When the Stars come out to Play

So here I am. Guinevere, yes, THAT Guinevere. I guess mom wanted to give me a name with some spunk. She probably knew I was going to need it. In fact, I'm surprised she was ever sober enough to remember to name me. "Thou shalt not speak ill of the dead". "Oops", and at her funeral no less... I guess I should feel something. But I don't. She's dead. I knew this day would come sooner rather than later, and I have made my peace with it. This is her path, she chose it. Me? I never had a choice. Do I sound jaded? I suppose, but when you lived with my mom, you'd know there is no time for bleeding hearts. I am sixteen. For the legal system, I am still considered a child. In reality, I don't think I have been a child since I was seven and Dane, the only "father" I knew, died and left me alone with Alissa daSouza, spoiled kid, drug addict, sociopath. Mom to me equals yelling, envy, blackouts, and being a burden. Anyway, I digress. I am sixteen, and as of this moment I am a ward of the state, for lack of a better term. I have no family left. Once I leave this funeral scene behind, I will step into the unknown. People have come and talked to me, you know "those people" whose job it is to place "the child" in care. They said that I would go to a "good" foster family where I would be well taken care of. Yet no one cares that I don't want to go to a family, I just want to be on my own. If they think I am "just a kid" they have no idea... "Just a kid", cleaned up human vomit and pee, every morning, noon or night, cooked for herself, worked odd jobs all over so she could eat. "Just a kid" had to learn the hard way how to avoid sleazy men under the influence of alcohol and narcotics when her mom was throwing yet another party at home. "Just a kid" didn't get straight A's by being just a kid, but by working her ass off for school, reading everything she could get her hands on, after work, after cooking, cleaning, shopping, dodging insane mothers and paying the bills. In my short sixteen years, I have had more exposure to the evil the world produces than an average 35-year-old. What are they really trying to protect me from? It's not like you can pull a Cher and "turn back time"? I have been providing for myself, paying the bills and keeping up with my education long enough now, that I don't suddenly need "a family" to provide for me. But do they listen? No, do they care what I want? No. It is the law, child, we know better than you child...where were they when I was going hungry, being smacked around by "mom" or hiding from groping men? All this I ponder as the priest speaks the final words of goodbye to my mother. Or whatever he really said, I am clueless and frankly disinterested. Since my arrival, I have been sitting on the small bench in the front of the church, successfully avoiding everyone by avidly studying my shoes. Black glossy doc Martin's that complete my black leather trousers and silky black blouse outfit. The only outfit that I've ever spent money on. Felt I should dress up for the occasion. I have not looked up once, not shed a tear or even took stock of who came to wave off "dear old mom". Honestly, knowing my mom, I am surprised I'm not sitting here alone. Here and there I hear people whisper how "devastated" I must be. If only they knew... did they know? A warm hand touches my shoulder, shaking me out of my reverie. Startled and rather annoyed, I look up and stare straight into emerald green eyes rimmed by long black lashes. My annoyance makes room for fear, regret, anxiety, ... and red-hot anger. Also, why does he need to have these beautiful eyes? Like really. It costs me all of my self-control (trust me, I have some built up) to not shove the hand off me and make a huge scene. "Hello Sörensen" I grind out, "please do not touch me". He gives me the "What the Hell" "one brow up" stare and slowly removes his offending hand. A small smile creeps over his angelic features. Yes angelic, I do not jest. The man has the most beautiful face, almost androgynous yet not, with a bold featured nose and a firm masculine jaw surrounded by a cloud of long silky black hair. Many a woman would kill for that hair, many a man wishes they could pull it off and still be as secure in their manhood as Sörensen. Without giving him a second glance, I stand up and start making my way to the church's exit. I just can't be here with him and keep my calm. Mom might not deserve it, but really I have to maintain some propriety in public. If there were ever a person I wish I would never see again in my life, it would be Sörensen. My loser stepbrother Sörensen. Sörensen the Liar. Sörensen the destroyer. Yes, yes, I am not oblivious to the fact that I am now acting and thinking like a true sixteen-year-old, but I have my reasons. He brings out the petty, spiteful and vindictive... oh the hell I would bring down on this ...this.. well he would be 25 now, I guess « man » is the adequate word. Shivers down my spine, inform me he followed me out. I pick up the pace, but considering I am 1.65 m and he is about 1.90 m, I gain little momentum. "Winnie" he says in his dolce voce. That name! No one calls me Winnie, ever. It belonged to the 17 yr old teen that I thought of as my friend and confidant. But that boy is gone. I turn around and snap: "My name is Guinevere. I do not know any Winnie and why are you following me"? He looks at me, then around and asks mockingly: "do you even know where you are going and what you are doing next?". "What is it to you, Liar?" I mark: Guinevere 1, Sorensen 0 on my imaginary tally, when I see him flinch at that word. " In fact, what are you even doing here? I continue.. "I don't have time for your shenanigans Sorensen... I need to go find my caseworker and I would like to head home wherever that is today". I mutter that last part more to myself than him. " I've already made the necessary arrangements with social services, Winnie, I am the one taking you home, I have asked and received guardianship of you until you are 18". I stare at him openmouthed and suddenly I feel the world tilt, my stomach lurches right before the world goes black. I come to in his arms. Christ people, get the romantic scenery out of your heads. I just fainted because I had forgotten to eat and spent a lot of anger and adrenaline, too much for my glucose to keep pace. I weakly smack at him to let me go despite the cold sweat and shakiness of my body. Gah, how dare he really? Of all the people, he is the one who will be my babysitter for the next two years? I do not think so! I am appealing this decision, starting a petition! Running away from home and hiding in a fantasy world! No way in hell will I be living with mister Almanac 2.0 for two years. I'd rather live in the armpit of a bridge troll! He quickly secures my hands, and he looks down at my sweaty, pale face with worry. Me? I am now proudly admiring the red scratch, one of my filed to sharp perfection claws has left on his otherwise pristinely tanned face. "Let me go, you oaf". People are watching our silly scene from across the street. As he sets me on the ground, I take in my surroundings and realize we are at the church parking lot, next to a black, to me unknown, Range Rover that I am now using for support. He silently opens the passenger door, grabs a can of lemonade from some built-in tiny fridge and hands it to me. I quickly down the sugary drink and slowly get back to my normal self. Meanwhile, he quietly observes me, looking hot as ... (pardon my French) when a breeze gently plays through his hair. "Please, get in the car, so we can go home".Current lack of other options, the need to avoid (more) scenes and possible peace officer interference, I decide to undergo my fate and get into the car. How magnanimous of me. I realize I have been acting out like a crazed teenager, and yes, I recall my earlier words of me not being a child anymore, but this man abandoned me, left me with an insane mother, my anger is justified, and now he pops up to play saviour! I chuff.