I'd Rather Shut My Eyes
Apprehension
apprehension, [ap-ri-hen-shuh n]: noun. Fearful or uneasy anticipation of the future.
***
Michaela shut the heavy front door behind her as she struggled to disengage her feet from the heavy black leather shoes she was wearing. As one came off, it caught on her stocking, leaving a huge tear behind. First her bus was late getting her home, taking almost half an hour where it usually took less than 20, and now this.
Just the way to end a Thursday. I KNEW there was a reason I don't like Thursdays; they don't like ME.
Throwing the shoes into the back of a cupboard along with her bag and heavy blazer, Michaela slid into the Manhattan apartment's beautiful kitchen.She could see bright Central Park through the living room's massive windows,and busy 5th Avenue; to her left, East 60th Street and to her right, East 61st.Sparing a few seconds to gaze over at The Pond, she then rummaged through the fridge and shelves to come up with a loaf of bread, ham and cheese, and a frypan. It took her maybe a minute to have two fat toasties cooking in the frypan, the scent wafting gently through the still kitchen air.
Well, maybe this Thursday is a nice one. After all, it's the start of summer vacation on Saturday. Lins and Hattie'll probably spend a good week around this place with me. And then after that, sophomore year! Finally, a handle on the school - maybe a start on some respect.
A brief dance and little scream of excitement resulted in a heavy thump from a room coming from a darkened bedroom. A tousled blonde head appeared, panda eyes peering blearily towards the kitchen.
"Michaela? That you? Ow, damn headache...Can you get me an aspirin and water? And one of those toasties...I haven't eaten since before that party yesterday. Oh, my aching head."
Michaela grinned, and replied "Moms, don't you have any in your bathroom? Besides, can't have these toasties burning. Otherwise we'll be ordering in dinner. You really should go shopping, there's nothing to eat for meals anymore."
The head disappeared again, groaning. "I don't have the time to shop, dollface. Why don't you? You're the cook around here."
This time, Michaela laughed out loud. Reaching for the spatula, she flipped the toasted sandwiches expertly, then left them to cook. Loosening her ridiculously tight tie and manouvering through to her own bedroom with her shirt buttons catching on her school headband, she complained into the thick cotton.
"God this uniform sucks, stupid lame all-girls school. 'Manhattan High School For Girls prides itself on appearance, ladies, so full uniform is to be worn when you leave, whether by bus, subway, or private means. This includes tie, stockings, skirt, to be kept below the knee, blazer on, hair tied back. No makeup!' Jeez, what does she think we're going to do, go out and prostitute ourselves?" Her fine, straight hair got into her mouth and she tried to spit out the brown-blonde tendrils.
Michaela's glasses almost came off with her shirt, and she pushed them up again while going through her small chest of drawers for acceptable after-school wear. There wasn't much. Lindsey had all the good clothes, but she was at her cousin's wedding this week. And Hattie was much bigger than Michaela; it was unlikely that she'd find anything to fit her skinny, tall frame. She sighed and settled on her old dance ensemble: black leggings with blue woolen legwarmers, a decorative black skirt that flung about when she spun, and a white t-shirt. As she dumped the offending school uniform by her door to fix later, she noticed a large cardboard box there. Filled with at least half of her clothes. Turning in bewilderment, she saw more boxes half packed with all her photos and books and knicknacks.
"Uh, Moms?" she called out through the open doorway. "What's up with all my stuff?"
The blonde woman was silent in her bathroom. An awkward silence held, followed by an innocent "What stuff?"
Mikayla looked around in dismay. "Exactly."
***
Michaela shut the heavy front door behind her as she struggled to disengage her feet from the heavy black leather shoes she was wearing. As one came off, it caught on her stocking, leaving a huge tear behind. First her bus was late getting her home, taking almost half an hour where it usually took less than 20, and now this.
Just the way to end a Thursday. I KNEW there was a reason I don't like Thursdays; they don't like ME.
Throwing the shoes into the back of a cupboard along with her bag and heavy blazer, Michaela slid into the Manhattan apartment's beautiful kitchen.She could see bright Central Park through the living room's massive windows,and busy 5th Avenue; to her left, East 60th Street and to her right, East 61st.Sparing a few seconds to gaze over at The Pond, she then rummaged through the fridge and shelves to come up with a loaf of bread, ham and cheese, and a frypan. It took her maybe a minute to have two fat toasties cooking in the frypan, the scent wafting gently through the still kitchen air.
Well, maybe this Thursday is a nice one. After all, it's the start of summer vacation on Saturday. Lins and Hattie'll probably spend a good week around this place with me. And then after that, sophomore year! Finally, a handle on the school - maybe a start on some respect.
A brief dance and little scream of excitement resulted in a heavy thump from a room coming from a darkened bedroom. A tousled blonde head appeared, panda eyes peering blearily towards the kitchen.
"Michaela? That you? Ow, damn headache...Can you get me an aspirin and water? And one of those toasties...I haven't eaten since before that party yesterday. Oh, my aching head."
Michaela grinned, and replied "Moms, don't you have any in your bathroom? Besides, can't have these toasties burning. Otherwise we'll be ordering in dinner. You really should go shopping, there's nothing to eat for meals anymore."
The head disappeared again, groaning. "I don't have the time to shop, dollface. Why don't you? You're the cook around here."
This time, Michaela laughed out loud. Reaching for the spatula, she flipped the toasted sandwiches expertly, then left them to cook. Loosening her ridiculously tight tie and manouvering through to her own bedroom with her shirt buttons catching on her school headband, she complained into the thick cotton.
"God this uniform sucks, stupid lame all-girls school. 'Manhattan High School For Girls prides itself on appearance, ladies, so full uniform is to be worn when you leave, whether by bus, subway, or private means. This includes tie, stockings, skirt, to be kept below the knee, blazer on, hair tied back. No makeup!' Jeez, what does she think we're going to do, go out and prostitute ourselves?" Her fine, straight hair got into her mouth and she tried to spit out the brown-blonde tendrils.
Michaela's glasses almost came off with her shirt, and she pushed them up again while going through her small chest of drawers for acceptable after-school wear. There wasn't much. Lindsey had all the good clothes, but she was at her cousin's wedding this week. And Hattie was much bigger than Michaela; it was unlikely that she'd find anything to fit her skinny, tall frame. She sighed and settled on her old dance ensemble: black leggings with blue woolen legwarmers, a decorative black skirt that flung about when she spun, and a white t-shirt. As she dumped the offending school uniform by her door to fix later, she noticed a large cardboard box there. Filled with at least half of her clothes. Turning in bewilderment, she saw more boxes half packed with all her photos and books and knicknacks.
"Uh, Moms?" she called out through the open doorway. "What's up with all my stuff?"
The blonde woman was silent in her bathroom. An awkward silence held, followed by an innocent "What stuff?"
Mikayla looked around in dismay. "Exactly."
♠ ♠ ♠
So you know, MCR really do turn up. But not straight away. First mentioned in Chapter 8, Chagrin.