The Rebellion of Cora Hart

*Cora's POV*

I looked at my reflection in the full-length antique mirror that hung on the eastern wall of my room, my mouth turned down in a frown. My slim fingers fingered the thick, freshly ironed pleated skirt with distaste, and my eyes flicked up and down my unappealing appearance. I never used to care about what I wore- it hadn't occurred to me until high school that I looked like my a pre-pubescent high schooler playing dress-ups in her grandmothers wardrobe. The brown and cream pleated skirt drooped stiffly my knees, and the off-white silk blouse didn't help my lack of a chest either, tucked tightly into the top of the skirt. My feet donned bone-coloured socks, trimmed with lace, and I eyed the pair of brown loafers next to my bed. My hair- an odd strawberry blonde was pulled tightly into a slicked bun, held up by an ivory comb and a scrunch. No make-up. Just original flavoured 30+ UV rating Chapstick. Not even flavoured or scented.

I clenched my fist and turn away from the mirror. I knew I wasn't attractive- a blind person could tell. I grabbed my brown leather satchel and slipped my stone-age phone into the front pocket. Emergency calls only. There was only a small amount of credit on it, and it's not like I have anyone to text or call. I mean, the only contacts I had were mum, dad and... well, that's it. Pretty much, I was a social reject who looked like an 80 year old widow.

And I blame it on mum.

As I pulled on my loafers, I heard a soft knock on my bedroom door, which was painted a soft white colour, which settled into the serene and picture-perfect decor of my room. Pale baby blue walls adorned with white shelves, filled with soft toys and snow globes. A 4 poster bed painted white was planted in the centre on top of a fluffy white rug, and the matching white desk and bookshelf was placed thoughtfully in the corner in front of the arched window that overlooked the back garden. You could say picture perfect, because it was. But I didn't like it- I never have. But I had to swallow my thoughts and go with whatever mum wanted because that was the way it was. No buts, no talking back, no opinions. What mum said was the only option.

The door opened to reveal mum, who was wearing the usual white shirt and high-waisted grey slacks. Her thinning hair was tied in a bun and I masked my distaste for her with a kind smile. Mum worked as a doctor and owned her own clinic in the wealthy part of town. I mentally scoffed, as I thought of how this city had a wealthy half and a poor half. We were in the wealthy half, of course, mum being a doctor and dad being a big guy in the business world. Not that I knew much, since my curfew of 8:30 was much to early to talk with him. He worked 90% of the time, leaving early, getting in late.

"Yes, mum? Did you need something?" I asked, coating my words in a sickly sweet and high-pitched voice. I almost made myself vomit. But mum just smiled, as if my voice was beautiful. Trust me, it wasn't. It was snotty, high and much to refined. But it pleased mum, and she tapped at her watch.

"You have 5 minutes to be downstairs for breakfast. You then have half and hour to eat it and then 5 minutes in the bathroom. Then you have to be ready and waiting in the car so you get to school on time," she says, and I nod, my fist tensing. Mum starts closing the door, and I turn around to grab my satchel that I had slung onto my bed. Mum then pops her head back into my room.

"Yes mum?"

"Breakfast is your favourite- muesli."

I almost groaned and cringed, but held back. Instead, I plant that disgustingly fake smile on my face and nod enthusiastically. "Great," I say, and mum smiles, closing the door and walking downstairs. This happened almost every day. She comes in and gives me a verbal timetable down to how much time I'm allowed in the bathroom.

And every day it pisses me off.

~At School~

I walked down the poorly lit hall, books stacked neatly in my hands. I opened my locker, pushing my books onto the top shelf and grabbing my lunch from my satchel. The brown paper back, rolled at the top, had my name in black permanent marker across the front, written in mum's print.

"Aw, how cute. Mummy made you a nice bagged lunch," someone snickered behind me, and I closed my locker, my head down, attempting (and failing) to ignore the voice.

"What do you have today, mummy's girl. A nice whole-meal sandwich made with momma's love? Or maybe she actually gave you lunch money so you can buy your lunch like, I don't know, a normal human being?" More laughing, more taunting. But unlike yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, I couldn't keep my mouth shut. I was pissed, angry, and was at the end of my wits.

"Oh, and what defines normal?" I state calmly, turning around to face them. There were just the two of them, dressed like guys who model in teen magazines. One wore a beanie and stylish jacket with dark jeans, and the other wore the soccer team's tracksuit pants, worn low, and a plain white T-shirt. Their faces were shocked. I guess they would be, since Cora Hart never talked back, never retorted, and never, never got angry. Oh, but I was beyond angry.

