The Real New York

Chapter 1, Hazel

      Colorful dots blurred my field of vision as I woke up to the repetitive, annoying blare of my alarm clock. I rolled over to face it, and as my vision began to focus, I saw the little neon green dashes forming the symbol of time known as 6:30. I stretched my sun-kissed arms and curled fists to the domed skylight-replacing the usual ceiling-and yawned a half-hearted "Good Morning" toward it.

Huh. That's strange. I usually set my alarm clock to 7:30. Hazel thought. Maybe I can surprise Mum and Dad, and my friends, by being early for the first time! I can't wait to see the shocked looks on their faces!! I'm usually always late. And maybe once nearly on time.

Brushing my wavy, dark-brown hair out of my large amber eyes, I sluggishly pushed my tired body out of my black-themed, four-poster, canopy, and king-sized bed and somehow managed to drag myself to my huge, walk-in closet.

I pressed my hand against the fingerprint recognition pad, which led to the floor-to-ceiling cherrywood double doors to open, giving me access to the tons of clothes that I never really wore in my closet.

"Okay, Hamish, let's try this again." Hamish is my talking closet, who apparently has an opinion on what I wear to school everyday. But I haven't taken Hamish's fashion advice since "The Great Clown Incident of 2015."

In third grade, I was getting ready for my birthday party at school, and I made the horrible mistake of asking Hamish to surprise me with what to wear and not show me how I looked like until I actually got to school.

Well, guess what he dressed me in? A curly rainbow clown wig, huge, 2-feet, polka-dot shoes, a frilly circus jumpsuit, and-of course-the signature round red nose. I had never been so embarrassed in all my life. So now I'm teaching Hamish how to choose a normal outfit for me instead of potentially scarring me for life.

"Ooh! I've prepared something for you, miss! You'll love it!" a long, black metal arm extended down from the ceiling, presenting a grey pencil skirt, black heels, a white, button-up blouse, and a grey jacket to finish it off.

I sighed and massaged my temples. "Hamish, sadly it's not 'Dress Up Like A Lawyer Day,' so I'm going to need some normal, everyday teenage clothes. But you're getting there. Keep trying."

While Hamish muttered something about ungrateful girls and not getting paid enough, (Even though he really didn't get paid at all. I mean, come on, he's a closet.) I decided to take matters into my own hands and pick a decent outfit that normal 16-year-old girls would wear to school without getting embarrassed.

I ended up with something that a normal 16-year-old Hazel Gwin would wear to school without getting embarrassed. (Luckily, I'm one of them.) That just happened to be a white tank top, black choker, diamond studs, an olive-green bomber jacket with random comic patches sewed on to it tied onto my waist, black leggings, white Adidas™, and a bunch of hair bands and bracelets on my wrists.

I brushed my teeth and washed my face right before I grabbed my bag and headed downstairs. Waiting for me was an elaborate-and delicious-breakfast.

There were stacks of sweet and savory crepes, steaming platters of scrambled, sunny-side up, over-easy, poached, hard-boiled, soft-boiled and basted eggs, delicious, fatty strips of bacon, piles of sweet buns, fresh, cold fruit, and much more.

I was practically drooling over the heavenly scents. I dropped my bag and pounced on the spread, tearing apart sweet and savory crepes, shoveling mountains of eggs into my mouth, cramming as much bacon as I could next to the eggs, inhaling the sweet buns and fruit. Basically I just ended up with a big, fat stomach ache.

Before my parents could walk in and scold me for eating their breakfast, I wiped the crumbs off with the back of my hand, grabbed my bag, keys, and Sir Hiss-A-Lot, (my tiny, grouchy siamese cat) and left the crime scene.