G. Perkins

     The rain splashes against the sea of black umbrellas, gray clouds rumbling overhead. Rain washed buildings line rain flooded streets. The drab and dull once again rules the day.
     At least, it thinks it does.
     "'Scuse me, pardon me, comin' through!"
     Black figures scamper to the side and rain water is splashed upon them. I laugh, electric blue bike streaming down the road, leaving rain soaked Londoners cursing my back.
     I turn sharply, back tire fishtailing, causing more rain to fly up and soak me. Brunette hair plastered to my forehead and sticking to my glasses, I peddle as fast as I can. One more turn and I'm flying by a row of copy-cat houses. All simple. All adorable. All gag-me-with-a-spoon disgustingly sweet.
     With a heavy sigh, I roll up the driveway to house 1467. Unfortunately, this dime-a-dozen two story house is also my current residence. Tasteful landscaping in the front that can withstand the torrential downpours of London, a tan exterior with dark brown trim and shutters greet me as warmly as a panther cornering its lunch.
     "Hello, sweetheart," my mother calls as I walk through the door, dripping wet. She rounds the bend, starch pale blue button up shirt tucked into a black pencil skirt. One look at me and her "Don't-even-think-about-it" face is on. Crossing her arms over her chest (without causing a single wrinkle, I might add), she taps her foot.
     "Why do you look like a half drowned cat? And is that my mascara running down your face?" I quickly scrub at my face while my mum wrinkles her nose. "Garrett, boys do not wear make-up," she says slowly. I purse my lips.
     "Yeah? How do you explain all the celebrities then?" I snap back. We've been through this before. First she'll sigh.
     My mother sighs.
     Then, she'll raise her hands up as if telling God "I don't know what happened."
     She raises her hands.
     Before she has time to go into one of her "young men" sermons, I march upstairs and to my room, closing the door behind me. Wading my way through the ocean of clothes covering my floor, I stop in front of the full-length floor mirror next to my closet doors.
     A beautifully intricate frame of ebony surrounding the glass, it belonged to my grandmother. After she died, my mother inherited it but didn't want it. So I took it.
     Hands on hips, I scrutinize the teenager staring back at me.
     Of medium height and lean build, I wasn't exactly cut out for any sports teams. Black and rectangular glasses frame green eyes. They were an unnatural green, as bright and deep as emeralds. One of my best features, I'd say. The plain, bright red shirt fits closely to my torso, hinting at the natural, well-developed muscles beneath. Dark wash jeans hug my legs, dripping onto the stack of papers on my floor. Black and white jelly bracelets coat one arm while a blue, an orange, and a green bracelet adorn the other. Three necklaces wrap around my neck: a plain, black leather choker and two black chords with charms on them. A small, silver hoop in my ear catches the light and bounces off the mirror.
     "Boys don't wear make-up," I mimic under my breath. I wipe away the black lines on my cheeks and under my eyes. With a heavy sigh that could almost be called a groan, I spin away from the mirror and flop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. A black and white photo blown up to poster size smiles back at me. A young boy showing off a drawing to his dad.
     "Hey, Rett. Rett! Come on, man, open the window!"