Dawn bestowed her golden fragrance. Beyond the basked metropolis, whisking away the moon's presence, the morning breeze veiled her night essence. Twenty-four hours painted a picture of spring portraying a summer debut. Always and forever, South Bay embraced her signature weather with ethereal nights established on desert foundation.

My alarm blares at the count of six. A sound I silence with a groggy swipe, before diving back into my thoughts.

There's nothing special about working in the field.

Dear Lord, who birthed this controversy? What stemmed from the appropriation of working five days a week? Mondays should be removed from the calendar. Decree that as child labor. Better yet, a thirteenth month should be manufactured. To dwell in power, I would regulate the notion. Abide by law, no school with extensive vacations.

The thought fades as I continue to drag on.

Freeways are terrible. Merging from the 405 to the 110 is nothing but the devil. Traveling north is hell on earth. It's a mixture of purgatory and asphalt.

"Waking at six depicts my excitement," no one ever says.

Why won't summer just last forever?

I'm just ready to graduate.

I glance at my open itinerary. Late nights and looming deadlines made mornings like this a struggle. Battling insomnia was a nightly occurrence, but my black moleskin journal offers solace—a secret place for dreams and manifestations. Feels like I came across various topics, even those so far from this planet. For example, a deadly virus that could threaten civilization. Granted, those are reflective in apocalyptic settings.

The irony of history repeating itself is slim in today's setting. Medicine and technology continuously elevate and promote breakthroughs with each passing day. Humanity is so far ahead of its time in the direction we are headed.

These are my thoughts taking hold. I really need to lay off on the doomsday scenarios.

A quarter past signals the second alarm.

I conclude the final sentence, "To be quick or chastised for tardiness."

"Just a month left," I mutter, attempting to summon some excitement for the day ahead. I just had to think about how close I was to graduation. That thought alone helped me survive the demands of middle school. After initialing my signature, I bookmark the ivory pages and seal my ballpoint pen. Swiveling across my auburn floor, I move on to my dresser and pull out the school uniform—a white polo and black denim bearing the academy's insignia, placing them on the king-sized comforter. I analyze the mandatory dress code. One would think all the revenue the academy has accumulated—they'd at least invest in higher quality clothing or allow free dress code with a meaningful criterion, of course.

But that's nothing to riot and raise pitchforks over.

It's just a necessary evil.

From there, a hot shower along with daily skin care revitalizes the soul. I donned the institute garments and caught my reflection. The uniform outlined a slim silhouette, ebony hair cascaded my back, and bangs framed across chestnut vision, I was ready to overcome my conquest.

I grant myself the nod of approval.

"Let's go be great," I whisper and exhale a breath of determination.

Opening the door, I step into the threshold from my bathroom. Before I knew it, suspicious movement caught my peripheral. With that effect, my heart sank. While I was away, someone was in my domain and stole my prized possession.

"AUBRI!!!" I yell, storming out of my room toward the staircase.

The spiral stairs gleamed under the chandelier's light, centered above. Across, the other side leads to three doors. One of them had a design of floral and white petals. I barged into a room, examining the domain of plush animals and floral wallpaper.

"Oh, sister," I coo, scanning the room. "Give me my journal. I promise not to hurt you."

Silence. Her defiance was predictable.

"Last chance," I warn, advancing another step forward.

Proceeding with caution, shuffles from a toy pile captures my attention. I ease my way to the discovery, like a predator pursuing its prey. Another shuffle signals my heed to take action. Anticipation follows, plunging myself into a pillar of cotton. My efforts were in vain. Creating distance, steps fade as the culprit escapes.

"Get back here, you little thief!"

I bolt to the first meeting place. At the top of the staircase, I pause just in time to see her braided pigtails, adorned with white barrettes, bobbing down the steps. I pick up the pace on my pursuit. Following behind, the decline continues down three flights. Descending the encirclement connects a sounding crash. To address reckless behavior, I leapt over the handrail, negating the danger upon landing on the ground floor.

How does someone trip over air and why do writers dramatize survivability in horror films? Matters that don't matter because nothing can hinder wrath and infliction.

With her face full frontal, I place my foot on her with a retrieval of bearings.

"Girl, how many times do I have to tell you—Stay out of my room!"

The rascal counters, "Clair, get your claws off of me!"

"What did you say to me!?" I pull a tail as collateral. "You better say sorry."

Satan's spawn retaliates. "Never." Making eye contact, the brat showcases her crooked teeth. "I'll never apologize. I'm telling Mama if you touch another hair on me."