"Are you calling me abnormal?" I spat at them, narrowing my eyes as theirs widened. I felt my stomach tighten and bubble with hatred as I clenched my fist, my lunch bag crackling with every twitch of my muscles. "And who are you to talk? You, with the beanie. Are you wearing that to hide your receding hairline? Or maybe you just have the brains of a watermelon and don't know that beanies were totally out of fashion last season. I mean, my dad, who's a bald middle-aged man wears them. So shut the fuck up or I'll be shoving that beanie up your ass."

Beanie-guy's mouth dropped to the ground, and I felt a wave of pride rush through my body.

"Wh-whatever," he muttered, and nudged the other guy. "Let's go, man. She's fucked up in the head."

"Y-yeah..." the other guy said, and the two scuttled away.

I watched as they practically sprinted to the cafeteria, and as they turned the corner I let out a strained breath and pressed my fingers to my throbbing temples.

"Ugh. People like that piss me off," I muttered. Then it hit me. I had talked back in anger. I had yelled at someone. And, for the first time in my life, uttered a word of profanity.

And for some reason, I liked it. I liked it a lot.

"You know, just because you made two shits piss their pants doesn't give you a reason to smile so proudly."

I whipped around, and my eyes zeroed in on the individual who spoke. He had wavy black hair that flopped over his eyes, a dull grey framed with dark lashes. His lips were curled in a smirk, as he leaned against a locker, his dark grey T-shirt, leather jacket and ripped jeans hanging comfortably off his obviously lean and muscled figure. His eyes caught mine, unwavering and cold.

"Well, for someone who had never made any one piss their pants before I believe that was a job well done," I said slowly, my voice tentative. The guy let out a little snort, and pushed himself off the lockers, reaching into his pocket and extracting a cigarette. He lit it, and placed it between his teeth, his eyes never leaving mine. Something about them gave me chills, and the air around me suddenly felt very, very cold, as if the world had frozen over.

"True, I give you that," he said, taking a drag and walking forward, his beaten boots making loud tapping sounds on the ground. He stopped walking, mere centimetres in front of me, and I realised that he was much taller than my measly 170cm. He leaned down, his smokey breath brushing my cheek. I cringed, my face giving him a disgusted glance. His eyes flashed with something menacing and terrifyingly dark, and he leaned in closer, his nose brushing mine.

"Do you need something or don't you, because I need to go eat my lunch made by my mother who loves me oh-so-dearly," I snapped, my tone slicked with sarcasm. The guy's lips twitched, and he moved back, taking the cigarette from his lips.

"You were either dropped as a baby, or you're not afraid of me," he said, turning away to walk down the hall.

"And why would I be afraid of you?" I called after him, causing him to turn around, a sinister smile on his face.

"Because my name's Jett. Jett Miller. Maybe you've heard of me." And with that, he walked out of the automatic doors and into the car park, disappearing from sight.

~At Home~

Okay. So pretty much I had a one-on-one confrontation with Jett Miller. Not a big deal. I have no reason to be afraid for my life. Nope, none at all.

"I am so screwed," I groaned. Ever since that moment at lunch, I had been contemplating whether to write my will or not, because no one who deals with Jett Miller every comes out alive... or sane. Everything my mum wished me not to be can be summed up with Jett Miller. He's had multiple stints in jail, beaten up people hairs away from death an uncountable amount of times, drinks like there's no tomorrow, has a packet of smokes a day, get high on weed during lunchtime, and pretty much swears like he was born in a toilet.

"Fuck me," I muttered, flopping onto my bed, clutching my pillow to my chest. Not only did I have to worry about Jett Miller, I had to try extra hard to suppress my suddenly changed personality. Actually, I don't think my personality has changed at all- this has always been me. I had just never expressed myself because I had been keeping a leash on this side of me, the reckless, rebellious side of me. The bad side of me. But now, since that leash had unexpectedly snapped, I had totally forgotten how to be the little angel my mum thought I was.

But there was a solution to this, a way to not have to tip-toe my way around mum, a way I could be bad and not feel guilty about it. All I have to do is rebel. Rebel in the worst ways possible. I have to do everything mum would hate, I would have to do things that she has told me not to do, things she has drilled into me not to do since birth.

All I have to do is sin.

And the best way to really get to mum is to date Jett Miller.

And this was the start of the Rebellion of Cora Hart.