Ah, working titles are fun, yes? Of course. So, the premise for this is something like a high school journal entry. I'm using this story as a practice for writing from a different perspective than my own: Female, 16-ish, attending a preparatory school for the first time. There will be further additions to this Topic. I want the overall thing to feel like journal entries for short moments in the girls life. No name for her yet. Suggestions welcomed.
Tuesday morning! and I’m in the line to purgatory. My mother sits calmly beside me. How she can manage to breathe evenly is beyond me! Oh, wait, it’s my first day at a new school, not hers. Of course!
My sneaker clad feet tap against the gray flooring in my mother’s Nissan. It’s a nervous habit of mine. This line is moving at the slowest possible pace! Stupid cars. Stupid Nissan. If not for the car’s exceptional habit of needing half an hour to start properly, the morning would have been better. Still miserable, but thirty minutes less miserable.
The vehicles in line ahead of us are nothing like my mother’s Versa. Each one is more expensive than the next. I bet they start on time. Stupid prep school. Stupid rich father. If not for him, this final will and testament of torture would have been avoidable. But no! He had to decide to provide for me in this way, this post-mortem attempt at fatherhood.
The car inches forward a few more inches. “Do these people know how to move any slower? Is it possible?!”
"
"Sweetie, surely you’re not upset this early in the morning.”
“Of course I’m upset! You moved me! Half-way across the country, and for what?”
“School. You’ll be grateful one day for the education here. Honestly, your head is full of big dreams, but how do you think you’re going to accomplish them without a point to dive from?” She smiled delicately, and her hand reached across to squeeze my leg in support.
“Shut up mom. . .” Her attitude was ruining my anger.
“Shut up, sweetie.” She smiled wider, pulling forward to let me out of the silver car of distress. The wasted thirty minutes brought back my disgruntled mood, full-swing.