone over. "Metamorph, The Lone Warrior wasn't always a loner; one of the most popular streamers of our time is bisexual and polygamous". The video is also here.

What?! - My heart is pounding, not just from the news, but from hearing my idol's name from Bill's mouth. I feel a terrible guilt that I missed his video yesterday. The hatred for my parents' brawl flares up again. I'd like to get my phone out, but my Mum and Dad have paid for a package with limited mobile internet. I’d like to ask Bill to show me, but I'd only embarrass myself. Nobody wants to talk to a girl who is so lame. Even if I’m as much of a Metamorph fan as they are. So I merely stretch out my neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of the blue-haired superstar in the space between the two seats in front of me. Unfortunately, I can’t see it. I can’t even see the reflection from the window. All that remains is the sound, now that the rumble of the bus has quieted down so I can hear the not too deep, yet eerily sexy male voice.

"... what is my ideal woman? Well, I actually attach less importance to gender, it's more important for me that the person understands me. To accept that gaming is an integral part of my life, but at the same time to know what it feels like to be alone in a crowd. The pressure when people love you, expect great things from you and you dread being unable to live up... Am I speaking as if I'm talking about a specific person? Well, my love life is rather... complicated... Oh, what do I think of polygamy? Long ago, before I started streaming, I had affairs with countless individuals. But now I'm more monogamous. Except for you."

"See what they're writing to him in the chat? Now that's when I envy streamers. Women are falling for them.

"You should stream too."

"You think so?"

"Yeah, you are pretty good in arena."

And you' re good-looking. Smart too. But when I think of the thousands of girls writing fan messages and love notes to Bill, it makes my blood boil. And he would start making videos for that very reason... I had no idea he is so lonely. I'd date him!

As they ponder the idea of setting up their own channel in a light-hearted, joking way, it's getting more and more painful to listen to them. So remote and inaccessible. Why do I torture myself? I take out my phone, plug in the earpiece, turn on some music. I stare outwards, outside the trees of the suburbs are replaced by concrete blocks of the city, but in my mind's eye I keep seeing Bill. As he sits next to me, calls out to me, talks to me. I hear his voice, his laugh. Imagining us playing together, but of course he's so much more skilful than me and so keen to tutor me. He puts his palm on my hand on the mouse, and I try to listen to his instructions, but all I can feel is his skin on mine. The scent of his pine-scented shower gel as he leans behind me. His breath on the back of my neck. I want to turn towards him, to poke his black hair, to kiss him. My heart beats faster and faster. His long fingers intertwine with my hands, as if he knows exactly what's on my mind, pulls me closer to him, then down onto the bed and...

We're almost at the school. The boys squirm in front of me, stand up and signal. When I get off, I breathe a sigh of relief to be away from the stuffy air of the bus, watching silently as Bill and his buddy walk through the gate, and then slowly I drag myself to the place of my execution.