Here's some of my writing from a recent project.
I hung my school bag off the back of a kitchen chair and helped myself to some biscuits from the cupboard. A packet of store bought chocolate chip ones. I tore the plastic wrapper along the length and sitting down, placed them in the centre of the table. Alex turned the seat opposite me around and sat in it back to front, leaning forward to grab a handful of the cookies.
The back door opened and Gemma walked through.
“Hey,” she said, doing that upward nod of acknowledgement thing before surveying the kitchen table and picking up the last few biscuits for herself. “You guys are pigs.”
I smirked. Alex ran his fingernail along a groove in the table top.
“When’s dad home?” Gemma asked, opening the fridge and grabbing the chocolate milk. She poured herself a glass, her schoolbag still slung on her back.
I shrugged. “Late. I’m cooking dinner.”
“I hate nacho’s” Gemma said as she walked through to the sitting room, glass of milk in one hand, biscuits in the other.
“You can cook if you want,” I called after her retreating figure, but the only reply I got was the jangly theme tune of her favourite afternoon TV programme wafting through the open doorway.
I watched Alex keep digging away at the groove, his long fringe obscuring his face as he bent forward.
“Don’t break my kitchen table,” I ventured.
They’d broken up. No fight, no discussion. It was just over. But Alex hadn’t been out with anyone else since. We didn’t talk about it.
After Alex gapped it to make tennis practice in time, I wandered into the sitting room.
“Dad’s looking at another house after work tonight,” I said flopping on to the couch beside my sister.
“Hope its better than the last one he looked at,” she scowled. “I want a bigger bedroom.”
“As long as it’s close to school … and we don’t move until after exams,” I said, grabbing the remote and flipping through the channels. The X Games was on one of the sports channels. I have to get my bike fix vicariously now. They put a couple of screws in my wrist and I’m off the bike for at least six months. It aches a lot. My freestyle riding career is on hold.
I ran my hand over the bristles popping out on my scalp. I liked the way they felt.
“Does it itch?” Gemma asked.
I looked over at her. Dark circles framed her eyes. The summer sun hadn’t made any impact yet on her paleness. I don’t know that it had the power to put some colour on her.
“Not anymore … Kim’s getting used to it now too. She likes the fuzz better than what it was like before anyway.” When I cut all my hair off, I shaved every last bit and my scalp had been baby-butt smooth.