He didn't realize that love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark. -Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.

I woke up every morning to that quote. It was written on a picture frame which sat on my bedside table, facing my bed, just beside my alarm clock. It was a black frame with the gold letters in swirl, and an eight-by-five photograph of my mother and I.

In it, I'm about eight. My cheeks are rounded and I'm missing a front tooth. My nose is still smushed into my face, like all kids' are until they reach a certain age. My palms are pressed together, holding my chin up, and my fingers are cupped around my cheeks. I have this crazy hair that's all curls and bright blonde, although you can't tell the color considering the print is in black-and-white. My head is titled and at my temple, I am touching the head of my mother.

My mom is the most beautiful woman in the entire world. The picture was taken before she got sick, and her hair is still flowing and gorgeous. Her face is healthy and glowing, and one of her hands is resting on her cheek exactly like mine. She mimics my face as a little girl, showing off her white teeth and causing her blue eyes to crinkle in the corners. I look like a spitting image of her, even as a child.

I made sure that was the picture frame sitting on my beside table. So I could wake up every morning and see my mom's face. To know that she loved me, and I loved her, and like the quote says, that her mark will forever be on my life.

I lay in bed a few moments, gazing at the picture, allowing a warm feeling to fill my chest. The lights are out and the sun is shinning through the small crack in my curtain. I don't want to get up; it's the first week after Thanksgiving and I'm sort of dreading going back to school. At least it's my last year.

"Emily!" I smile to myself, pulling the blankets up to my chin and pressing my face into the pillow. "Emily, it's time to get up!"

Automatically I am jumping out of bed, scampering to the bathroom quickly because the hardwood is cold on my feet. On my way by, I turn off the rotating fan that sits beside my bathroom and then slam the door shut behind me. I like sleeping in the cold, but I'll admit it's a bitch in the morning. Especially since I only sleep in a t-shirt and underwear. I mean, who likes pants?


I crack the bathroom door open and yell, "I'm up!" before shutting it again. Letting out a huff, my bangs lift off my face and I smile cheekily at myself in the mirror, even though the image is blurry. I definitely don't want to take a shower, and I don't smell bad, so I figure I can skip that step in my morning routine.

My glasses sit beside my tooth brush, so I put them on and look at myself more clearly. My hair is awful; it looks like this ninety-five percent of the time, though. All those natural curls that I don't feel like straightening today, so I grab a clip and pin some out of my face, deciding the world is going to have to live with my lazy day.

I decide on a pair of jeans with holes all over them- though none above the knee because 'that isn't allowed' -and a NHS t-shirt, along with my senior hoodie. I slip on a pair of Chuck Taylors and head out of my room, feeling like a lazy bum. I honestly don't think anyone will mind, and it's definitely not like I'm trying to impress someone.

My dad is sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at a newspaper, though he obviously isn't reading it. I bet he's barely awake, the coffee isn't ready yet. My dad can't function without his morning coffee.

He is a big man, with a hairy chin and curly hair, just like myself. It's brown though, darker than mine is, and his eyes are also brown. I inherited my mother's blue eyes, thankfully. There's nothing wrong with brown eyes, but I certainly like mine better. He wears button-downs tucked in and a pair of jeans most of the time, his red glasses perched on the end of his nose. He stands at six-three and weights two-hundred-and-thirty-five pounds.

Personally, I find this hilarious. Why?

Because I'm only five-foot-even.

Yeah, it sucks to suck.

"Good morning, father," I say, smiling to myself as I grab a bagel out of the fridge. I check the time and nod to myself, doing the math in my head. I'll have to eat in the car.

"Morning, sweetheart," my dad says, voice gruff, full of sleep. I smile over at him but he doesn't look at me. He hates getting up 'early,' though I don't really consider this early. I mean, I've been getting up at this time for thirteen years. Just because the company he works for put him on a different shift, he acts like he's dying every morning. He is such a drama queen.

