The Fragile Ordinary. Samantha Young

were better than this one. Worlds where there were people I understood, and who if they knew me would understand me. Worlds where the boys weren’t like the boys in this one. They actually cared. They were brave and loyal and swoonworthy. They didn’t burp your name in your ear as they passed you in the hall or bump into you a million times a day because they “didn’t see you standing there.”

      I stretched across the bed, picked up the paperback I was reading and flipped it open.

      No way was some cruddy party hosted by Heather McBitcherson better than the world I was holding in my hands.

      THE FRAGILE ORDINARYSAMANTHA YOUNG

       2

      If only you studied me

      As hard as you study that canvas

      It would set me free.

      Instead bit by bit I vanish.

      —CC

      My dad wandered into the kitchen as I stood at the counter eating a bowl of cereal. As he strolled toward the coffee machine with his hair in disarray and his pajamas crumpled, he stared at me curiously.

      He reached for a mug in the cupboard above the coffee machine. “You’re in uniform.”

      I looked down at myself in misery. I loved clothes. I loved color and shape and throwing things together that other people might not think worked but that felt fun and adventurous to me.

      I did not like the black blazer I was wearing over a scratchy white shirt, or the black pleated skirt with its frumpy knee-length hemline. I’d tucked in the waist, lifting the hem to just above my knees, so it didn’t look as ridiculous. The blazer had gold piping and a gold crest over the left breast pocket. Matching it was the black tie with the small gold crest beneath its knot. My only concession to fun was my black Irregular Choice shoes. They had a midheel, closed just below my ankle and laced up. The fun was in the bright gold stars that made up the eyelets for the laces.

      “When did you start back at school?” Dad turned to me once his coffee was brewing. He crossed his arms, then one ankle over the other, and peered at me over the top of his glasses.

      “Today.”

      “Yeah, I didn’t think I’d seen you in uniform before now. Jesus, that was a quick summer, eh?” He turned back to his coffee and scratched his neck. “Did you do anything fun with your friends?” I barely made the question out through his giant yawn.

      “Yeah, I suppose.”

      “Aye?” He gave me a quick smile. “Good.” Grabbing his coffee, he moved past me and patted me on the head. “When did you get so tall?” he asked as he stopped to pour himself out some cereal.

      I held in an exasperated sigh. “I’ve been the same height for the last year.”

      “Really?” Dad seemed confused. “Are you sure?”

      “Pretty sure.” I was one of the tallest girls in my class.

      “Well, you don’t get that height from Carrie.” He grinned.

      I stared at my dad. All six foot three of him. My mum was five foot three. At five foot nine I certainly hadn’t gotten my height from her. Or anything really. In fact, if I didn’t already know my parents hadn’t meant to have a child at all, I’d have suspected I was adopted.

      To prove my point, Carrie shuffled into the kitchen, her lids lowered over her eyes so far that they were almost shut. Paint streaked one of her cheeks and her hair. While she was petite, compact, with olive skin, and had light brown hair and dark brown eyes, I was tall, slender, ivory-skinned with pale blond hair and light blue eyes. I’d inherited my dad’s eyes, but otherwise we looked nothing alike. He was nowhere near as pale as I was and had dark brown hair. Apparently, I’d skipped back a generation, taking after my Swedish paternal grandmother in looks.

      Carrie aimed for Dad, and he had just enough forethought to dump his bowl out of the way before she collapsed against his chest. “How long have I been in there?” she mumbled.

      Dad chuckled and wrapped an arm around her, kissing her on the top of the head.

      Painful envy stabbed my chest at the display of affection and I looked away so I didn’t have to see it.

      “A few days, love.”

      “Really?”

      I sometimes wondered if Carrie really did get so lost in the art she was creating that the days just slipped away from her. Or if she only pretended to lose days because she thought it made her sound even more artistic. Dad was the only one of us allowed in her studio, and he’d creep in quietly to leave her food and beverages throughout the day.

      “Wow.” Carrie pulled out of his arms and went straight for the coffee machine. She didn’t even look at me. “Diana better bloody love it, then. It’s been a while since I did the hermit thing.”

      “Are you happy with it?” Dad asked.

      Carrie gave him a sleepy grin over her shoulder. “You know I’m never a hundred percent happy with it. But it’ll do.”

      Meaning she thought it was bloody fantastic. Her best work ever!

      I grabbed up my book bag. “I better get to school.”

      “Oh, Comet.” Carrie flicked a look at me as if she’d just realized I was there. “How is school going?”

      The question was asked so she’d feel like she was attempting to care about her child’s life. “It’s the first day of term.”

      She shot an amused oops look at Dad. “Really?”

      Dad nodded. “Comet’s starting fifth year. Can you believe it?”

      If it wasn’t already apparent, Dad was the more involved parent of the two. If you could call his vague interest in my life involved.

      “Fifth year?” She yawned. “What age is that again?”

      In that moment I wanted to run upstairs to her studio, grab a paintbrush, and smear I’M SIXTEEN, DIPSHIT! all over her newly finished painting.

      “It’s sixteen, love,” Dad said gently.

      “No.” Carrie frowned at me. “Did you have a sweet sixteenth?”

      Wow. Okay. She was in fine form this morning. “Yeah.” I grabbed my house keys and headed for the exit. “I spent it with a biker called Vicious and we made sweet sixteenth love all night.”

      I heard my dad’s laughter and Carrie’s confused murmurings as I wandered down the narrow hall to the front door. Outside, the cool morning breeze from the sea blew strands of hair free from my ponytail and I sauntered out of the garden gate onto the esplanade.

      “Not saying hello this morning, Comet?” a familiar voice called out.

      I stopped and looked over my shoulder into our neighbor’s garden. Only a shallow wall separated our paved, no-fuss outside space from Mrs. Cruickshank’s well-tended front garden with its rows of flowerbeds and tiny stretch of lawn.

      Mrs. Cruickshank was on her knees by one of her flowerbeds, wearing her usual uniform of baggy jeans, holey knitted sweater and garden gloves. Her long gray hair was twisted up on top of her head in an old-fashioned bun that I was certain wasn’t even in fashion when she was my age an unknown number of years ago. Thick, bright turquoise glasses were perched on her nose as she peered at me in amusement.

      “Lost in your thoughts again, Comet?”

      “Sorry, Mrs. Cruickshank. First day of school. I’m daydreaming,” I gave her an apologetic smile.

      “First day, eh? Ready for it? Those imbeciles you call parents feed you properly so you have brain energy for the classroom?” she asked, frowning.