Chapter 5 (Sadie)

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On Monday morning, the message came from before I was even conscious.

Connor: Be on the lookout for gum today ;)

Winky face? I rolled my eyes, walked over to my cupboard and pulled out a pair of jeans, sneakers and a shirt that read "Welcome to Hawaii". Not fashionable, but whatever. I liked shirts from around the world. They reminded me that there were places beyond these perfect houses and pretty manicured lawns.

My neighbourhood oozes a sort of perfection that is both nauseating and quite frankly, concerning. The suburb has an eerie 'stepford wife' vibe to it that lingers in the air like the smell of lavender and jasmine bushes. There's even a 'Best Pavement' award and of course, our house has won it three years in a row! But everyone who lives here, seems to buy into this perfection with puppy-like enthusiasm. They love it. I'm convinced there's some kind of sinister mind control at play though. All the woman smile prettily as they cook and do the laundry (except here, they pay someone else to do the laundry and complain when something isn't folded correctly). Especially if you're my mother.

I walked over to my mirror, still not fully awake, put my tshirt on and ran a brush through my shaggy hair, letting it fall wherever the hell it wanted too, which was usually into my face. When I was younger, I'd cut all my long blonde hair off. It had been a kind of silent coup against my mother, trying to overthrow her need to dress my sister and I up in identical outfits, with identical cute pigtails. It had worked, and I'd kept it that way, so that no one would ever confuse me with McKenzie. I noted that a mysterious mascara seemed to have found its way onto my dressing room table too. Clearly my mother had bought it for me. She always insisted I wear it.

"We Glover woman are cursed with pale lashes. Makes us look like ghosts."

She and my sister smeared the stuff on so thickly that it looked like they had spider's legs growing out of their eyeballs. But then I thought about Connor. I wondered if wearing mascara might make me appear more women than dude? I picked the stuff up, pulled the lid off and gave my lashes a quick coat. But in seconds, my eyeballs were on fire, and I found myself running to the bathroom to wash it off. Clearly, mascara was not my thing. I rushed downstairs when I'd managed to get all the black smudges off and was greeted by my mother's usual disapproving look.

"Sadie, do you have to wear that t-shirt? What about the nice blouse I bought you last week?"

"The pink one? The one that looks like if I wear it, my IQ will plummet by ten points?"

"But it's just like your sister's."

"Exactly," I said, walking into the kitchen. My mother rolled her eyes at me as if she'd given up—until tomorrow morning that is.

I sat down at the breakfast "nook" as my mom called it. Around here, things were not called by their normal names. A bedroom was a "boudoir," and a kitchen table was a "nook."

"Besides, we're not six anymore, so you can't expect us to dress the same," I added.

As if on cue, my sister flounced down the stairs wearing a pair of short cut off denims, texting as she took the stairs two at a time—Does she have eyes at the top of her forehead so she can see where she's going?

I wondered what my dad thought of her outfit, but he was too busy reading his newspaper, no doubt scanning the business section for crashing and burning businesses that he could snatch, fix up and sell for a small fortune.

Our house is a testament to my dad's success. An obscene house with six bedrooms and more rooms than could ever be occupied. It towers above all the other lavish homes in the area, and basically sticks its big, fat bejeweled middle finger in their upper class faces. Me? I don't care about that kind of thing and I certainly don't take advantage of my father's credit cards like my mother and sister do.

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