"You're up earlier than usual," he says, looking over at me. I'm surprised he's noted something like this, considering it's 'so early' for him. I smile at him as the coffee machine beeps, and before he can get up to get himself some, I skip over there. I take out his favorite mug, the breast cancer awareness one, and fill it up with plain black coffee. Personally, I find this disgusting. I like some flavoring. Like milk and five tablespoons full of sugar.

"Yep," I say, handing the mug over. He barely has time to mumble a thank you before he is drinking it, pipping hot and searing his tongue. "I have to pick Timmy up. His brother is in town and borrowing his car."

Dad finally pulls away from his coffee, and when he looks up at me, I swear it's like magic. His cheeks are tinting red and his eyes are more alert, as if those few mouthfuls of coffee were enough to fully wake him. He lets out a little sigh and turns to pick up his newspaper, this time actually reading what was written instead of just staring at it blankly.

"Does that kid not have other friends to pick him up?"

At this, I laugh. A loud, heartfilled laughter that sounds in the quiet kitchen. My bagel pops out of the toaster but I don't even turn to get it as I smile at my dad over the ridge of my glasses. He arches a brow curiously at me and I smile cheekily.

"Timmy, have friends? Pa, I'm the only one who can stand him."

At this, my dad cracks a smile and shakes his head. He looks back at the paper and hums thoughtfully as I get the cream cheese to spread on my bagel. My back faces my dad as he speaks.

"I like that kid. You should date him."

"Paaa," I groan, turning to look at him over my shoulder. He gives me that faux innocent look that makes me want to face palm, but intsead I shake my head and roll my eyes, looking back at my hands. "That's never going to happen, okay? He's just my friend. Best friend at that."

"Mmm," he says, and I can practically hear his smirk.

He always thinks that Timmy and I should be together. Don't get me wrong, Timmy's a sweetie and he understands me better than anyone else, but I could never see us actually being together. He isn't really my type, at all. Like, you don't even understand how different he is than my type, not my type. Dad doesn't seem to get that though. All he sees is a handsome, respectful boy that spends way more than half his time with me, and he thinks we're soul mates. Not everyone meets their future spouse in high school like he was lucky enough to.

I finish my bagel and quickly lick the knife clean, tossing the cream cheese into the fridge half-open. My feet are moving quickly as I put my breakfast on a paper towel and then grab a thermostat, filling it up with water.

I turn to my dad and kiss his cheek, smiling in response to his smile. "Bye Papa," I say, grinning as I lean back. "Love you."

"Love you too," he chuckles, eyes crinkling behind his glasses as I practically sprint out to my car. My phone goes off from my pocket but I ignore it. It's not really important right now.

I drive a ninety-five Toyta Camry, blue although the paint is kind of chipping, and I really need new tires. I'm scared to ask my dad for some, though. I have my own money from baby sitting, but it's hardly enough for four new tires. I know things like that are necessary, but we're still recovering from medical bills when Mom was sick, even though that was about four years ago. They were expensive.

When I get in my car, I rub my hands together, feeling sick. It's freezing out, so I probably should have worn a bigger jacket, but I didn't think about it. As I wait for my car to heat up, I take a bite of my bagel and check at my phone.

Unfortunately, I don't have an iPhone like it seems everyone else in my grade does. I have an older phone that's touch screen, but flips up into a keyboard. I can text ten times faster on it, though. That's all that really matters. I see that I got a text message from Timmy and roll my eyes; he's probably being a drama queen and wondering where I am and why I am taking so long. He's probably been ready for a hour, waiting on me. He is such a woman, I swear that's why we're friends.

I tell him I am on my way and then back out, still shivering. I take one last glance at the small duplex my dad and I live in before I look back to the road, flipping the radio on. I can't help but smile as One More Night by Maroon Five comes on. They are definitely one of my favorite bands.

Timothy only lives about two miles from my house, so the fact my dad was complaining I'm picking him up is dumb. I don't think he was serious, though. Although I was. I don't really know if Timmy has any other friends other than myself. It's sad, but true.

