DeannaProach

Anya wakes, startled by the loud, repetitive beep of her alarm clock. In a daze, she reaches over to the small night stand and slaps the stop button. She groans, her tired eyes half-closed, while she slips out from underneath the old, but comfortable blanket. 'Great. I'm so tired. If only I had two more hours - but no. When there's no school, there's work, and that's even worse. I hate that I have to get up at five-thirty every Saturday and Sunday morning. My manager always gives me the worst shifts.'

Anya shuffles over to the closet. Unlike most other girls in school, she never rummages through the closet in search of the perfect outfit. She rolls her eyes. 'Oh God, here we go again: the same jeans, faded tank-tops, baggy T-shirts, and sweatshirts. I can't wait until the day comes when I throw away these ugly clothes. I just wish I had the money to buy new clothes, fashionable clothes. Maybe then I'd fit in at school.'
           
Anya traces her finger over the delicate cloth of her one and only bohemian-style summer dress. Even the dress is a hand-me-down, worn by her mother back in the 1970s. But it's the only piece of clothing she loves; unfortunately, it's still too cold outside to wear it. Thank God for my imagination. I don't know what I'd do without it.
           
The things Anya enjoys the most are brushing her hair and writing in her journal. These are the only times she can let her imagination take her away from home. She can pretend to be anything - anything but herself.

Anya rakes her slender fingers through her long hair. 'Today, I'm the daughter of a wealthy architect, so I'm going to wear a pair of Tommy Hilfiger jeans and a green peasant top, the revealing one. Then I'll put on that expensive necklace and those silver hoop earrings that Mom bought for me yesterday.' Anya frowns at her clothes. 'Ugh, who are you kidding, Anya? Why even waste your time pretending to have something when it makes you even more unhappy to realize that you don't have it?'

To get her mind off her clothes, Anya looks at her mother's photograph, the one that always sits on top of the nightstand. Every time she looks at the photograph, she studies her mother's features. Her father used to tell her that she looks so much like her mother, Ana Preschnikov, but until now she never gave it much thought. Anya now realizes why her father used to call her Ana. Ana - who must have been in her early twenties when this photo was taken - boasted the same long, caramel brown hair, chocolate brown eyes, petite, heart-shaped face, slender nose, and smooth, cream-colored skin. Anya often wonders what life would be like if her mother was still alive. It has been so many years since she passed away that Anya has forgotten what it's like to have a mother. Sometimes she dreams about her mother, longing for the comfort of her tender arms and loving words.

Her eyes eventually shift away from the photograph to the journal sitting on the floor in front of the nightstand. The front and back cover is of a soft blue and leather. She received it as a Christmas gift from her best friend, Patrick, a little over one year ago. Since then, she's filled it with her thoughts until only a few empty pages remain; she's planned to leave those pages blank until she purchased another journal - something she's decided to do after work this weekend.

"Oh heck, I can't wait until the weekend. I really need to clear my mind," she whispers. She changes into a T-shirt and a pair of jeans, grabs the journal off the floor, then walks over to the kitchen.

"Damnit, Rachel! I told you to sweep up those cobwebs ten minutes ago. What's the matter with you? Why aren't you listening to me?" Catherine snaps.
I roll my eyes for the fiftieth time today and whisper -- through gritted teeth -- "Everything's wrong with you, and nothing's wrong with me. I'm not listening to you because you're really driving me crazy."
Catherine is my boss; I've been taking care of her (minus the toilet stuff) and her house for a little over two years now. She may be seventy-eight, but she's certainly not frail or meek hearted. Catherine is like fire and ice: some days she smothers me with kindness and (cheap and unnecessary) gifts; most days, she's cold and just downright nasty. Why I don't bother looking for another job, I honestly don't know. I guess seventeen dollars an hour, tax free compensates for the shitty treatment I receive on a daily basis.
"Rachel!"
Catherine's voice is so loud, it makes me jump.
"What?" I say, glaring at her.
"You're not listening to me again. Are you deaf, girl?" Catherine yells, red-faced and shaking her finger at me.
I bite down hard on my lower lip. Looks like Catherine took Extra-Strength Bitch pills this morning. "Yeah. I heard you the first time."
"You don't listen to me. You don't answer me when I talk to you. You don't even do what you're told, and you're extremely disrespectful," Catherine yells, yanking the broom out of my hand.
I shoot her a piercing look, feeling the anger bubble beneath the surface of my skin. Enough is enough! "Look, woman. I've listened to you, and I've done what you've told me to do for over two years. But now, I've had enough of your rotten attitude and your crazy mood swings. Find someone else to take care of you, or just do it yourself. I quit!"
I storm out of the large house without giving her another change to snap at me. I so could have defended myself on the "disrespectful' comment, but whatever. I'm not going to waste my energy and my words on an old, rich bitch. So, I'm going to look for work elsewhere. Guess that's a good idea after all.