Aubri was clever to taunt my way. However, that would not change her fate.

"You asked for it." Wrapping her frail neck, I dug my other fist into her braided scalp.

Her screaming defeat cost her the game of wits.

"Now, are you going to stay away?"

Victory was short before answering to foul play of a sharp pain loosening my grip.

Releasing my journal, I stumble forward, and my ears perceive the inflictor. "What the hell are you two doing!? Not in my house! It's too early for this nonsense!"

"Are you trying to kill me?!" I counter pettily.

A woman stood before us with bronze complexion radiating authority. Wrapped in a bun, her curly bundles of brown highlights—and full lavender lips contrasted with her gray joggers, accentuating her lean posture. She stood at five-nine—two inches above my initial height. Her almond-shaped eyes sparkled beneath retro spectacles, framed by arched brows hinting at her annoyance.

"Mommy!" Aubri cowers behind her. "Clair's being a big meanie!"

I flare my nostrils and point a finger. "Liar. You stole my journal!"

Aubri blew raspberries, and my fists clench in fury. "Listen here, you conniving little—"

"Enough!" Mom snapped. "Both of you! Why are you always coming for each other?"

"I didn't send for her! She's always invading my space!" I shot back.

"Honestly," the lady of the manor exhales in frustration, pinching her nose bridge. "All the hard work I do to aid in the stability of this household, and I can't even get an inch of subtlety without you two ready to kill each other at the start of the week." Her fury was directed toward the youngest. "Aubri, don't go through your sister's things—," she scolds as I nod smugly. "—Even if her ideas are executed beautifully."

My smile falters. "I beg your pardon."

I thought she was on my side until I heard confession.

Did I hear correctly? Mother pleading guilty to the invasion of privacy?

She gives me a knowing look. "To be blessed with vivid imagery, my daughter could be the next big thing. If only she'd redirect her energy more to her studies and not write things about her family."

I fall over from the subliminal and Aubri rolls on the floor with uncontrollable laughter. My face flushes with anger and flexes an index to the accomplice. "You read my journal?!"

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"I might've skimmed a few pages," confesses the defendant, "But I didn't read it."

She just admitted a few seconds ago. "Unbelievable! Why would you do that?"

Unyielding, Evelyn folds her arms. "Your father and I pay the bills. I do as I choose."

I stare at her speechless, almost losing my balance again.

"That's just cruel. Yet, petty is a virtue, coming from you," I retaliate.

"Watch yourself, little girl," she deflects. "You were rough with your sister, and I won't tolerate misconduct."

But—I was hit with a broomstick. The thought wants to release but I pull back.

"Secondly, I wasn't aware of this diary. Why didn't you tell me about it?"

Because you're so nosy.

Releasing the thought would only add fuel to a pointless fire. Evelyn's a sensitive woman. The type of mother who loves her children and will bestow the world with the following exception: Know everything, have the final say, and not be held accountable for any problems created by their doing. A classic case of narcissism. This notion causes me to retrieve my dream pad on the marble tile and elaborate further.

"You guys talked about this already. Daddy gave me this on my thirteenth birthday."

She sighs in an unimpressive manner. "Your father... Always doing something without consulting me." Sounds like a personal problem, but I fought the urge to roll my eyes as Evelyn continues her sob story. "I was against the notion, but your father convinced otherwise. He thought it was best to keep personal thoughts at your disposal."

Last I checked, my thoughts were hidden before anyone could interpret a syllable. It's almost seven-thirty and this bombardment of shenanigans is emotionally draining.

"It was," I say firmly. "Until someone decided to invade it."

"I'm your mother. I'm allowed to be concerned."

"Uh huh," I reply sardonically. If there was a participation trophy for this, I'd give her the award for the Most Prying Mother on the Planet.

"Clair, get your stuff," she orders, dismissing the argument. "Before we're late."

There she goes blaming me again.

"Don't you owe me an apology?" I push back, refusing to budge.

"I'm taking you to school, aren't I?" She turns her back and proceeds to the garage.

I protest under my breath, "Do you even have an ounce of humility?"

"I'm sorry—," My mother faces me slowly after her attempt of walking away. "Did you say something?" she questions sharply.

"N-nothing at all," I stutter, waving the white flag. "I'll meet you in the car."

~ ~ ~

Division by a metal fence separates the parking structure from the courtyard, where laughter echoes amongst the schoolyards. Compact cars and luxury vehicles rolled through the black entry gates. Students depart their compartments with farewells, scattering across the school grounds.

