It’s dark and it’s comfortable. It’s six thirty. I’m curled up into a ball like a foetus to fight the cold and in that state between sleep and awake, a sort of zombie stage. This is almost my favourite part of the day, apart from my phone buzzing on the table. Whilst I have no objections to being woken up by the melodic voice of Billie Joe Armstrong, the timing is far too early, so I snake my hand out to hit the off button, before collapsing into sleep after that monumental action. Every morning I hit the off button and feel accomplished, thinking this will be the day I sleep in. It never happens; I set it to go off at seven every night before I get into bed, but you never know. One day. The same song goes off again, and again I hit the off button but this time I fight to stay awake because this one signals I need to get up. I savour the last few minutes (although they pass like seconds) in bed before a different song starts up. St Jimmy is louder and harsher to my morning ears so I groan, grumble and quite often swear at it whilst braving the cold. My room is an addition to the rest of the house and I’m lucky if the temperature goes above 18 degrees in the morning so I rush as fast as possible to the bathroom – where it plummets even more – to start up the heater that’s installed on the wall. Lately I’ve discovered the art of hanging my school clothes on the radiators to keep them warm so I get dressed quickly, before picking up a sharpie and crossing off another day on my countdown to June 19th. Every morning it makes me smile, because the mere idea of going to see my favourite band in concert is the most exciting part of my life, and will take a lot to beat in the future.
The house is pitch black so I stumble into the kitchen most days, more often than not stubbing my toes on the dog bed or the skirting board. I’m not the first person up by far; George leaves for work at half five most days and my sister Frankie wakes up ridiculously early to watch cartoons but the kitchen is untouched. The lights get turned on and I make up lunch for school, before emptying the dishwasher to find breakfast bowls. Then Frankie walks in and starts talking at a speed to fast too understand so early in the morning, luckily I have had lots of practice in nodding my head in time and saying “yeah”, “uh huh” and “really?” whilst not listening at all. She dictates her lunch to me and I end up arguing about the chocolate quantity before compromising (at seven years old, she is already accomplished at finding reasons for everything) with crisps or yoghurts, both of which contain something halfway healthy. Kind of. After Frankie comes my other sister Georgie and her lunch, then I have to intervene at the table where Georgie unfailingly manages to knock, break, spill or completely ruin one thing per morning. Crisis averted (or mopped up before Mum makes it down) I get my breakfast and sit with them until they finish, then I sneak onto the computer and check my emails. One of my friends will have said something on Twitter so I go through and reply to that, although facebook would be a much better option because there are no letter limits and our conversations can go for ages but we have a routine. The morning is Twitter, evening is facebook. As soon as I hear footsteps I hurriedly exit (because eating at the computer is a bad example) and transfer my bowl to the table, pretending I’ve been there all along. Mum knows what I do, because mum knows everything, but I still do it.
I rush back into my room to pack up my bag because I’m too disorganized to do it in the evening and I chuck half the contents around my room if I’ve got homework anyway. My pencil case has to be repacked every day, along with my Ipod but I never get my planner out, I’m too scared to look at the ridiculous amount of homework, coursework deadlines or the most evil of all. The notes from my tutor asking to get it signed once in a while, and their accompanying threats. Once that’s done, I go into the bathroom again to brush my teeth, do my makeup and try – often in vain – to flatten my hair at least a little bit. This is the calm before the storm, although more people are moving around now. My third sister Robyn doesn’t make it down until about twenty past eight when I am usually fighting with the hair straighteners or looking for whatever I lost the night before. Once again, time flies and I receive a text from my friend, asking if I’ve left home yet and could I possible wait for her. It is eight forty three but I wait anyway, it’s only tutor right? She walks in; we walk straight out again almost every day, slipping through the gates in sync with the ringing of the bell before separating to go to different tutors.
School’s not that bad, depending on what lessons I have. I’ve given up on maths and spend the hour hiding from my teacher in the corner, writing, doodling or listening to music. Quite often all at once. I enjoy most lessons if I’m honest, although if you want to know what I do to pass the time in ICT, you’re looking at it. My main motivation for going to school is my friends. At break and lunch we hide away in a classroom talking, laughing and sometimes just remembering all the good times we’ve already had. There’s the four quarters that make up our brain (me, Rosie, Cathryn and Becky) and recently James sits with us most days too. Sometimes other people come into our circle but ultimately it’s ours. We have claimed our tables and no one else sits there because they belong to us, if only for another four months. After the last bell rings, I rush over to the primary school across the road to pick up my little sisters. Every day I fret over being late and then stand in the wind and cold for ages as they find their things agonisingly slowly, but if I take my time then they will get out early. We walk home and throw down school bags, then I take the dog out and Robyn locks herself in her room for the remainder of the day. I don’t see much of her, but it’s not something that concerns me. I’ll keep an eye out for them until mum or George gets home, but it’s nothing strenuous, just making sure they don’t eat anything they shouldn’t or set anything on fire. The usual. At around half past four I set the table for dinner but after eating my time is my own. I’ll turn to my computer desk ninety nine times out of a hundred, either to write in my notebook or surf the net. As I sink into the computer chair I vow to do my homework, but facebook beckons and it’s usually left for another time. I’ll talk to friends via the internet or texting even though we spoke only hours before, there’s always something left to say.
At an hour much later than is good for me, I finally switch off the screen and get into bed. Just before the light goes off I can see all the posters on my walls, bands whose music has helped in more ways than show on the outside. All of these people are where they want to be, and each night I can’t help but compare them to me and the people that matter most to me. We all strive for individual goals, but the background is the same. We want to make it, in our own way.
Becky is the most obvious, she wants to make it in music just like the people I fall asleep staring at. Her passion is music, she lives and breathes it, exists just to experience it. School is always second in her priorities and music is so important to her she is bearing two extra years of the infamous music teacher so she can learn more about it. To outsiders it seems foolish to throw away her education on a hobby, but I’m just waiting for the inevitable day when I can put her poster on the wall next to Paramore, Green Day and Blink 182.
Rosie will also be famous, but in a different way. She’s going to be in control of dozens of people in a big important company, telling them what to do and barking orders whenever possible. At the moment her dream consists of Cambridge University but I know it won’t be long before she takes over and becomes a manager, president or person in charge of everything. Hell, I can see her as Prime Minister, nothing is out of her reach once she gets an idea into her head. She’s going places, and she’s going to make sure everyone knows when she arrives.
Cathryn isn’t immediately obvious, she hasn’t got a life plan like the rest of us. Whilst she seems undecided and uncertain of the future, it’s clear whatever she does will be to do with people. She listens, she doesn’t argue or talk back, she just lets you say your bit when the world is making you feel shut off and alone. She’s always there, no matter where you are or what state you’re in and I know that in seventy years she’ll still be there to talk and laugh with.
And then there’s me. I know where I’m going, but my dreams aren’t anything big or creative like the people on my wall. If asked to describe my perfect life in five years, it will consist of a small apartment in the gun capital of the UK slaving over teenager’s essays with atrocious handwriting and even worse spelling until the early hours to complete my degree. I’m not going to be famous like my friends, and my life will be depressingly boring and lonely unless I learn to let people in sometime soon. So my life will be average, with nothing to distinguish it from millions of other people. But you know what? That’s what makes me unique. And it sounds like a pretty awesome life to me.
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