What They Do to Lovers Like Us

Kamra

 “Kamra!” The name shot through the darkness, ripping me out of my dream world and back into reality. It was, of course, my mother, informing me that if I didn’t get up, I would be late for school. I lie in bed for a few more minutes, taking in the scenery of my room. My Mp3 player lay on the bedside table, and I could faintly hear Gerard Way screaming through the headphones. The walls are covered with band posters, friend pictures, and movie advertisements. The shelves were littered with meaningless junk that has accumulated over my 15 years.   I didn’t have long to observe, though, because my Mom came storming down the hall, stopping at the doorway, her toes just barely touching the line of red nail polish that divided the end of the hall and the start of my bedroom. 2 years ago, when I was 13, my Mom wouldn’t let me go to a school dance, and I was so angry I grabbed my nail polish and drew that line, telling her to never cross it, ever, if she wanted me to speak to her again. Even though the line is chipped and almost gone from 2 years worth of foot traffic, she still doesn’t cross it, for a reason unbeknownst to me.

“Kamra, you have exactly 20 minutes to get to school, so I suggest you get up now. I am not going to drive you; I don’t care how late you will be.” She said as she spun on her heel and walked back down the hall. I watched her walk away for a minute, her blonde hair swishing slightly as she walked. With a huff I got out of bed and threw on a pair of skinny jeans, a hoodie, and my converse, then walked over to the sharpie-covered mirror. I grabbed the brush and ran it through my jet-black hair, so different from my Mom’s, and swept my bangs to the side. Then I looked to my face, and quickly decided that re-applying make-up was not necessary. I was so tired yesterday after Trevor came over that I just passed out, without washing my face or anything. All eyeliner and mascara was intact-if a little smudged- and I looked good enough.