Not The Fresh Start I Ordered
(Amara's POV)
The alarm went off like it had a personal vendetta against me. 6:30 a.m., buzzing loud enough to wake the ancestors. I groaned, yanked my pillow over my head, and seriously considered pretending I’d died in my sleep. At least then I wouldn’t have to face today.
First day at Cleverly High School. New school, new state, new life. Everyone else would probably post “Fresh Start, Who Dis?” selfies. Me? I was sprawled across my bed in an oversized T-shirt that said I’m Not a Morning Person—which was less of a fashion choice and more of a personality statement.
“Amaraaaa!”
The voice was sharp, too sharp for this ungodly hour. My sister, Amaka. Of course. She barged into my room without knocking, as usual, already dressed in her neat skirt and tucked-in blouse, looking like she was auditioning for Head Girl. Her braids were pulled into a ponytail so tight I was sure she couldn’t blink properly.
“You’re still in bed?” she asked, arms folded. “Do you want Daddy to come up here and drag you by your ear?”
I peeked at her from under my pillow. “Honestly, yes. At least then I wouldn’t have to use my legs.”
Amaka rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck. “You’re not serious. Stand up, abeg.”
“I am serious. Do you know how much energy it takes to start a whole new school year? It’s basically like signing up for emotional labor. I’m conserving strength.”
She marched over and snatched my blanket. The cold air hit me like betrayal.
“Amaka!” I yelped, curling into myself. “This is child abuse.”
“It’s called responsibility,” she shot back. “Get up before Daddy comes upstairs. You know how he is.”
I groaned again, louder this time, for dramatic effect. “Fine. But if I collapse today, tell everyone it was because I was forced out of bed before my time.”
Amaka smirked. “I’ll tell them you were lazy. Simple.”
Typical. My sister, queen of no sympathy.
Dragging myself to the edge of the bed, I shuffled into the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and stared at my reflection. Same brown eyes, same nose I always thought was a little too small, same lips that looked better when I stole Amaka’s lip gloss. I tilted my head, imagining myself on a runway somewhere in New York, strutting in Victoria’s Secret wings, cameras flashing, people screaming my name. For half a second, it felt real. Then the bathroom light flickered, reality smacked me back, and I sighed.
“Cleverly High, don’t embarrass me today,” I muttered to the mirror.
By the time I came downstairs, Amaka was already setting plates on the dining table. She looked like a poster child for “good Nigerian daughter.” Me? I shuffled in wearing the wrong socks and carrying the energy of someone who’d rather be in bed.
Daddy was at the head of the table, newspaper spread out, glasses low on his nose. His face was the definition of calm but strict, that kind of look Nigerian dads mastered. He didn’t raise his voice much, but when he spoke, you listened.
“Amara,” he said, his voice heavy with that Igbo baritone. “I si na ị chọrọ imechi anya gị n'ụlọ a ruo mgbe?” (Do you want to keep your eyes closed in this house forever?)
I froze mid-step, already feeling the heat. “No, Daddy.”
“Gwa m, gịnị mere ị ji dị ka mmadụ nke anaghị eche ihe dị mkpa?” (Tell me, why do you look like someone who doesn’t take important things seriously?)
Amaka smirked at me over her spoon. I kicked her under the table.
“I’ll be serious today, Daddy,” I said quickly, forcing a smile. “Very serious. The most serious.”
He looked at me for a long moment, then shook his head, muttering something under his breath about “ ụmụaka ndị a ” (these children). He went back to his newspaper.
Crisis averted. For now.
After breakfast, Daddy gave his usual lecture about discipline and “remembering where you come from.” I nodded along, but really, I was too busy trying to sneak extra bread into my bag. Survival kit, day one.
Amaka rolled her eyes. “You’re so unserious. Do you think Victoria’s Secret models eat bread like that?”
I grinned, biting into the crust. “Of course. That’s their secret.”
Her jaw dropped, and I strutted toward the door like I’d just dropped the mic.
First day at Cleverly High. Let the chaos begin.
