Daddy's Little Darlings
Fake
The next morning, I scrabble round in Mum's make-up box, and find foudation, face-powder and eye-shadow the same colour. I put on a whole new face of make-up, and when I look in the mirror, I can't see the bruises or the cuts anymore.
I look like a fake, of course. People whisper and point when I walk into school, but I ignore them. Hannah and Tasha and Mia put it down to a boy I like, and don't ask anything else. The teachers don't say anything, until period 6. It's a single PSE, with Mrs Hutchkins, the worst teacher in the school. When she is reading down the register, she pauses when she gets to me, looks up and barks,
" Reilly Burton! Get that make-up off now!"
The toilets on the Spanish corridoor are empty, and I wipe it off as slowly and as carefully as I can. I spend the rest of the lesson in there. I slowly see the bruises blossom under my fingers, and I pray that people will ignore them. Aren't bruises and cuts the fashion for the girls at this school?* Answer-no way in living Hell.*
I am late for Maths, and I run down the stairs and down the Maths corridoor. I burst in, five minutes late, and everyone gasps. I catch my reflection in the window, and see it's got worse.
" Reilly? What's up with your face?" my teacher asks, concerned. He takes me out of the lesson and questions me in the sick room.
" Reilly, what's wrong? Who did this? Are you getting bullied?"
I shake my head.
" Did someone hurt you?"
Another shake.Another pause. Another silence.
" Was it...your father?"
Luckily, Jackson Clarke in my maths set lets out a piercing howl we can hear from here, and then we can hear chants of 'Fight, Fight, Fight'. My teahcer gets up and goes off to the classroom to sort it all out. I curl up on the bed in the sick room, and I dream.
I wish that I had a normal family who love me.
And friends who didn't let me fake.
And a boyfriend, who loved me too and did special stuff for me.
And a brother who didn't take off because he's gay.
Dad won't let me have these things. That's the problem.
- Sorry it's short, and I forgot the maths teacher's name!-
I look like a fake, of course. People whisper and point when I walk into school, but I ignore them. Hannah and Tasha and Mia put it down to a boy I like, and don't ask anything else. The teachers don't say anything, until period 6. It's a single PSE, with Mrs Hutchkins, the worst teacher in the school. When she is reading down the register, she pauses when she gets to me, looks up and barks,
" Reilly Burton! Get that make-up off now!"
The toilets on the Spanish corridoor are empty, and I wipe it off as slowly and as carefully as I can. I spend the rest of the lesson in there. I slowly see the bruises blossom under my fingers, and I pray that people will ignore them. Aren't bruises and cuts the fashion for the girls at this school?* Answer-no way in living Hell.*
I am late for Maths, and I run down the stairs and down the Maths corridoor. I burst in, five minutes late, and everyone gasps. I catch my reflection in the window, and see it's got worse.
" Reilly? What's up with your face?" my teacher asks, concerned. He takes me out of the lesson and questions me in the sick room.
" Reilly, what's wrong? Who did this? Are you getting bullied?"
I shake my head.
" Did someone hurt you?"
Another shake.Another pause. Another silence.
" Was it...your father?"
Luckily, Jackson Clarke in my maths set lets out a piercing howl we can hear from here, and then we can hear chants of 'Fight, Fight, Fight'. My teahcer gets up and goes off to the classroom to sort it all out. I curl up on the bed in the sick room, and I dream.
I wish that I had a normal family who love me.
And friends who didn't let me fake.
And a boyfriend, who loved me too and did special stuff for me.
And a brother who didn't take off because he's gay.
Dad won't let me have these things. That's the problem.
- Sorry it's short, and I forgot the maths teacher's name!-