And the truth is also that I don't really have other friends.

When I pull up to his house, he is sitting on his porch. Why he would be out in this cold is beyond me, but he is smiling so brightly I can see him from here. I smile back even though he probably can't tell as he hops up and runs across his lawn in the direction of my passenger seat.

He smiles like an idiot and shivers in my passenger seat, giggling like a girl. He wears a red and blue button-down and a pair of blue jeans, Vans adorning his feet. I hardly ever wore jeans because I found them cliche. His long brown hair is in his eyes, like always, and his cheeks are a chapped pink from the cold. He looks cute, I'll admit, and if he was my type I'd probably want to date him. But he understands we just wouldn't fit.

"Good morning my most lovely best friend," he says, practically bouncing in his seat.

As I back out of his driveway and head toward school, I raise a brow over my glasses. "Did you eat sugar this morning?"

"No!" He says, reaching over to shove at my shoulder, causing me to swerve the car dramatically. He squeals and then smiles, finally clicking his seatbelt into place. "But Mrs. Alexander told us she'd finally give us scripts to whatever we're doing for OAP!"

Oh, yeah. I completely forgot about that, if you want me to be honest. Mrs. Alexander was the Theater Arts teacher at our high school, and OAP was short for One-Act Play, the annual UIL event. Every year Timmy has gotten a role and this year, he swore to me he would be getting the leading man and then get voted best actor or something like that. I never told him he was stretching it a bit, because that would be like kicking a puppy.

No one kicks puppies willingly.

Anyway, Timmy acted, and I was backstage. No way in hell would I ever be able to get on stage. You see, I have this terrible, terrible thing called stage fright. I don't mean I get a little nervous. I mean full-blown panic attack, heavy breathing, and pass out stage fright. Being in the spotlight is not my thing, nor will it ever be. So I stick to backstage. Last year, I was the Stage Manager, but this year I'm looking for something a little more laid back. Maybe I'll just be props master or a simple stage hand. I'm good with either, as long as I get to miss three days of school to go to the performances and spend every afternoon at the practices. It gave me something to do during the year, which was exactly what I wanted. Especially since my dad got his new hours and wasn't home until about seven at night. I hated being home alone.

"I'm excited," Timothy giggles, patting his knees.

I shake my head and deadpin, "I can't believe you aren't the gay one."

He looks right at me, mouth slack and bug-eyed. As if he couldn't believe I just said that, and believe me, it was very rare I said stuff like that. Don't get me wrong, I'm a free spirit. I do what I want regardless if others like it. I don't care about other people's opinions or if they approve of my lifestyle. I'm weird, and I go through these hyper stages, and I'm kind of dominate even though I'm smaller than everyone else in school and 'sugary sweet.' Sure, I'm not mean, but I'm pretty sure I'm part boy. Although I don't want to be a boy, don't get that wrong. I just have a habit of acting like the 'one on top,' if you will. It's hard to explain.

I'd come out right now, if I could. I'm not scared of what all the students in my school will think. I could care less what they find right or wrong. What I care about is my dad, who doesn't support homosexuality in the least. He 'respects' them, but he doesn't agree nor approve of it. I don't want to be kicked out or have the only family I have left hate me. So I bare and keep it a secret, for now.

No one's ever caught my attention, anyway. No girl has ever been worth it. I doubt I'll find one in this town.
♠ ♠ ♠
Sorry if this is no good... I haven't written from a girl's POV in so long. Haha.

1. This is our first femmeslash, so bare with us if it's a little rocky. I think this will be good though, believe me.
2. I don't want to stereotype or whatever, but the majority of femmeslashes on this site are either pure smut, or terrible plot lines. Not all, but a lot. I am here to tell you THIS IS NOT GOING TO BE LIKE THAT. At all. There won't be any smut, but if you read my other stories, you know I go into detail with make-outs. That's all. But yeah.
3. I already said this, but bare with me especially (:

I hope you like Emily, and thanks to golden sparrow and ktxdd33 for already commenting! :D