IMO DAZIEL, 15

 “Look, Jessica, you are not going to it, and that’s my final word on it!”

 My God, I hated it when Dad was like this. He wasn’t even giving me a chance to get my points across about why I really should be attending Rob Carlyle’s house party. I’d thought up the perfect argument in my head: yes, there would be alcohol at this party, but of course I was going to be more responsible than to drink some myself.  No, there wouldn’t even be a chance for any boys to try it on with me, because I’d have my good friends Tom and Harvey close by if I needed. No, I would not be home all that late, yes, there would be a group with at least a few boys in to escort me home, and yes, everyone who was anyone was going to be there, and wasn’t a teenager’s self-image so important in the 21st century?

 But as soon as I’d mentioned the possibility of going, Dad had almost seized up and had become a solid brick wall of negativity. It had to be a bad day at the office or something; he wasn’t usually this tight about things (which, apparently, was amazing, because I “had the ability to test the patience of a saint”). It must have been his frustrations with his new secretary Belinda – yes, that would be it. He hadn’t stopped going on about how useless she was and how he should have had more say in her getting the job all week. I was thinking about maybe giving him some comfort on the situation as my next tactic, but honestly, I knew that my little window of hope was gone. Dad had put bars and closed the curtains on my lovely, lovely window.

 And then she put the bloody padlock on.
 “Listen to your father, Jess-“
 “Don’t call me Jess!” I hissed. It was a pathetically weak thing to say to my dad’s wife (I have never ever called her ‘my stepmother’ and believe me, I never ever will) but I just wanted her to keep out of the conversation. That was one of the biggest reasons that I absolutely detested her; she got involved with everything. Gone were the days of Dad and I sitting down and having a father-daughter talk, because she had an ear around every door, listening in for more possible ways to make my life a living Hell. So far, she was pretty good at it, too.
 “We’ve been through this, Jessica, don’t talk to your stepmother that way.” Dad already sounded exasperated; he knew me too well, and knew I wasn’t going to back down now that his beloved had entered the room - and my privacy - once again.
 “I’ll talk to her how I want,” I said, in a voice that came out sulkier than I’d wanted. “But it was our conversation...”
 “Yes, Jessica, it was,” interrupted Dad, “but the conversation is finished now. I’ve told you, you’re not going to be there. That’s that.”
 “Your father’s right, give us a break-“
 “Shut up!” I could feel my blood boiling already. She had this fantastic way of just breathing to make me feel inexcusably angry towards her.
 “Jessica...” Dad had assumed his warning voice now. “I’m keeping you in Friday night, I can make it Saturday too?”

 I suppose what made me walk out of the front door and out into the freezing November evening was the flicker of a smile I saw her on face when Dad had delivered his threat. I saw it out of the corner of my eye. The thing with that woman is that she never smiled with her eyes, only her mouth, and that famously cold smile was curling at the precise moment I turned to look at her with daggers, bows and arrows, whole artilleries in my eyes. Then something in me snapped, but instead of lashing out as I so dearly wanted to do, I vented my frustration on smartly walking downstairs, wrapping my jacket round me, snatching up my keys and slamming the front door behind me, all to the symphony of the two of them calling my name, angrily at first, then eventually in a pleading tone. I was having none of it.
 I regretted not having my iPod or my mobile for some sort of comfort as I strolled down the street. Where the hell was I going, anyway? The street lights were just starting to come on and the air had a chill in it. Clearly a perfect time to leave the warmth of the indoors, however hot-headed I felt. Trust me, eh?
 Eventually, I took refuge in the bus shelter. A few buses came and went, a few faces inside each looking down at me almost submissively. Did they think I’d run away from home or something? Well, I guess I had. For a little while, at least.
 My trains of thought turned dream-like as what felt like the hundredth bus stopped. Imagine, I thought to myself. All it would take is one bus ride to change my life forever. I could get a bus into Paddington and be off on a train to another part of the country, starting a new life for myself. No, I could do better than that! I could find my way to Heathrow and get onto a plane and jet off to...Spain, or the Caribbean. Goodbye manipulative wife-of-father, hello exotic paradise! I’d find work in the day and teach English classes at night. People would love me and my wild ideas. I could live there for years, find Mr Right, settle down, have some kids...I could really be somebody. And all it could take is one bus journey...Hmm. Tempting.

 I decided I’d stay in the shelter of the bus stop for now, then head back home later on. After all – I had to keep them on their toes a bit, right?

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