“CRASH!” 

My bedroom door flew open and bounced off the wall, The handle slotting perfectly into the dent in the left from repeated impact. (I’m a very excitable person, okay?) Flakes of drywall fluttered down and settled on the beige carpet, hiding amongst the fibres. My attention was elsewhere, however, as I dashed out of my room the second the door sprung open and bounded down the stairs, two at a time. We were returning to school today! 

My brother poked his head out of his room, “Dani? What are you doing?” 

“I’m going to school?” I replied, confused. 

Luke raised an eyebrow. “It’s 7:30” 

“I know.” 

“So why are you getting ready so early? We don’t have to leave for another half hour.” He was interrogating me now. There was no doubt about that. He couldn’t hide the accusatory tone in his voice. 

“The key phrase in that sentence is ‘have to’. Just because we don’t have to leave until 8:00 doesn’t mean I can’t leave before then.” 

“But you don’t normally leave this early. So, what’s changed?” 

“I want to ensure Charlotte is awake and ready to leave so we’re not late,” I stated simply before continuing down the stairs. 

Luke called after me, “Wait up!”  

I heard the rustling of fabric and his door closing before he rounded the banister, following me downstairs. My feet landed on the floor with a quiet ‘thud’, the noise muffled by the carpet, and I sprinted down the hallway. Who designed this house? Why did they put carpet in almost every room? Like, there used to be carpet in the bathroom before my parents pulled it up and replaced it with tile. Now it’s just cold every time you walk in there. 

What was I doing again? 

Oh right, getting ready for school. 

I slid into the cold, tiled kitchen where my mum stood by the kettle in her work uniform, a black pantsuit with a white blouse. She always conducts a very professional air around her, no matter what she’s doing. I know that she’s not always professional, but she certainly looks the part.  

“Good morning, Mother. How are you doing on this fine September day?” I smiled brightly at her whilst simultaneously rummaging in the depths of the fridge to find my lunch which I had prepared the night before. Must always be prepared for what the day will bring. 

“Your lunch is already in your bag.” She knew what I was doing. But then again, that’s her job as my mother. As impossible as it is, mums must be psychic. How else do they know everything?  

“Thank you.” I shut the fridge door, “Although, you didn’t answer my question.” 

She sighed and countered my question with a question of her own, “When will you stop growing up?” 

I see what you’re doing mother. Stop avoiding my question. 

Instead of telling her that though, I choose to respond with the tried and true answer of, “It’s physically impossible for me to stop aging.” 

“You’re growing up too fast.” 

“I’m growing at an appropriate rate for my age.” I respond with a grin. Luke appeared in the kitchen with his dirty shoes on and looked at me, “Are you coming or not? I thought you wanted to leave early.” 

(Well, his shoes don’t look dirty. But all the bacteria could get trapped in carpet fibres.) 

“Bye, mother. Love you. See you later.” I sprinted back down the hallway, past Luke, before she could reply. Luke followed me, and we left the house at 7:37 am.  

The street we lived on was quite a pleasant place. Trees rose like friendly giants from the small grass patches along the pavement at regular intervals. Branches adorned with spring green leaves danced in the lingering summer breeze. They looked like peacocks, proudly displaying their feathers – gardens contained neatly trimmed lawns and flower boxes bursting with vibrantly coloured gems of all shapes and sizes. Golden sunlight streamed down from the heavens from our central star, the sun, who smiled down on the entire scene. (Don’t judge me, I’ve got to practice my descriptive writing for English Language paper 1 somehow.) 

After looking both ways, twice to ensure a car didn’t spring up out of the blue and run us over, we crossed the street and walked up Charlotte’s driveway, to her house. 

The brick driveway was lined with trimmed, prim and proper rose bushes which I knew Charlotte’s mum took particular pride in. Most inhabitants of our street like to show off how sophisticated and put-together their families are, and this usually manifests through the garden. Luke lingered on the pavement as I approached the front door and rang the doorbell. 

Hopefully it’ll wake Charlotte, if she isn’t already awake. 

I could hear the jingle of keys and the click of a lock from the other side of the door before it swung open and Paul, Charlotte’s stepdad, stood in the doorway. Well, technically Paul isn’t her stepdad, he’s her mum’s boyfriend. But he was introduced to me as her stepdad, so that’s his designated title.  

Anyway, he looked grumpy. Like, even more so than usual. When he spoke, his voice was gruff, like he hadn’t gotten much sleep the previous night, indicated by the dark circles under his eyes. “What do you want?” 

“Uh, hi,” I began, my voice a lot smaller than usual, “is Charlotte awake?” 

“Don’t know.” The door began to close, and I didn’t know what to say to stop it from happening. I stood completely frozen on Charlotte’s doorstep, her stepdad about to slam the door in my face. 

Thankfully, another voice from the end of the hallway managed to stop the closing door. The voice was familiar, but in my current state, I couldn’t figure out who it was. “Who is it?” 

Paul turned to talk to the figure at the end of the hallway, who was completely obscured by his body. “One of your annoying friends bothering my sleep to ask about you.” 

Paul then proceeded to walk away, replaced by a bleary-eyed Charlotte. Her blonde hair stood up in all directions, as if she had just rolled out of bed, which she probably had. Whilst she insisted that she was nothing like Paul, the first words to leave her mouth were the exact same ones Paul had just said to me less than 5 minutes ago. “What do you want?” 

“Are you ready for school?” I ask, my usual smile returning to my face. 

“Do I look ready?” Charlotte grumbled in response. I paused, unsure how to respond to that quip (I’m 99% sure that’s a rhetorical question), so she spoke again. “Give me 10 minutes.” 

This time I did get the door shut in my face.