I'd Rather Shut My Eyes

rebel, [ri-bel]: verb. To resist, reject, or rise against some authority, control, or tradition.

***

Michaela flipped lazy through a paperback book, kicking her bare legs in the air. She whistled quietly through her teeth. It was more to distract her than anything else. Charlie stared from the doorway, totally silent, distracting Michaela.

Finally she couldn't take it anymore.

"Get out of my room!" she yelled, throwing the book for emphasis.

Charlie looked down at her feet, thinking intently as Michael breathed harshly. After a few more seconds of thought she looked up again.

"But Micky, I'm not in your room."

Michaela let out an exasperated breath and retrieved her book. "Go away!" she yelled again, and pushed the door closed. She leaned against it for a second. Her room wasn't quite messy, but wasn't quite clean either. She was torn between wrecking it entirely or cleaning it before dinner. The late summer sun streamed in through the window, reminding her there was only a week before she had to return to school. Bags of new clothes, books and shoes littered the space in front of her bed also reminded her, though less kindly.

Michaela hauled herself onto a small couch in front of the window and folded her arms on the window sill. Resting her head in her hands, she dozed off in the dimming light.

***

A ball hitting the window brought Michaela back sharply. Her head snapped up and she peered out through the dark, catching a glimpse of three figures rushing through the park opposite.

Probably scared they broke something. Idiots.

The ball rested on the lawn, but even as Michaela watched, one of the figures, a real shorty, rushed back and picked it up before racing away again. She sighed, picking herself up off the couch carefully, shaking out the pins and needles in her arms and legs. Paint splatters covering the floor, legacy to her first attempts to brighten the room up, were smooth against her cold feet as she headed for the kitchen.

Typical. I cover the whole floor with paint, and my father and Lucy don't even care. They think it's cute! They didn't even ask why. Usually you might ask why someone paints the floor instead of the walls.

A steaming bowl of creamy pasta was waiting for her on the kitchen counter. Tucking in before she'd even pulled out a stool, Michaela listened to the happy chatter coming from the dining room. For almost three months she'd refused to eat with them, or do anything at all. She didn't go shopping with Lucy or swimming with Charlie. She'd had to start talking again though, when Lucy had made tomato soup and she's angrily exclaimed that she was allergic to tomatoes. Things had settled down to a slight annoyance bubbling away under her calm outer image - except where Charlie was concerned.

Charlie. Charlotte. Annoying little brat. Stupid toys named after food products, for God's sake.

Lucy never gave up on Michaela, though. She was kind, bought her what she needed, talked to her through closed doors and pillows over heads...the only time she wouldn't budge is when the subject of church came up. She forced Michaela to go. And when she wouldn't pray, Lucy pushed her head down herself. She tried, God she'd tried, to get out of church. But it was hopeless, and every Sunday found her trudging away to the local church with the rest of the worshippers.

Rebelling was harder than she'd thought.