Alice's mother was out of her depth. Cheating on a mafia boss is tricky to get away with. She probably would have ended up dead if he had found out, which he was bound to since she was being blackmailed. So she did the only logical thing she could t...
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CHAPTER ONE: the worst day imaginable The Ballerina Has a Gun grandinat
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The world is most beautiful at the crack of dawn. The sun blearily rises from behind sleeping towers and apartment blocks, gentle rays of light seep in between the cracks and dance across the pavements, warm and welcoming. The roads are quiet-never deserted-but quiet nonetheless. Pedestrians are few and far between, the occasional businessperson (just starting their day) passes by the occasional partygoer, (just finishing their night). There is tranquil perfection in the stark contrast of dawn and dusk. Alice prefers dawn. There is something about the brisk morning air that fills her lungs with every content inhale and the subtle aroma of coffee that lingers towards the afternoon, clinging to the fabric of her clothes, that Alice thrives in. She is without a doubt a morning person. Which is a relief, since she has to get up at the crack of dawn every morning for Ballet practice. Every morning, including Sunday's, she clambers onto the half-empty bus and journeys into the heart of the city.
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✧Alice's POV✧
I am a creature of habit. I drink the same coffee each morning as I sit in the same seat on the bus at the same time on my way to ballet each day. Routine soothes me, the option to slip into autopilot gives my mind the chance to wander. It's nice, consistency. Structure can be oddly freeing. My Mum says I'm just a control freak. I disagree. Just because I feel a need to exercise control over my life and to take command of any situation I am placed in, does not mean I am a control freak. I'm just, assertive. Which is a positive attribute for a woman in todays society! What next, me not wanting to talk to other people makes me anti-social?
Anyhow, this morning was perfectly average. The wonderful blend of clear sky's and the perfect execution of my daily routine. I made myself my usual coffee in a to-go cup and sat in my usual place, towards the back of the bus in an aisle seat (to avoid sitting next to anyone). I arrived at the Ballet studio early, as per usual, and stretched and practiced before class. Class ended at the usual time and I managed to then arrive at school on time, since there were no traffic delays. It was the perfect morning. I should have known it was too good to be true.
First period was where everything went wrong. In hindsight, I should have known not to be too optimistic when walking into the hell-on-earth which is high school. The one day I give up my pessimistic tenancies, it all goes to shit. Typical. The first thing that went horribly wrong, was that Evan Jones was sitting in my seat. The brainless ape seemed to forget the seating plan every other class (maybe caused by too many footballs to the head) and this lesson he had made himself comfortable in my seat. My perfect window seat with both clear views of the blackboard and the tree I like to draw while daydreaming. So obviously I had to say something.
"Move." I had always assumed that the first time I spoke to another student, I would say something a little more articulate than just a one word command. However I was blinded by horror in that moment, and my vocabulary seemed to fail me. "Who are you?" Had been his incredibly dull response as he blinked up at me slowly, as if his small brain couldn't comprehend why I had spoken to him in a manner other than bashfully, as all the other girls seemed to. "The person who is meant to sit in the seat you are occupying." I had ground out, frustrated by his obvious lack of brain cells. "Oh." Had been his response, as he turned back around and continued his conversation with one of our schools many cheerleaders. "So, move." I had repeated, growing increasingly tired of his dismissal. This time he didn't even glance at me, and I was prepared to rip him a new one when the teacher walked in. She quickly told me to sit down elsewhere and I was left to simmer in my anger in the far corner of the room. With no window. And many heads distorting my view.
The day hadn't improved by lunch.
After receiving stacks of homework that I would have to slave over until gone midnight, all I wanted was to sit quietly beneath the tree I usually sat under. Alone, with my ham sandwich and apple slices. Obviously that seemed to be too much to ask for. Before I could even take a bite from my sandwich, I was approached by another student. I didn't know her name, I think I maybe share a couple classes with her, but she was quiet and had no friends. She wore large, thick-rimmed classes over her Forrest-green eyes and freckled cheeks. Her hair was a light strawberry-blonde colour and she wore an orange turtle neck with navy jeans and a purple jacket. She smiled at me and attempted to make conversation. I wasn't in the mood, so I packed my lunch up and walked away. I'm not really the friend-making type. I ended up eating lunch in the toilets. Sitting in one of the stools and staring at the graffitied door, reading the stupid messages written in marker or scratched into the paint with compasses.
Somehow, by some cruel miracle, the day managed to get worse.
My French teacher, who I had last period, decided to keep us back fifteen minutes for a pop quiz. I missed my bus. I didn't think it could possible get worse than that. I dragged my feet the whole way home. Forehead furrowed for the entire half hour I was walking. Every step made me curse the extra weight of my dance bag, which I usually didn't notice on the bus. I could feel my shoes dig into my back and the strap bury into my shoulder. By the time I arrived outside my Mum and I's apartment, I was ready to collapse into bed and take a nice, long, peaceful nap. Turns out when I thought my day couldn't get worse, I was wrong.
