"MUM, you bought the 'No pulp' kind again..." I grumble, grimacing with my first sip of orange juice.
"Sorry, dear. I always forget which kind you like," she apologizes.
"It's 'SOME pulp'," I remind her for what must be the millionth time.
She scribbles something on the grocery list tacked to the inside of the silverware cupboard door.
"Run out and get the mail?" She asks.
I run my thumb up the stack of napkins that sits on the table. "Do I have to?"
She turns around and gives me a look that usually means No-dear-you-don't-have-to-but-if-you-don't-I'm-going-to-buy-more-no-pulp-orange-juice.
I groan and stumble out the door, still in my pale-blue nightgown. It's not yet light, but mum loves it when we get up early to "Get a fresh start on the day," so I'm stuck getting up at this ungodly hour of the morning, although my little sister Amelia gets off easy, only having to be awake by 7:00. By my estimate, it's about 6:30 right now.
Our mailbox is made of dull iron and the flag is rusted in place so it's always half-up-half-down. I try to do everything I can for our old house. I took over all the repairs when dad left. I should really have fixed that old mailbox long ago.
My parents aren't divorced, but my dad has a job as a professor somewhere in London, and it keeps him away except in the summer months. He left a month early this year to "Get his classroom ready." How long does it take to decorate a classroom?
It doesn't matter. I shouldn't doubt my dad, as he's always been very loving and kind to me. When he's home.
I open up the mailbox, and, shooing away a spider, look through the mail as I'm carrying it into the house. Bill... bill... ad for nose hair removal... ad for back-to-school supplies (Mum'll love that)... Letter to mum... What? What's this? A letter addressed to me?
Ms. Arabell McGeorge
34 Privet Drive
Little Whinging,
Surrey
From somewhere called "Hogwarts". Hmm. I pull my iPhone out of my back pocket and type in "Hogwarts."
Nothing. Google finds an ad for a butcher's shop somewhere in Greenwich called the Hog's Wart, but I doubt the butcher's shop is offering me a job.
I step into the house and hand my mum the other letters. I sit down at the table, push my orange juice and cold oatmeal aside, and open the letter...
~~~~END OF CHAPTER ONE~~~~
I'll update once a week.
Hope you enjoyed :3
"Sorry, dear. I always forget which kind you like," she apologizes.
"It's 'SOME pulp'," I remind her for what must be the millionth time.
She scribbles something on the grocery list tacked to the inside of the silverware cupboard door.
"Run out and get the mail?" She asks.
I run my thumb up the stack of napkins that sits on the table. "Do I have to?"
She turns around and gives me a look that usually means No-dear-you-don't-have-to-but-if-you-don't-I'm-going-to-buy-more-no-pulp-orange-juice.
I groan and stumble out the door, still in my pale-blue nightgown. It's not yet light, but mum loves it when we get up early to "Get a fresh start on the day," so I'm stuck getting up at this ungodly hour of the morning, although my little sister Amelia gets off easy, only having to be awake by 7:00. By my estimate, it's about 6:30 right now.
Our mailbox is made of dull iron and the flag is rusted in place so it's always half-up-half-down. I try to do everything I can for our old house. I took over all the repairs when dad left. I should really have fixed that old mailbox long ago.
My parents aren't divorced, but my dad has a job as a professor somewhere in London, and it keeps him away except in the summer months. He left a month early this year to "Get his classroom ready." How long does it take to decorate a classroom?
It doesn't matter. I shouldn't doubt my dad, as he's always been very loving and kind to me. When he's home.
I open up the mailbox, and, shooing away a spider, look through the mail as I'm carrying it into the house. Bill... bill... ad for nose hair removal... ad for back-to-school supplies (Mum'll love that)... Letter to mum... What? What's this? A letter addressed to me?
Ms. Arabell McGeorge
34 Privet Drive
Little Whinging,
Surrey
From somewhere called "Hogwarts". Hmm. I pull my iPhone out of my back pocket and type in "Hogwarts."
Nothing. Google finds an ad for a butcher's shop somewhere in Greenwich called the Hog's Wart, but I doubt the butcher's shop is offering me a job.
I step into the house and hand my mum the other letters. I sit down at the table, push my orange juice and cold oatmeal aside, and open the letter...
~~~~END OF CHAPTER ONE~~~~
I'll update once a week.
Hope you enjoyed :3
What? What's this? A letter addressed to me?