The recollection of early childhood brought a bittersweet pang. Time had proven itself both a gift and thief. Back then, preschool was a blur of snacks and recess. Middle school, however, has been an entirely different experience. Endless assignments stretched across six or seven subjects. Five days condensed within forty hours and crammed in thirty-six weeks.

My point is that it is ludicrous. And yet, here I am, enduring it. Calvera Academy—a private institution known for its rigorous standards and lofty ideals—is considered one of the top ten schools in the state. Boasting with its state-of-the-art technology, religious foundation, and passionate faculty, its creed rang loud and clear: Shaping Innovators into Tomorrow's Leaders.

#

With tuition at a moderate bracket, funding such an establishment is not docile. Patrons and sponsors keep the vision alive—my father included. Allegedly, Daddy was one of Calvera's top donors. Despite his construction business, his passion for education shines evident. Did that make his daughter Queen of the Scene?

They call me Renegade, a rebellious queen.

Safety's a familiarity, but I yearn for a different sense of direction.

"Have a great day at school, girls."

Aubri leans forward, planting a quick kiss on the driver's cheek.

"You're picking us up, right?" I inquire.

Despite our earlier argument, I'm unable to mask lingering frustration.

"I'll let you know," Evelyn lowers her tone. "The crew discovered something at the lab last week. Might be an anomaly."

Sighing from disappointment, I nod with acknowledgment. Evelyn Tisdale wasn't an ordinary photographer. She's a master of her craft, choosing science over glamor. Her fascination with galaxies shaped her career in ways I couldn't fully comprehend.

"Look after your sister," she instructs upon my exit.

I nod and seal the shotgun.

Evelyn and I don't get along, but we can agree on family matters that involve the little one.

The silver coupe drives off, merging onto the street after Aubri and I step onto the pavement. Looking ahead, the day was a mix of promise and uncertainty.

Turning a corner, I exhale relief.

"You have to babysit!" she pesters.

"I'm not in the mood, Aubri."

"I'm sorry." Her response shocks me. My little sister looks away, fixating on black concrete. "I wanted to hear some stories. I miss the days you used to read to me."

Didn't see that coming. Deep breaths steady me as I exhale and embrace her scalp.

Perhaps, neglect isn't what any of us needs.

"How about this? Before I leave town, I'll show you what I've been working on—not in my journal, though," I propose, releasing her from feedback. "Swear on the pinky?"

Extending my finger, the preppy girl seals the deal.

We, sisters, stroll the facility of embedded grass and concrete. Around the courtyard, an obstacle course was assembled on blue flooring. Rubber stretched across the wide court and intersected the playground. Ahead, the main building stood tall with an imposing four floors: its width rivaling that of a small office building. Marble, bricks, and plaster fabricated its walls, and the roof shielded occupants from weather conditions. Inside the vast building, Aubri and I descend the steps of blue concrete.

By 8:30 AM, all students have a homeroom grace period. Fifteen minutes beyond that meant a trip to the main office. Distribution of green slips require signatures within twenty-four hours. Failure to do so results in consequences. Pink slips ruined weekends. And if you thought about forging your initials? Forget it. Faculty kept records from orientation. I've been late before, but I learned to avoid that scenario. Evelyn's not keen to tardiness, even if the fault was her own. She knows the green slips I've gotten were from her procrastination. She simply refuses to admit it.

"Good morning, girls!" greets the superintendent. "Lovely Monday, isn't it?"

Flipping the clipboard of names, I find a blank space. "Absolutely," I oblige.

How does anyone respond to such a question? Adults have odd perceptions. Five days of work and minimal play. I pray my life won't succumb to forty years behind a desk.

"Is Taylor here?" Aubri inquiries about her best friend.

"She's in Study Hall," the administrator answers. "Also, there are plenty of snacks left from earlier. Help yourself, sugar plum."

"Yay!" Aubri dashes out of sight.

"Hey! Be careful—," She was gone mid-sentence. "She's so annoying."

The admin giggles. "She's adorable. I recall you were like her."

"Hardly," I retort with pride. "I don't remember acting so spoiled."

"Of course, you don't. Your sister will grow out of it though."

I detect a hint of shade but shrug it off. Ms. Richardson is one of the few faculty members I care for. A beautiful woman with a positive soul. It's unfortunate her marriage succumbed to a messy divorce by her ex-husband's philandering. Of course, Taylor doesn't know the real reasoning. I'd stumbled upon the information accidentally. (Just don't tell Evelyn.)

