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"Well, darling, six months is what it will take. You'll just have to exercise a little patience," she replied calmly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.
"But I can't wait!" I interjected, knowing full well that my mother wouldn't yield. It was up to me to uncover the identity of the man she was about to marry. As disinterested as I may be in this future stepfather, the notion of having one was undeniably strange.
What intrigued me most, however, was the prospect of finally being able to attend college immediately after high school. My mother had made it clear that she couldn't afford to pay for my education, so I could only hope that this mysterious man would be willing to lend a hand.
Now, my mission was clear: I had to discover the identity of the son my mother had mentioned.
I find myself in a peculiar position, unintentionally becoming the top student in my class. I don't mean to boast, but it's hard to deny the facts. Yet, amidst my academic success, I can't help but be perplexed by my mother's reference to someone unfamiliar. Is it possible she's mistaken or perhaps discussing a completely unrelated topic? If only I could ask her, but alas, she won't be able to enlighten me for another six long months. I simply cannot wait that long.
My curiosity continues to bubble, ignited even further by my mother's decision to keep this mysterious man she's remarrying a secret. The mere thought of being left in suspense fills me with an absolute disdain. I am determined to uncover the truth, to put an end to this enigma that consumes my thoughts.
At this very moment, my mind is solely preoccupied with the weighty book that lies in my hands. It obstructs my ability to form any plausible guesses regarding the situation at hand. Nonetheless, I am resolved to temporarily suspend my investigation until I have delved deep enough into the captivating pages and chapters of this cherished book.
However, let it be known that my pursuit to discover the identity of my new stepbrother, whom my mother briefly mentioned, will not cease. It is a persistent inquiry that remains at the forefront of my thoughts.
Chapter Eight
Skye
Monday. The Very Word Tasted Like Stale Coffee And Overdue Assignments. The two-week reprieve Rosedale Academy had granted us felt like a cruel tease, a mere flicker of sunshine before plunging me back into the fluorescent-lit purgatory of term time. My stomach clenched at the thought of books, tests, and the ever-present chorus of chatter echoing through the ancient halls.
Mom bustled around my room, a symphony of neatly folded shirts and crisply pressed skirts filling the air. I watched, a wave of disorientation washing over me as I took in the scene. My uniform lay on the bed, pristine and almost embarrassingly new. No faded stripes, no frayed cuffs – just blindingly white cotton and the stiff, unfamiliar starch that screamed "new money."
"It was time for an upgrade, sweetheart," Mom chirped, oblivious to the storm brewing in my chest. "Your old one, well…" she trailed off, her voice laced with an uncomfortable flutter. "It wasn't…presentable."
My lips tightened. The "old" one had been a battle-scarred veteran of a thousand hallway scuffles and cafeteria spills. It held the whispers of whispered secrets and the ink stains of late-night study sessions. It wasn't perfect, but it was mine.
And the way Mom dismissed it, like a discarded toy, sent a prickle of resentment down my spine.
I used to beg for a new one, picturing myself shedding the tired fabric like an unwanted skin. But Mom, ever the pragmatist, would cite the astronomical cost of Rosedale uniforms, her voice laced with a weariness that mirrored the state of my wardrobe. I understood. We lived in a perpetual dance with the budget, a delicate waltz where every penny pirouetted on the edge of survival.
Now, the music had changed. The waltz had morphed into a tango, fueled by the sudden influx of "new." According to Mom, our lives were a Rosedale fairytale come true, all thanks to her new partner – a man I hadn't met, a man veiled in secrecy for six months, his face and his son's shrouded in Mom's insistence on "the big reveal."
As dear readers may be aware, my beloved audience, my mother has been dedicating tremendous effort towards healing the fractures in our mother-daughter bond. However, I find it necessary to express a single sentiment: my mother excels at attempting to rectify our strained connection. She endeavors to assure my contentment by lavishing me with extravagant gifts, enrobing me in costly garments, and occasionally treating me to enchanting excursions where we can revel in the timeless pleasure of camaraderie.
I must acknowledge, without reservation, that witnessing my mother's newfound bliss is nothing short of extraordinary. It appears that she derives immense joy from the companionship of a clandestine suitor she has been clandestinely courting. If the truth be told, I have come to believe that wedlock with a gentleman of substantial means, as she confided in me once, has perpetually occupied her reveries.
As I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, I couldn't help but feel captivated. The person staring back at me was unrecognizable, a metamorphosis brought about by my mother's determined efforts. I had never taken the time to truly examine myself, to appreciate the transformation that had taken place with my mother's assistance. My nails, adorned with a shiny lavender polish and a playful BTS sticker, added a touch of whimsy to my appearance. Loose, cascading curls framed my face, a departure from my usual simple bun. The only familiar feature were my trusty glasses, a comforting reminder of who I truly was amidst the changes.
As I turned to survey my ensemble and smooth out my skirt, my mother's voice, soft as a whisper, startled me from behind. She appeared like a specter, fully adorned in glamorous attire and adorned with expertly applied makeup. In that moment, I understood the necessity of her heavy cosmetic touch - she had a date with her secret paramour, an occasion she couldn't afford to take lightly.
A genuine smile spread across my face.
"Should I drop you off at school?" Mom asked.
"Oh, that won't be necessary. I'll opt for taking the train instead!" I asserted.
"Alright, Skye, are you absolutely certain? Do you not desire to test out your mother's new car first?" Mom inquired further.
True to her usual style, she had bought another extravagant car for the neighborhood. I couldn't recall the exact make; perhaps it was a Mercedes Benz or something of that sort. Or she could fill in the details and remind me of the brand.
However, I would rather not be seen cruising around in Mom's car.
It's not that I'm ashamed; I'm just not yet ready for such sudden opulence. Mom has fully embraced the nouveau riche lifestyle, unlike me. I simply prefer to continue my habit of walking down the road and waiting for a train or bus to catch a ride to school.
"I'm sure!" I responded firmly.
"Very well, whatever you say," Mom yielded, handing over my backpack. "I packed your lunch and your books as well."