"What time is it?" I ask, while signing the family signature.

Ms. Julie glanced her two-tone bezel. "8:05."

I sign the time on both lines and return the clipboard. "How are you?"

"Blessed. And yourself?"

A nervous chuckle escapes my lips. "Just ready for school to end."

Richardson places a hand below her chin, as her left arm presses against the green tunic.

"Graduation's right around the corner. You should be excited."

I nod with anticipation.

"What about high school? Have you decided on an institution?"

I froze, hope crumbling in confession. "I haven't made a decision."

"Why the indecision?"

I hesitate, calculating the chances. There's a 99.9% chance Evelyn would hear about this conversation and have a fit worse than this morning. The remaining 0.1% is hinged on empathy.

"Clair, are you alright?"

My train of thought departs. "Yeah, sorry. It's just that none of the schools I've researched pique my interest."

Lord, forgive the lies I confess.

"Sweetie, it's okay," she reassures me. "High school is nerve-wracking in the beginning stages. You'll know what's best when the time approaches."

I wish this beautiful woman could be my high school admin. "Thanks, Ms. Richardson."

"Don't give up," she encourages.

"I better grab the child of gluttony before she consumes everything," I joke.

She responds with a warm laugh. "Don't be so hard on your sister. Have a blessed day."

I chuck a peace sign.

~ ~ ~

Of all things, Aubri devoured five donuts and four apple slices in a matter of three minutes. My insides cringe to the black hole in her stomach and the glaze caking her fingertips.

I heed a warning. "You'll get sick, and I'm not here for it."

"I was hungry."

"Why didn't you eat breakfast then?"

"Because you attacked me like some belligerent psychopath," she states nonchalantly.

My hand automatically retaliates with a light smack to her scalp. "Next time, don't go through my stuff and we won't have this problem."

The girl cringes, emitting a pang expression. "I said I was sorry!"

I scoff. "Doesn't excuse that smart-ass mouth."

"You're so mean! I'm telling Mama you cussed," she exclaims, facing my direction.

"Shut up, Aubri."

Being the middle child is exhausting. The black sheep always gets the short end of the stick. The oldest acquire all praise and the youngest indulges in spoils, despite destructive behavior. That pronounces an early gravestone on my end. Misunderstood because others view us as beneath them. It is wrong to underestimate the elder. We adapt faster than our counterparts.

"I'm still telling," Aubri interjects. "And when do you ever listen to Mama?"

My eyes squint to the petty notion. "I always take you where you need to go."

"So, you need to escort me down the corner?"

My vision narrows deeper. "You know the hall door is enroute to my locker."

"Well, we're here now. You can go," she dismisses with a bear hug. "Love you."

"Yeah, yeah," I return the favor and release her. "Stay out of trouble."

As she walks away to congregate with her peers, I notice the early arrival students watching a classic. One of my favorites: Aladdin and the King of Thieves. Although, I should reiterate. Aladdin is a classic; the sequels merely complement the grand storyline. Inspired by Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, I always wonder about Aladdin's father. (Spoiler Alert!) Later revealed as the King of Thieves, his path to redemption forms a fascinating arc. It's crazy how cartoons mirror reality. Jasmine was born into wealth, Aladdin was raised in the streets, and his father fought for a better future before he abandoned his family.

I wish we had stronger bonds. Not that my father neglects us. He treats his wife and daughters like royalty. Still, I'd rather have his company. Materialism means nothing. My father is an excellent provider. But would it kill a man for time and devotion? Is money that important? Maybe I'm too naïve to understand the concept.

I'll admit it myself. I am spoiled, but I still feel like a prisoner.

The sensation feels familiar, walking through the hallway, leading to the upper floor.

Upon my exit, the wind sweeps over me.

Freedom bypasses the woods, blocked by brick walls and suburban views. Two paths present before me: West—The Parking Lot. East—My appointed destination. Gripping my bag of dazzling keychains, my heavy mane whiplashes against the breeze. Blocking views of the latter, a blue side door comes into peripheral, and an obstacle course lies dormant. The only accessible piece available to middle schoolers was monkey bars in the shape of skyscrapers. No one gathers in this part of campus minus the distant echoes and voices. Outside the middle corridor, a perfect opportunity presents itself. My eyes settle on a bench embroidered with Calvera's insignia.

Since the red dawn, the image shrouding confession bestows a semblance of release.

~~~